A large ice sphere cracked against the inside of a crystal tumbler when Serhat poured the scotch. 

"Want one?" He swiveled, tossing his head over a shoulder. 

Standing astride next to the ottoman near the entrance, Armo Palermo declined the offer. "But thank you, sir," he added, one hand resting upon the other before his groin. 

Serhat shrugged and raised the glass to his lips. "Found anything interesting?"

"We tailed all the supply trucks like you asked. Seemed normal except for one, which didn't go to any of the locations in the book."

"Oh?"

"Telesphore Pharmaceutical," the man continued. "Not too far from the Port." 

A smirk dissolved into a squinting frown. Serhat nipped from the tumbler. 

Owned by the Commonwealth merchant, Telesphore Reyer, the pharmaceutical plant was an international investment through which Reyer intended to relocate his family assets. Since a group of vigilantes who called themselves the Reds swept the Commonwealth with their revolution, many of their leading figures, from scientists to artists, scholars to politicians, had fallen from grace, burned in effigy if not worse. And those lucky enough to have picked the winning side and remain unscathed feared that the same fate could befall them should they not tread carefully. Among those yet affected were the Reyers, and their youngest son, Telesphore Reyer, had known Warshon since college. While Serhat didn't know the details, no secret there that Warshon was a shareholder who helped make it happen. 

Serhat clucked his tongue after another sip. He darted a glance at Armo Palermo, "Warshon's new lab, is that what you're saying?"

"I'm not saying anything." The burly chauffeur shrugged. 

"But?"

"Is Lord Qusbecq aware of it?"

Serhat lowered his gaze at the amber liquor glittering under the spherical chandelier. His fingers tightened around the glass. 

A simple answer of yes or no would make a world of difference. If Arslan Qusbecq was indeed behind this, nothing much would change, and exposing Warshon as the Phantom Lord would deliver a fatal blow to Keiren Zaman's campaign, a weighty pledge of loyalty to Mustafa unlike anything else. But if he wasn't…

Has Warshon Qusbecq also gone behind his old man's back? 

Clamping a hand to his brow, he brayed with a laugh. 

If that was indeed the case, the capture would cut like a double-bladed sword, hurting Arslan Qusbecq as a politician and a father. And any hope his younger stepbrother had for the old man's rescue would have also gone down the drain. Warshon would be done for! 

 He laughed so hard he spilled the scotch. 

Armo Palermo tipped his bald head, his eyes narrowing. "What would you have me do next, sir?" 

"You know phenylacetone?" 

His chauffeur nodded. "The oil dispatched to the labs?"

"Dilute it. And be sure it's the one that goes to the Plant."

Palermo quirked his mouth. 

Serhat shot him a sullen glance. "What?"

"What if your stepbrother didn't show?"

"He has to. Only he can fix the problem if the percentage is to meet the standard. It's too complicated to instruct, and I doubt he wants to share his secret." A hissing snort paused his speech. "Besides," he continued, nursing the scotch in his hand. "Qusbecq has a deadline for him he has yet to meet."

The bald head bobbed again. "What about the DEA?"

"You know Zahid Abid?" 

"Commander of the operational squad?"

"Mustafa's." Serhat sat down on the turquoise couch facing the chauffeur, a half smile perching on his lips. Leaning back, he slumped, his legs crossed, an arm dangling from the backrest. "He'll oversee the operation, and I'll be watching it live." As his voice fell, he flicked his eyes at a small radioreceptor on the ivory coffee table of polished marble. 

***

"You fool!" Serhat let rip at Commander Zahid Abid over the radioreceptor. 

Designed with frequency hopping to prevent interception, the trunk system cut out voices that ruffled Serhat's feathers even more. 

"How can you let him get away?" he snapped, his eyes bulging, breath shaky. Should Warshon get away this time, what would he say to old Qusbecq? What would he do to him? 

"Well, he's clever," Zahid replied, his voice ragged. "Don't worry, my elite squad is hot on his tail…"

"I hand him to you on a silver platter!"

"Too bad your platter got knocked over." 

Strangling the impulse to smash the wonky gadget into the wall, Serhat shut his eyes, his hands coiling. He drew a deep breath. His eyes popped open. "Did you find anything at the Plant?" 

"Nope, not yet."

"Well, keep looking!"

"Do I need you to tell me that?"

Serhat punched his fist into the back of the turquoise couch. How could it be? No reason Warshon should make all the effort to deliver the phenylacetone if it wasn't for Ice. Or could it be a ploy? Ghashing his teeth, he commanded himself to breathe, to think, to see through all the obscure, the uncertain, and the damned that had thrown him for a loop. "How far behind is your elite squad?" 

"Not far," Zahid grunted. "Looks like he seeks an escape from the Port."

The Port? Serhat knocked his knuckles on his chin. "Shoot him!" he yelled, a shudder coursing down his spine as he heard himself. "If he ever gets out of the car, shoot him!" 

A tentative pause, "He could die."

"Better a corpse to find out who's under the mask than nothing, eh?" Serhat spat, his breath rattling in his throat. "Mustafa will be very disappointed, don't you agree?"

In a few short moments came staccato barks of firearms. 

Bacing his hands on the pane of the floor-to-ceiling window, he heaved, hanging his head between his two arms. "Well?"

"We got him."

"Dead?"

"Nah," Zahid drawled, the lackadaisical voice a constant irk. "But a bullet got him. He ain't going to get far."