“What are you getting at?”
“Maybe whoever is doing this needs it to look like an accident.”
I frowned at that. “So what? Did you find anything in that law that indicated that assassinations would change the requirements?”
He frowned, then tapped several more keys. “Not in so many words. But there is something vague about limitations on royals who commit crimes. It doesn’t say what kind of crimes, but anyone convicted of committing those certain acts will lose their place in the line of succession.”
I frowned at that. “So that was probably put in place to keep people from assassinating a king’s new bride or basically, killing everyone off to move the royal line over a branch or two on the family tree. And London has got three older brothers, and it would be even harder to kill three additional people. Their parents died, but that was thirteen years ago. Anyone else who might have a claim to the throne, which would primarily be her aunt—”
Olly shook his head. “Actually, no. Her aunt is too old. No new monarch can be coronated if their age is over sixty. If you’re sixty while you’re on the throne, fair enough. You’ll stay for as long as you want or until you die. But the line will automatically go to the next eligible heir in this case because the aunt is over sixty and she’s not currently sitting on the throne. So that leaves out the aunt.”
“Christ.”
He typed on his keyboard some more. “That just leaves London’s cousin, Barkley, as next in line. From what I can tell, he’s a grade-A douche. Like the biggest, laziest kind of douchebag you can find. Drugs. Alcohol. Women. But he’ll be king if this law is followed.”
“At the very least, that’s an incentive to get London to marry, not to kill her.”
“Again, they let her run. They helped her run. That doesn’t make any sense. They would lose their only chance of keeping the throne. And this guy Barkley would make King Joffrey look like a grandmotherly saint.”
I frowned as my brain worked through it all. “Does it say anything about what happens to the monarch if he’s deemed unfit?”
Olly was silent for a moment before he spoke. “Actually, if a monarch is deemed unfit by the Council of Lords, a regent will be placed over that monarch. And get this, no age restriction applies to the regent.”
I cursed under my breath. London’s fucking aunt. The one who’d kept these laws secret until the very last moment. The one London had sworn had only ever been loving and kind to her. I couldn’t help but feel the need to throttle that woman’s neck. She’d taken a vulnerable young girl like London and lied to her, manipulated her. For that alone, the old lady had to die.
“Man, this is full of shit.”
With another sharp turn and a screech of my tires, I took a hard left toward the airport. I had to get to her before her aunt hurt her. Before her aunt broke her heart.
At the landing strip, I parked my car with another squeal of the tires, and then Olly and I bolted out of the car. He tossed me my vest and weapons, and as I palmed my Sig, I double-checked my com unit. Then we headed to the left.
“You check that building. I’ll check the plane and make sure she’s not on it.”
“Roger that.”
I rounded the side of the building. There were no cars. I saw a few people milling about inside, so I plastered myself to the side of the building using only quick short peeks to see inside before ducking under the sill and then sneaking around to the back. I jogged the hundred meters to the fence and onto the tarmac. Two people were milling around what looked like luggage carriers. I ducked behind one. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Olly duck behind another and check it for signs of Sparrow in case they were leaving her behind. I checked my phone and saw that London’s beacon was still on that plane.
Instead of running, I eased out from around the luggage carrier, nonchalantly walking toward the plane like I belonged there.
A guy with a clipboard was checking something. He looked up when he saw me. “Can I help you?”
He didn’t seem to notice my vest or concealed weapons for what they were. “I need to speak to the lady on the plane.”
He shook his head. “She’s indisposed at the moment. She said no interruptions.”
He clearly didn’t mean London. “Sorry but it’s urgent.”
I made to bypass him, and he slapped a hand on my chest. His brows furrowed. “I told you, she just said not to interrupt her.”
“And I told you it’s urgent.” I applied pressure at his pinky and right over his thumb, then twisted his hand up with mine, making sure that my knuckle hit that joint in his wrist. He immediately released me, wincing.
“What the fuck—?”
I applied more pressure and he fell to his knees. This time, he dropped the clipboard and reached for something at his lower back.
“I really wish you hadn’t done that.” Then my other hand delivered a hook shot which made him stumble back, and I launched myself at him. The easiest grasp points were his ears. As my knees hit his chest, he fell over, and I grabbed his ears, pulled forward once, and shoved back again with a hard slam on the gravel. He groaned, and his hand released whatever he was holding.
A quick glance down told me he wasn’t done.
“I told you not to do that.”
He was only injured, not dead. But if he was working for who I thought he was working for, he certainly deserved to be.
Turning him over, I used zip ties to secure his hands then grabbed one of the bandanas from my back pocket and shoved it into his mouth so he couldn’t
