The man who’d called himself Jasper Davis decades ago stood across from Mr. Finney in the small study off the main hall. From the unflinching look on the man’s dark features, one would be hard-pressed to believe that the world outside was falling apart around their ears. Instead, he was casually pouring them both a cognac as bullets flew outside in the courtyard, and men scrambled to their defense.

Not that the two men inside cared one way or another about catching a stray bullet. There was only one type that would hurt them, anyway, and Finney seriously doubted the shifters would have figured out which kind.

They'd moved inside from the carriage house doorway minutes after Jasper had arrived, Finney leading the way as they crossed through the garden. As far as they knew, the battle still raging on the other side of the compound was safely contained.

Jasper Davis broke the silence of the room. “I see from the events outside that you’ve made quite the mess of things, Finney.” His voice was thick, dripping with culture. At first, one could tell his accent was French Moroccan in origin, but once he continued to speak, the well-trained ear began to detect hints of other cultures mixed in like a melting pot—Russian here on the inflection of certain words, Arabic there on others.

“Is that the reason for your timely arrival?” the Brit asked as he graciously took the offered drink from his superior. “Did you not believe me capable of any action otherwise?”

“Oh, come off it. You know I’m here because this was an important operation, not because I doubted you.”

“Is that why you’ve been keeping tabs on me with Klaus? Because you’re fully confident in my abilities?”

The one-time Jasper Davis eyed Mr. Finney over the top of his glass as he took a drink of amber liquid. “I should have known not to put my faith in him.”

“Correct. Instead, you should have trusted me to do this on my own. I don’t need second-guessing from that oaf. No, instead I need loyalty and reliability from him.”

“How long have you known?”

Finney paused and considered lying to his superior, saying it had been since before yesterday. But what would be the point? He was likely as good as, if not better, than Finney at reading people. He'd see right through him. So he opted for the truth. “Yesterday at breakfast. His eye twitched.”

The dark skinned man frowned, a nearly imperceptible movement on his exquisitely ageless features. It was like watching a statue come to life, but only barely. Jasper smiled grimly, setting the glass aside. “About the women outside,” he began, changing the subject abruptly.

“What of them?”

“I don’t want them touched. I drove through town earlier before I came here and I saw the amount of collateral damage you and your men inflicted while failing to secure the targets this morning.”

“Your point?”

His face was a mask of impassivity. But, still, Finney saw something there. He may not have been as obvious as Klaus when it came to hiding something, but that didn’t matter. The Brit could practically smell it on his boss.

“My point, Mr. Finney, is that cleaning up messes requires resources and time. Neither of which our North American operations have infinite amounts of. We don’t control governments the same way here, and now we have to somehow sweep dead law enforcement under the rug. And two other civilians in addition to that?”

“You know the old saying, sir: In for a penny…”

The darker skinned man didn’t react, but instead chose to take another sip of his drink. “That may be in most situations, but not today. You are to release both of them.”

Finney frowned, bringing up his glass of cognac for the first time since his superior had handed it to him. He took a sip, the taste of vanilla and dried citrus washing over his tongue alongside the alcoholic bite of the warming liquid.

In all his previous operations, he’d been strictly told that results were what mattered. Strike hard, strike fast. Bring in the blood, bring in the hearts. Leave none alive to mark their passing, and never have a loose end running around. This was a game of immortals, not of men. A game where the only prize worth fighting over was everlasting life.

Not that anyone would believe a story as wild as the existence of the Council, of course. Hell, people chose to believe in the existence of the Illuminati instead of them. And most of the people who did begin to suspect them were soon ostracized by a coordinated campaign by the council's PR department if they mentioned a word of it publicly, even in the darkest, most dusty corners of the internet.

So why now? Why begin to care about civilians with the two women out in the carriage house?

“Mr. Finney?”

Realizing he’d been lost in his own thoughts about the relaxed attitudes of yesteryear, Mr. Finney blinked twice and gave his superior a flash of teeth. “I’m sorry, sir, what was that?”

“I asked if I’d made myself clear, Finney. Did I or did I not?”

Finney nodded, the little smile still on his lips. “Oh, of course you did, sir. Ensure the women survive. Righty-oh.” He paused and collected his thoughts before continuing. “If there's nothing else, sir, I believe I have some hostages to safeguard?”

Jasper nodded, dismissing him. As Finney turned to leave, though, his superior cleared his throat. “One last thing, Mr. Finney.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Please begin to collect Ms. Springer from her accommodations. I'd like to have her sedated and ready to move as quickly as possible, in light of this little attack on your compound. Clearly the shifters of Frost Security won't be letting her go without a fight. Better to cut our losses and still walk away with a live subject. Wouldn't you agree?”

“Yes, sir, of course,” Finney replied with a little nod. “I'll make sure Dr. Schneider and his technicians have her stowed away as soon as possible and ready for transport. Are there any other matters I can be of assistance in?”

Jasper gave him a long, hard look, as if he were taking a complete measure of the man. Finally, though, he shook his head. “No, that will be all.”

“Jolly good, sir.”

Mr. Finney's assistant met him as he was closing the door to Jasper's impromptu field office.

“Sir?” she asked brusquely, getting his attention.

“What is it?” Finney snapped. “What's going wrong now?”

She swallowed hard, her eyelid twitching as her eyes danced in her head with fear. “The shifters, sir. They're inside.”

“Inside?” Finney hissed as he pushed past her, headed for the back doors leading out to the transmitter. “Where?”

“We don't know, sir. We have security sweeping through looking for them.”

“How many?”

“We're not sure.”

“Well, radio to Klaus to send some men from outside in here so they can take them into custody.”

She grimaced like she'd just caught a whiff of rotten egg. “Well, sir, you see, the radios aren't exactly working.”

Finney frowned. “Not working? At all?”

She shook her head. “I went out and inspected the tower, sir, and someone sabotaged it, expanding the range. We could turn off the power–”

“Turn it off?” Finney asked with a frown as he came to a stop. “Then the town would be able to contact the outside world again, while our men are still in place. No, that won't be happening. We'll just need to find them without the radios.” He crossed his arms over his chest, biting his thumb in concentration.

“What should we do, sir?”

The most important thing right now was getting Ms. Springer out, as his superior had ordered. But now they had the shifters inside the compound, which meant the attack on the side of the compound, with its explosions and gunfire, was simply a distraction. And every minute and every soldier they used to engage with that distraction was a waste of resources.

Decisions, decisions. If he made the wrong move now, he'd be proving to his superior that he was correct in underestimating him. But if he did pull this off, he could be looking at a promotion within the organization.

“Go get Klaus,” Mr. Finney said after a moment. “Run. Get him and bring him back to this room. If we hurry, maybe we can cut off their escape route. And, on your way, send a team up to collect Ms. Springer.” Before he'd even finished speaking, he was headed to the door that led to the garden outside, skirting the large table in the center of the room. “We need her sedated and ready to move, per our new instructions.”

“Anything else, sir?”

“Yes, there is one other thing.” Without even sparing her a glance, he simply stuck out his hand, palm up. “Your pistol.”

She hesitated for a moment, but there was finally the snap of her leather holster as she popped open the strap that secured it in place. She placed it in his hand.

“Silver, I assume?”

“Yes, sir,” his assistant replied. “Per your instruction.”

“Good,” he said and resumed his previous trajectory.

“Sir? Where are you headed now, in case I need further instruction?”

“To see our two insurance policies in the carriage house. I want to know why our superior wants them alive so badly. Now move!”