Chapter 420: Chapter 420
The hallways of the manor smelled like cedar polish and quiet wealth, the kind that didn’t need to be shown because it had been there too long to impress anyone. Windstone walked half a step behind him, posture straight, expression calm.
"Transportation is ready," he said. "Unmarked. I told the staff you were called to a policy briefing."
Trevor snorted softly. "Very believable. I always look annoyed after those."
Windstone did not disagree. Which was its own kind of loyalty.
As they reached the vestibule, Trevor paused to shrug into his coat. Windstone held it for him in the old way, not because Trevor needed help, but because Windstone believed people in pain shouldn’t have to do unnecessary steps alone.
Once the buttons were done, Windstone smoothed the shoulders with that absurd, meticulous care that only deeply competent old butlers possessed.
"You look like a man who plans to be back by dinner," Windstone observed mildly.
"That’s reassuring. Would you like me to prepare a celebratory dessert?"
Trevor blinked at him.
"...Later," he said, somewhere between bewildered and warmed and amused. "Maybe fast food? Lucas loved those."
Windstone made a thoughtful sound, the kind that suggested he had already anticipated this and drafted an internal supply chain in response.
"If you mean actual fast food," he clarified delicately, "the kitchen brigade has been practicing. We have a house-made version of fried chicken that is indistinguishable from the original, except the oil is fresh, the seasoning is correct, and the chef will take personal offense if you do not acknowledge the crispiness."
Trevor paused mid-coat sleeve.
"You made them reverse-engineer chain takeout."
Windstone gave the faintest, primmest nod. "Lucas expressed nostalgia two weeks ago. I saw an opportunity."
Trevor exhaled once, more laugh than breath.
"He’s going to pretend to disapprove and then eat three portions."
"He’ll eat five," Windstone said, with the certainty of a man who had seen Lucas eat through grief, fury, and pre-wedding stress. "But respectfully... sir, if the chefs produce the fast food now and it goes cold, there will be a mutiny."
Trevor’s mouth curved, low and warm.
"Tell them to keep the oil running. I’ll be back before it cools."
Windstone nodded was the natural order of the world.
The car was already waiting outside, engine quiet, windows darkened. Trevor settled into the back seat and the door closed with that expensive, thick click that said nothing outside enters here unless we choose it.
The manor receded behind them, pale stone in winter light, with the faint silhouette of Lucas in the window if one looked hard enough, which Trevor did not allow himself to do. Read complete versıon only at novｅlfire.net
The drive to the airfield took eight minutes.
The jet waited with the same silent readiness as everything else Trevor was discreet and prepared to move at the exact second he decided the world should shift.
He stepped up the stairs without breaking stride. Coat off. Tablet in hand. A nod to the pilot who already knew the flight plan.
Trevor leaned back into the leather seat and closed his eyes. He would be home before dark.
One hour and forty–two minutes later, the world outside the jet windows shifted from clouded white to steel-grey runway.
The tires touched down with the soft, expensive confidence of something engineered to obey Trevor’s intentions, not the laws of physics.
He didn’t bother to put his coat back on until the cabin door opened and the outside air greeted him: thin winter, a different cold than at home. A city colder in temperament, not temperature.
Two black sedans without markings waited at the foot of the stairs.
Sirius leaned against the hood of the closest one, hands in his pockets, chin tucked into a scarf that looked significantly too thin for the weather. His hair was a disaster, which was usually a sign he had either slept two hours or argued with three ministers. Possibly both.
Lucius stood beside him, posture immaculate, coat tailored with meticulous accuracy. His expression was neutral, but his eyes were already on Trevor, reading him.
Neither of them waved. Of course not.
Trevor descended the stairway like a man walking into a pre-written sentence.
Sirius was the first to speak, voice dry as frozen pavement.
"Your jet landed early. You trying to outrun the speed of sound now?"
Trevor raised a brow. "I’m trying to be home for dinner."
Sirius made a sound that might have been a groan. "Lucas is going to kill you if you walk in late smelling like tactical decisions."
Trevor didn’t deny that.
He just reached the car door.
Lucius, meanwhile, nodded to him once. A soldier’s acknowledgment. A brother’s, too, but theirs did not require naming.
"We kept him contained," Lucius said. "No contact. No approach. No disturbance. He’s just... unraveling." His tone held something sharp, restrained. "But not dead. Not yet."
Trevor’s expression didn’t shift, but Sirius saw something pass across it and pushed off the hood.
"Before you start being terrified about this," Sirius said, voice low, "you should know two things. One, he’s alone in the safehouse now. His network scattered the moment it became clear he’s burning himself out." He paused. "Two, he’s not the same as before. Whatever he did to himself, it’s catching up. He looks like someone lit from the inside by something he cannot control."
Trevor closed the car door behind him with a quiet, definitive sound.
"Good," he said. "Then we dispose of him tonight."
They moved with the efficiency of men who had rehearsed this exact choreography in the same room a dozen times before deciding that the cleanest version had the fewest words. Lucius peeled off to the flank to take point on the rear approach; Sirius melted into a shadow along the farmhouse’s eastern wall to cut any possible retreat. Trevor walked straight to the door.
The farmhouse smelled faintly of stale smoke and coffee that had been left to sour; the curtains were still drawn, but not all the way. Someone had left a single light on in the back room, a yellow island in a sea of dark wood. The watchers kept to the hedgerow, breath visible in the cold air, radios tucked and silent.
Lucius tapped his glove once. Sirius gave a small, almost inaudible hum through his teeth, signaling acknowledgment. Trevor thought of Lucas asleep with Sebastian in their room back at the manor and let that image steady his hands.
They breached on Lucius’s cue. The door opened with a careful, soft push; nobody wanted to start a show. The first room was empty except for overturned chairs and a newspaper caught on a splintered table leg. A trail of wet footprints led to the back.
Trevor followed the prints without hesitation. At the end of the short hallway was a closed door. He listened. There was a noise like someone humming, off-key and thin, the sound of a man trying to make his chest sound ordinary.