Kalakia paused, allowing the weight of his words to impact the men.
“The new head will begin by electing a new Council,” he continued. “For now, we do not require men of wisdom. We require warriors. We require kings. We look now to new Generals who will lead by their fine example. I expect they are prepared to do their duty. In the Americas, Marco Lessio will take his place as General.”
The faces of the crowd turned back and Marco Lessio stepped through, wearing black slacks and a black singlet. He brushed his short black hair back and crossed his tattoo-covered arms, and nodded at Kalakia.
“Asia we entrust to Tamju Lau. May you bring order and honour back to your region of the world.”
Lau was already standing at the front in a black suit. His greying hair and moustache were neatly trimmed. He rested his hand on his chest and bowed his head. Kalakia felt safe in his selection of Lau. He was the opposite of Navolov; humble, level-headed, and only used violence when it was tactically sound.
“Daps Limbaba. I know you will lead Africa well with your ferocious strength and proud family heritage.”
“Until my death!” yelled Limbaba with his husky, booming voice.
“Your father would be proud,” added Kalakia with a nod. Limbaba closed his eyes and bowed his head.
“Vincent Scheffler, you will take the reins in Europe.”
Scheffler’s face lit up with surprise and Kalakia pulled him in with a sharp stare. After some seconds, Scheffler’s shock faded and his face softened, and he bowed his head in acceptance.
Kalakia studied his riskiest choice. He hoped that Scheffler’s recent transformation after the attacks was permanent and would allow Scheffler to put aside the brute and lead with wisdom and reason. Scheffler was otherwise a worthy selection. He was military elite, a loyal soldier of The League and most importantly, he held the respect and fear of hundreds of veterans who had graduated his tutelage.
“Gentlemen, I commend you,” said Kalakia.
The soldiers began taking turns congratulating the newly assigned Generals. Kalakia looked down at his clothing, stained red with Dastan Navolov’s blood. There would be more spilt in the coming weeks and months. Much more, he predicted. Meanwhile the necessary sacrifices had been made, and The League could emerge from their rebirth with a readiness for the war ahead.
“Long live Kalakia!” screamed Marco Lessio, raising his fist into the air.
“Long live Kalakia!” repeated the rest of the soldiers while copying Marco Lessio’s gesture.
Cheers and war cries broke out as the tension created by the killings erupted as a violent display of camaraderie. The men’s new-found sense of purpose roused Kalakia’s affection for them, and he could not help but be swept up by their passion. A warm tingle washed over his body, but he maintained focus as he studied the scene around him. The purge was over, and the war was only beginning.
31
Inselheim unlocked his front door and stepped into the foyer of his Dahlem home. He dropped his briefcase on the floor and stood in the dark, observing the silhouettes of the furniture in the living room. Another day gone, blurred out by meetings, phone calls and trying not to think about whether Brunswick and the team had been harmed. Inselheim was planning on collapsing onto his bed without brushing his teeth or changing out of his shirt and trousers. Holding him back was the knowledge that after two or three hours he would wake up breathless and covered in sweat while being sucked into the horrifying black. His thoughts would be stampeding, the panic amped up to the maximum.
Not worth it, he thought. He went into the living room and switched on a lamp, then headed to the bar. He picked up the expensive crystal bottle and poured himself half a glass of bourbon. He paused for a second then topped up the glass until it was almost full. He then shifted over to the window to check the street. The three cars with Kalakia’s men inside were parked in the shadows. All of them black with a dark tint. They had been there since before yesterday. It must have had something to do with those attacks Inselheim saw on the news. The media had come to the usual conclusion. The global mafia war had boiled over again, but world leaders were confident they could de-escalate the situation. Arrests had already been made in multiple cases, the news media reported. Naturally Inselheim was not buying it. The League was up to something. His anxiety jumped to an eight when he saw the news. After he noticed the reinforcements guarding his office building and home, he went into full-blown panic mode.
The turmoil was inside him. Outside the street looked calm. He took a sip of bourbon and rubbed his sore eyes. His reflection in the window looked back at him. It had dark patches beneath its eyes, a ghostly pale complexion and looked ten years older than him. He looked away in disgust and was about to go into the kitchen to get a snack when his phone began vibrating. His shoulders tensed up instantly. Vidrik. Only he called that late. Inselheim reluctantly answered.
“Yes,” he said with a flat voice.
“Michael!” screamed Brunswick through the phone speaker.
Inselheim jumped up and almost lost grip of the phone.
“Kimberley!” he yelled. “How did you… Are you ok?”
“Yes, I’m ok. It’s so good to hear your voice.”
“How did you get access to a phone? Where are you?”
“We’re in the emergency facility. We escaped through the tunnel.”
“You escaped? Oh, that’s excellent,” said Inselheim, nodding repeatedly. “Is everyone safe?”
Brunswick went quiet, but Inselheim could still hear her breathing. He began pacing around the room. His pulse was racing and he was barely breathing.
“Kimberley?”
“We’re safe,” she said quietly. “But we’re three short. Aiko, Lena and Jonas were shot while we were getting out.”
Inselheim stopped moving. He tightened
