Page 88 of Ash Storm

Reka

Reka ran after the team, because nobody told her not to, and because she was sure whatever Carrie had to say had something to do with Afsan.

She looked behind her to find Alexia, who seemed to have had the same idea and was following in her footsteps.

It felt good to run again, even if her feet inside the Crocs still hurt—a reminder of what she’d been through.

A young man, tall and slim, with reddish hair and wide blue eyes, was pacing nervously in the conference room when they arrived. He was younger than the rest of the team—about Carrie’s age.

That must be Pascale.

“What do you have?” Dark said.

Pascale nodded quickly to Carrie.

“We found Afsan,” she said, without preamble.

Reka placed her hands on her lap, so nobody would see how badly they were shaking—how just hearing Afsan’s name made her tremble all over.

“His plane landed yesterday in a small airfield near Bristol.”

“Bristol, UK?” Rogue asked.

“Bristol, UK,” Pascale confirmed.

“How do you know?” Rogue asked.

“There’s some kid who tracks private jets all over the world and makes the data public,” Pascale explained. “It was a long shot, because he mainly tracks celebrities, but we reached out and asked him for help, and he did have Afsan’s jet on his list.”

Rogue whistled, clearly impressed.

“Damn, that was some good thinking, you two,” Dark praised.

“So, yesterday, Afsan’s private plane flew from Sofia to Bristol.”

“How the fuck did he get to Bulgaria?” Griffin wondered.

“Do we know for sure that Afsan was in the plane?” Ash asked. His muscles were bunched, his thick body fairly vibrating with tension.

Carrie shook her head. “No, but we did a bit of research, and it appears he’s the sole beneficiary of a company called Pemberley Limited, incorporated in the British Virgin Islands.”

“What does Pemberley Limited do?” Alexia asked.

“Not much, but it owns real estate all over the United Kingdom, including an estate in Wiltshire.”

“And where the fuck is Wiltshire?” Rogue asked. “What?” He said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m Australian. UK geography is not my forte.”

“Wiltshire’s a short drive away from Bristol,” Thorne said from the doorway. As always, he was impeccably dressed in a white shirt and dark slacks, though his bloodshot eyes told her he hadn’t been sleeping.

“Thorne. Where have you been?” Dark asked.

“I rushed back to tell you something you apparently already know,” Thorne said, carefully avoiding the question. “Good job, by the way,” he told Carrie and Pascale.

Carrie clicked a couple keys, and a picture appeared on the wall, of an enormous Victorian country house, complete with turrets, what must be a dozen chimneys, and more windows than Reka could quickly count.

Reka shivered. And she knew—rationally—that a building couldn’t be evil, not in and of itself. But human endeavors could and did color buildings, and country houses like this one were expressions of wealth, power and privilege, in a way that time couldn’t erase.

Or maybe that was just her knowledge of Afsan coloring her feelings.