Private Games

Chapter 46

I ROAM THE city for hours after Teeter’s collapse on the global stage, secretly gloating over the vengeance we’ve taken, revelling in the proof of our superiority over the feeble efforts of Scotland Yard, MI5 and Private. They’ll never come close to finding my sisters or me.

Everywhere I go, even at this late hour, I see Londoners in shock and newspapers featuring a photo of the Jumbotron in the stadium and our message: Olympic Shame Exposed!

And the headlines: Death Stalks the Games!

Well, what did they think? That we’d simply let them continue to make a mockery of the ancient rites of sport? That we’d simply let them defile the precepts of fair competition, earned superiority, and immortal greatness?

Hardly.

And now Cronus and the Furies are on the lips of billions upon billions of people around the globe, uncatchable, able to kill at will, bent on exposing and eliminating the dark side of the world’s greatest sporting event.

Some fools are comparing us to the Palestinians who kidnapped and murdered Israelis during the 1972 summer Games in Munich. They keep describing us as terrorists with unknown political motives.

Those idiots aside, I feel as though the world is beginning to understand me and my sisters now. A thrill goes through me when I realise that people everywhere are sensing our greatness. They are questioning how it could be that such beings walk among them, holding the power of death over deceit and corruption, and making sacrifices in the name of all that is good and honourable.

In my mind I see the monsters that stoned me, the dead eyes of the Furies the night I slaughtered the Bosnians, and the shock on the faces of the broadcasters explaining Teeter’s death.

At last, I think, I’m making the monsters pay for what they did to me.

I’m thinking the same thing as dawn breaks and bathes the thin clouds over London in a deep red hue that makes them look like raised welts.

I knock on the side entrance of the house where the Furies live, and enter. Marta is the only one of the sisters still awake. Her dark agate eyes are shiny with tears and she hugs me joyfully, her happiness as burning as my own.

‘Like clockwork,’ she says, closing the door behind me. ‘Everything went off perfectly. Teagan got the bottle to the American, and then changed and slipped out before the chaos began, as if it were all fated.’

‘Didn’t you say the same thing when London got the Olympics?’ I ask. ‘Didn’t you say that when we found the corruption and the cheating, just like I said we would?’

‘It’s all true,’ Marta replies, her expression as fanatical as any martyr’s. ‘We are fated. We are superior.’

‘Yes, but make no mistake: they will hunt us now,’ I reply, sobering. ‘You said we were fine on all counts?’

‘All counts,’ Marta confirms, all business now.

‘The factory?’

‘Teagan made sure it’s sealed tight. No possibility of discovery.’

‘Your part?’ I ask.

‘Went off flawlessly.’

I nod. ‘Then it’s time we stay in the shadows. Let Scotland Yard, MI5 and Private operate on high alert long enough for them to tire, to imagine that we’re done, and allow themselves to let their guard down.’

‘According to plan,’ Marta says. Then she hesitates. ‘This Peter Knight – is he still a threat to us?’

I consider the question, and then say, ‘If there is one, it’s him.’

‘We found something, then. Knight has a weakness. A large one.’