Chapter 32 Wounds

Grey crunched on shards of glass as he entered the room, his eyes falling vacant as he took in the red-stained streaks of blood marring the cream of his family's carpet.

The realization that his missing family was not accidental crashed over him like a tsunami.

Detective Jamison stood behind him, accompanied by Robinson.

"This Majister Gulag that you talk of, Robinson?" Grey said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Would he kill my family?"

Robinson carefully considered the question. He knew that telling a father that he was dealing with a psychopath would only add to his pain.

But he also knew that Grey needed to understand the danger he was in.

"Gulag is a man without remorse," Robinson said, his voice grim.

"He would see it as a game, to take everything away from you, to make you suffer."

Grey picked up the photograph frame from a side table, memories flooded his mind, transporting him back to that beautiful day of the twins' christening.

His wife's warm eyes stared back at him. He could almost hear the laughter and feel the gentle touch of his wife's hand on his arm.

There were also pictures of him from his wedding day.

Turner was at his side, playing the role of his best man. It was a bittersweet ache.

"My family," Grey's voice toned with a tint of anger. "My children."

Grey cracked open the frame and placed the family memento in his back pocket.

"Get me to Majister Gulag, Robinsion? I want my revenge, even if it kills me."

"Grey, I'm telling you. That bastard double-crossed me too, just like he did to everyone else."

Robinson said, a raw edge of betrayal choking his voice.

"And even If did know where he was. What can you do about it? What are you? A beaten-up old cop.

And what am I? A former lackey to the Royal family."

"What about the Bloodies, Robinson?" Grey asked, "Arent they are guns for hire?"

"Yes, but those guns can shoot you in the head. And mine as well for that matter."

Grey glanced out the window at Williams, the former royal guard was leisurely puffing away on his cigarette.

He had received his handsome payment from a share of the spoils from Buckingham Palace.

Then Williams had dutifully driven them to Grey's residence.

Once they had finished their business, he would hand the keys over to them, bidding farewell to his former life and setting sail for the tranquil Caribbean waters, embracing a well-deserved retirement.

"There's a hell of a lot of leverage in the back of that lorry. So, Robinson, what's the going rate for assassins these days?"

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"I can make the connection, but listen here, Grey. These guys aren't just killers. They specialize in thievery too. Stealing is in their damn blood."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take. It's survival of the fittest in this twisted game we're playing."

Detective Jamison leaned casually against the banister at the bottom of the stairs, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

He looked at Grey, his former boss, with a mix of professional courtesy and a hint of guilt for what he was about to say.

"Grey, I gotta be straight with you," Jamison said,

"Scotland Yard has painted a bullseye on your back. You have been identified from the riots at the palace.

You're a terrorist and a fugitive now."

At that moment, the battle lines between friendship and duty blurred.

Grey locked eyes with Jamison.

"Detective, I've had the misfortune of being pulled deep into this rancid soup of this damn putrid bureaucracy against my will.

And I have been drowning in it ever since."

Grey's words carried the weight of disillusionment, their bitter aftertaste reflecting the corruption and sleaze he had encountered.

This foul reality also left Grey and Detective Jamison with a lingering sense of irony.

Both were no strangers when it came to pursuing Magister Gulag, adding an unspoken complicated layer, coloring their conversation.

"Maya Khan, the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, is granting you a 24-hour lead time out of professional courtesy," Jamison stated.

"I strongly advise you and Robinson to utilize your lorry and swiftly distance yourselves from any traceable surveillance."

"Robinson," Grey insisted, "there is no time like the present."

Robinson stood there, burdened with the knowledge that he would be hiding and aiding a terrorist.

Worse still, once the Secret Service opens its lines of inquiry. It will be tightened around them like a net.

A trail would lead to him orchestrating the catastrophic destruction of Buckingham Palace, despite the Royal family's questionable political maneuvers.

And then there was the prime minister, the head of MI5, and the worldwide epidemic of Ferox 13 - a deadly scourge Robinson himself had helped unleash upon the world.

Grey had been discreet enough to withhold the details so far to Detective Jamison.

But eventually, as it always does an unfortunate individual would be scapegoated, it was not going to be him.

"Grey. Very well, I will make the connection. Let's go why we can."

"Inspector Grey, just one last thing?" Detective Jamison asked, holding out his hand.

"Yes, Detective?" Grey replied, shaking Jamison's hand.

"I forgot to mention, I'm sorry about Turner. He was a remarkable man. Headquarters has been a much duller place these days without him and you around. I hope you get the despicable bastard."

"Detective Jamison, when we're being pursued, can you personally make inroads to track down my family?" Grey asked

"Of course, Inspector. Anything for an old friend. Now go, and be careful." Jamison said, patting Grey on the shoulder.

As Grey and Robinson left. The chirping birds took flight at their approach, with morning dew evaporating under their shoes.

Jamison could feel the quiet somberness of Grey's family home.

Dust covered the deadened walls inside, blue paint faded in places. The home had not been cared for in a while.

It would be been classed as a crime scene under normal circumstances.

He had lost a good friend in Turner, and he knew that Grey had been going through a tough time. He hoped that he would be able to track down his family.

Williams was at the end of the drive away, stubbing out his cigarette, ready for the changeover, when Grey and Robinson approached.

"Fellas. I wish you all the luck in the world." Willaims said handing over the keys.

"Thank you for your help Mr. Williams," Robinson said.

"I am sorry that your service to the crown ended the way it did."

"It is just another chapter in this old man's colorful life," Williams said.

"Please, whatever you do lads. Try not to blow anything up in the Caribbean Sea."

"We will try to keep that in mind, Mr. Willaims," Said Grey.