Chapter 470: Kill Order
Chapter 470: Kill Order
She remembered it vividly—moments ago in that hospital room, the protective instinct buried deep in Charles's emotions, that scorching concern he could give without any pretense.
She hated that posture.
Three years ago, Kate had worn the same expression.
Then Kate died.
Along with Simon, in the car crash she herself had orchestrated. Burned into two charred skeletons. She'd stood on a distant hillside, watching through binoculars as flames erupted, believing Emily was in that vehicle too.
She'd been wrong.
Emily survived. More than survived—she thrived.
Why?
Anouk's fingers dug deep into her palms.
She recalled those dreams—Kate standing in flames, skin blackened and peeling to expose raw red muscle beneath, speaking in that familiar, reproachful tone: "Kismet, you killed me. You killed everyone."
Every time she jolted awake, she added it to Emily's ledger. If not for Emily, Kate wouldn't have been dragged into that conspiracy targeting her. If not for Emily, she'd still be Kate's best friend, still be—
Still be what?
She stared at her reflection, suddenly unable to remember what that Kismet from three years ago had looked like. That girl who baked cakes by hand for Kate's birthday. That girl who wrinkled her nose in frustration over missed shots at the range. That girl who once believed the world would smile on her forever.
Dead. All dead. Dead with that single bullet, dead in those flames, dead the moment Emily entered the picture.
Now she was Anouk. A ghost. A Frankenstein's monster. A counterfeit stitched together from borrowed names and stolen identities.
She straightened her white coat and adjusted those gold-rimmed glasses.
She would cure Charles. She would make him owe her his life, make the Windsor family recognize Anouk's worth.
Then she would make Emily disappear. Completely, permanently, from this world—just as she'd thought she'd accomplished three years ago.
Anouk pushed open the supply room door and headed toward the nurses' station, her steps light as though keeping a long-awaited date.
She told the duty nurse, "Prepare blood draw equipment. Mr. Windsor needs viral load retesting. Also, notify the lab—I'll be conducting this analysis personally."
The nurse nodded without question. In this P4 facility, Anouk's orders carried highest priority. Charles himself had designated it so.
Anouk smiled as she accepted the collection tray, recalling the tenderness in Charles's eyes when he'd held Emily's hand—a softness she'd never witnessed before.
That softness—she wanted it too.
At any cost.
Nathan received the directive while finishing his third cigarette in the parking garage. He stared at the message on his phone screen: "Investigate Anouk. Twenty-four-hour surveillance."
"She's a problem. Her technique is too clean—unnaturally so. A virologist with unrestricted P4 access whose background reveals zero inconsistencies—that absence is the inconsistency."
Nathan crushed out his cigarette. "You suspect she's working for Miguel?"
"I suspect she's working for everyone. Pull records from the Windsor family kill order three years back. Everyone involved, everyone suspected of involvement—I want their whereabouts. Especially..." He paused. "Especially Kismet's."
Nathan's pupils contracted sharply.
Kismet.
The Windsor family's kill order had stood for three years, bounty escalating from five million to fifty million dollars, yet they hadn't recovered even her bones.
"You think Anouk is—"
Charles laughed—that bone-chilling predator's laugh. "I think she's performing an elaborate play. And I need to know what's written on her next page."
Emily woke to find only a dim amber wall lamp illuminating the hospital room.
Charles sat in the chair beside her bed, head tilted back slightly, eyes closed.
"What time is it?" Her voice emerged hoarse and unfamiliar.
"Eight-seventeen PM. You slept nearly ten hours." Charles opened his eyes—those irises startlingly bright in the dimness.
Emily pushed herself upright, the blanket sliding from her shoulders. She felt Charles's gaze settle on her with that familiar heat that seemed to penetrate fabric. Instinctively, she pulled the covers higher.
"I should go."
"Go where?"
"Hell's Angels headquarters. I have... matters to handle."
A lie.
She needed to return for her medication—the experimental immune modulators from Sebastian's lab. Twice daily, morning and evening, uninterrupted, unseen by anyone. Especially unseen by Charles.
Charles said nothing. He stood and walked to the window, presenting his back to her.
"I'll have the driver take you."
Emily froze. She'd prepared an entire explanation, but he wasn't asking her to stay.
He simply stood there, his silhouette outlined by lamplight in solitary relief.
"You..." She opened her mouth, uncertain what to say.
"Emily, you have secrets. My not asking doesn't mean I don't care. Your current physical condition—you know it yourself."
Emily's fingers clenched the bedsheet.
"But you have the right to choose. Choose to tell me, or choose to bear it alone. I choose to respect your choice. Even though it's driving me insane."
Emily got out of bed, pulled open the door, didn't look back.
The corridor's cold air hit her face, making her shiver. She felt hollow inside, as though someone had carved out a piece of her heart. She'd expected him to stop her, to demand answers, to trap her at his side in that irrefusible way of his. But he hadn't. He'd let her go, so decisively it seemed he'd been prepared to release her all along.
That sense of deflation made her bite her lower lip in the elevator.
Hell's Angels headquarters occupied a converted three-story mansion, its exterior walls thick with climbing ivy that resembled a sleeping beast in the darkness. When Emily's car passed through the gates, Fiona already waited at the front steps.