Lucan shook his head. "It's not necessary. The fight belongs to the Order."
Lazaro Archer's expression was grim with purpose. "As of now, the fight is mine, as well. I am in, Lucan. In whatever means that I can serve you and your warriors, if you'll accept my offer--belated as it is--then I am in."
Dragos's black limousine pulled up to the ice-crusted curb where his lieutenant waited, huffing and shivering under a streetlamp in his dark cashmere coat and low-brimmed hat.
As the Minion driver braked to a stop, Dragos's man came over to the back passenger door and climbed inside the vehicle. He pulled off his hat and gloves, pivoting to face Dragos beside him in the backseat.
"The Order was tipped off about the building where the boy was being held, sire. They showed up tonight just as we'd anticipated, along with Lazaro Archer and his son and a unit from the Enforcement Agency. The Minions who'd been guarding the boy were killed within moments of the confrontation."
"Hardly a surprise," Dragos said with a mild shrug. "And Agent Freyne?"
"Dead, sire. He and his men were killed by one of the warriors as they were attempting to carry out their mission. Christophe Archer was eliminated, but his father still lives."
Dragos grunted. If one of the Archers had to survive the assassination he'd arranged, he would have much preferred Lazaro dead over his society-bred son. Be that as it may, the multipronged assault he'd orchestrated tonight had still been a success. He had watched from a safe distance, secure in his limousine, as Lazaro Archer's Darkhaven exploded into the winter night like a Roman candle.
It had been glorious.
A total annihilation.
And now he had the Order precisely where he wanted them--confused and scattered.
His Breed lieutenant went on, ticking off the rest of the evening's outcome. "The fire at the Darkhaven claimed all lives within, and I have reports that Lazaro Archer has not been seen or heard from in the hours since. Although I've not had confirmation, I suspect that both the Gen One and the boy are in the Order's custody as we speak."
"Very well," Dragos replied. "As Lazaro Archer is still breathing, I'd hardly call this a flawless execution of my orders. But then, if I expect perfection, I should have to do everything myself."
His lieutenant had the gall to look affronted. "All due respect, sire, but had I known the Order now counts one of your Hunters among them, I might have taken extra precautions concerning Freyne's role in the mission tonight."
Dragos had lived long enough that surprises rarely had the power to take him aback. But this news flash--this disturbing bit of intelligence--
actually made his pulse knock a bit against his sternum. Rage filled his skull, a cold fury that practically had him spitting the curse that leapt to his tongue.
"You didn't know?" asked his lieutenant, crowding against the door in an effort to put as much distance as possible between them.
"A Hunter," Dragos replied, amber sparks flashing in the darkened cabin of the limo. "Are you certain this is true?"
His man nodded soberly. "I had surveillance cameras trained on the construction site from more than one location nearby. The way he moved, the sheer size of him, and the precision of his kills ... sire, there could be no mistaking the warrior for anything but one of your Hunters."
And there was only one of his specially bred, ruthlessly trained killers who had managed to connive his way out of Dragos's control and make his escape. That he had allied himself with the Order was a shock, plain and simple.
Dragos had assumed the Hunter had escaped the bonds of his obedience collar and fled into obscurity, a stray dog, lost without its master.
On some level, he'd assumed the fugitive assassin had ended up dead or Rogue by now.
But not this.
And no, he reflected now, not this particular Hunter.
He had been different from the start. Chillingly efficient. Coldly intelligent. Relentlessly disciplined, yet far from submissive. That was a lesson he'd never been able to learn, no matter how mercilessly it had been drilled into him.
Dragos should have had the son of a bitch put down, but he'd also been the best assassin in his personal Gen One army to date.
And now he'd apparently sided with Lucan and the warriors in this mounting war.
Dragos growled with outrage at the mere idea.
"Get out of my sight," he snarled to his lieutenant. "Await my orders to begin the next phase of the plan."
The other Breed male scrambled out of the car without another word, slamming the door behind him and hurrying off in the opposite direction of the street.
"Drive," Dragos barked to the Minion behind the wheel.
As the limo sped off into the hustle of Boston's evening traffic, he straightened the lapels of his Italian silk tuxedo and smoothed his hand over his meticulously styled hair. In the dim glow of the highway lights, he withdrew an embossed invitation from out of his jacket pocket and read the address of the political fund-raiser he had just attended downtown.
A small droplet of human blood stained the lower corner of the ivory paper, still fresh enough to smear under the press of his thumb.
Dragos chuckled under his breath, recalling how pleased the group of city officials had been with the generosity of his donation.
How stunned they had been just a few minutes later, when they realized what each of them would be surrendering to him in exchange.
Now he leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the hum of the road lull him as he savored the buzz of power still swimming in his veins.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Jenna had never seen Brock so quiet.
He and the other warriors had returned a short time ago, accompanied by Lazaro Archer and his grandson. The relief surrounding the boy's rescue was severely dampened by the cost at which it had come. While arrangements were made to accommodate the new arrivals at the compound and get them cleaned up and settled, Brock and the other warriors on tonight's mission had dispersed to their own quarters.