Sebastian woke with a jolt and a gasp, heart pounding in his chest as he pawed blindly at the lamp on his bedside table. He managed to hit the switch; light flooded the room, banishing the darkness around him.
He was in his bedroom, in his own flat. School was miles away and decades ago, and he was alone.
The covers were damp with sweat, clinging to Sebastian’s skin; he threw them off and sat up, bracing himself at the edge of the bed, teeth clenched around the scream clawing at the back of his throat.
His phone sat, charging, on the bedside table.
Sebastian hadn’t spoken to Jay in days—hadn’t even texted him. The thought of telling Jay about the nightmares, about flinching at every loud noise, about feeling like he was being hunted every time he stepped outside, made him want to crawl into a hole and die. What Jay already knew was bad enough. And texting him just to pretend everything was normal would be a fucking joke.
Besides, it wasn’t as if Sebastian were any use to him right now.
A few months ago, Kitty Winter had given Sebastian a print of one of her photos: a portrait of a woman, wearing a mask made from shattered porcelain pieces mortared together with gold. He’d had the piece framed, but it remained at the back of his wardrobe; even the contemplation of hanging it up made him feel … exposed, even in the privacy of his own flat.
Kitty had said the piece was about survival. And he’d survived—rebuilt himself into someone dangerous and untouchable. He’d never be that scared and hurt and helpless ever again.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this anymore.
“I told you,” Jason Collier growled, “to bid as high as you needed to.”
According to everyone whose advice Collier trusted, Pauline Devantier was the best art consultant in London. Despite this, the auction she’d attended on his behalf over the weekend was a complete disaster. He’d been outbid on the Aivazovsky he had his eye on—by Harford, no less.
Collier had, so far, managed not to shout. The restaurant situation in Whitehall was fucking dire, and it wouldn’t do to make a scene at one of the only decent places to eat.
“You did,” Devantier acknowledged, smoothing her napkin over her lap. Lunch had been cleared away a few minutes ago, leaving her with precious little on the table to fiddle with. “And then I checked with your wife, and she told me this year’s spending cap still applies.”
“But it’s practically the end of the year—”
“This is really a discussion you should have with Ms. Blanchard.” Devantier checked the time on her phone and stood. “I’m afraid I have another appointment. Always lovely to see you, Mr. Collier—excuse me.”
As Devantier shuffled out, Collier glanced at his watch. It was coming up on 2:00; most of the afternoon was booked with back-to-back meetings, but it was nothing he couldn’t beg off. Kara had one of her speaking engagements tonight, so he’d have the house to himself.
The house, and Isabel. He hadn’t had a chance with her yet; there was too much to take care of, and too little time alone. But she was prettier than Camille had been—hopefully better behaved, as well.
“Mr. Collier?” said a soft voice, interrupting his thoughts. A slim young man in a suit had approached his table, hovering a little awkwardly at a politely deferential distance. “Could I have a moment of your time?”
Collier checked his watch again; he could spare a few minutes. He gestured for the man to sit in the chair Devantier had vacated.
The man settled in across from him and extended a hand across the table. “Can I just say, it’s an honour to meet you? I’ve heard all about your work overseas—really remarkable stuff.”
Collier briskly shook his hand. “And you are?”
“Arlo Piper,” the man said. “I’m a solicitor—right now I’m representing a consortium of private interests in the healthcare industry.”
Collier raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you should be talking to Minister Harford, then.”
“They’d really rather talk to you,” Piper said, with an apologetic smile. “Could we set up a meeting?”
“All right,” Collier said with a shrug. “Call my office. They’ll make all the arrangements.”
Piper winced and hissed through his teeth. “Thing is, my employers were hoping for something a little more … discreet. Maybe you could come by my office this evening?” He gave Collier another worried little smile. “I know you’re quite busy, but I promise this will be worth your time.”
Collier sighed. Even if he started for home now, it’d be barely any time at all before he’d have to turn around and head out again. But the private equity sphere had taken a particular interest in this country’s rotting, antiquated healthcare system, and there was a great deal of money floating around. A great deal of opportunity.
“All right,” he said. “Where’s this office of yours?”
Piper handed Collier a card: plain white stock and unembellished type, conveying only a name, phone number, and address.
“Everything you’ll need is there.” Piper stood and stepped away from the table. “Thank you again, Mr. Collier.”
Jay had managed to find a space in an old, red-brick building on Chancery Lane. While the tailor’s shop on the ground floor had evidently done a brisk business since the 17th century, the upper floors of offices were almost entirely vacant; the building had been bought by a speculator last year, who evidently found it more profitable and less of a headache to keep the place empty until they could sell it on.
Collier’s appointment was at 6:00; when Jay arrived at about quarter to, Clay was still finishing up the set dressing. The office was tiny, befitting Jay’s cover as the harried, underpaid middleman; it was really just the one room, dominated by a large mahogany executive desk. The wood-panelled walls featured a row of built-in bookcases, which Clay had stocked with as many legal texts as he could pick up on the cheap—although it looked as though he’d filled in the gaps with any leather-bound book that looked convincing enough from a distance. Hopefully Collier wouldn’t study them too closely, or else Jay would have to explain why he had an annotated edition of Murder on the Orient Express tucked between two volumes of case law.
Jay hefted the shopping bag he’d brought with him and set it down on the desk, next to the black duffel bag that Clay had left there. He glanced at the black bag. “Is this—?”
“The last of the Semtex from the BasePairing job,” Clay confirmed. “Please tell me we’re not blowing up Parliament. For one thing, it isn’t Bonfire Night for another month.”
“We are not blowing up Parliament,” Jay assured him, rolling his eyes. Clay’s curiosity hadn’t waned, so he added, “I could tell you, but then you’ll know.”
Clay raised both hands in a show of surrender.
Jay opened up one of the low cabinets behind the desk and tucked the black bag away; then he returned to the shopping bag, reaching inside to retrieve the bottle of Ralston he’d bought. He paused to snap on a pair of nitrile gloves before pulling a pack of wipes from the bag and thoroughly cleaning the outside of the bottle. Clay had also managed to source a rolling brass bar cart; Jay set the bottle of Ralston among the others arranged on its lower shelf, half-hidden toward the back.
“Don’t touch anything in the bar cart,” Jay said.
“Nothing good in there anyway.”
A harsh buzzing noise rang through the office; someone was downstairs, ringing the doorbell.
“That’ll be Collier.” Jay checked the time on his phone. “He’s early.”
In uncertain tones, Clay said, “Do I have a cover for this job?”
“No.” Jay hadn’t seen the need for one, before this moment. “Hide.”
Clay looked around the tiny office and said, “Hide fucking where?” as Jay stepped out into the corridor. He hurried down the building’s cramped, creaking staircase to the building’s front door; when he opened it, Collier was waiting impatiently on the other side.
“Mr. Collier,” Jay said; the run down to the door had left him a little out of breath, which would help disguise Jay’s constant desire to sink his thumbs into the man’s eyes. “Thank you for coming. Please, this way.”
They made their way back up to the office; Clay was nowhere to be seen. Jay settled behind the desk. “Feel free to fix yourself a drink,” he said, nodding to the bar cart.
Collier ignored the offer, casting a judgemental eye about the office as he sat in one of the upholstered chairs on the other side of the desk. “Let’s make this quick.”
Jay clenched his back teeth to keep his professionally deferential expression in place. “Of course,” he said. “As you’ve probably guessed, the UK presents some interesting possibilities to my employers. With the NHS in its current state and local councils unable to fund social care, privatisation holds more opportunities than ever.”
“And again,” Collier said, “I’m not the health minister.”
“Yes, right, well …” Jay made a show of considering his words. “My employers aren’t … overly pleased with that appointment. They don’t think Harford is right for the job. They’d much prefer someone like … well, like you.”
That got Collier’s attention, but his response was a bitter snort. “Harford is one of the party’s favourites. He’s not going anywhere, at least not anytime soon.”
“Hypothetically,” Jay replied, “if Harford were to resign, would you be in a position to step in?”
Collier had a doubtful look. “That’s a big ‘if.’”
“Humour me.” Jay said. “My employers have something in the works, but first we need to be sure you’re the right man for the job. A man that knows who his friends are.”
Collier eyed Jay for a long moment, and Jay imagined grabbing one of those bottles off the bar cart and smashing the man’s head in with it. Finally, Collier said, “Supposing you can actually pull this off, then … yes, I think I’m your man.”
“Oh, good,” Jay said brightly. “That’s all we needed to hear.”
Collier blinked. “Really?”
“As I said, my employers already have plans in place.” Jay stood and made his way around the desk; he held a hand out to Collier, who shook it absent-mindedly. Then he ushered Collier out into the corridor. “We’ll be in touch.”
Jay shut the door and sank back into the desk chair, breathing slowly.
He jumped as the window abruptly swung open. Clay clambered through from where he had, apparently, been clinging to the outside of the building.
“It’s fucking cold out there!” Clay snapped. He closed the window behind him and brushed himself off. “Did Collier take the bait?”
Jay nodded. “He’s sceptical, but interested. Now we just need to engineer the downfall of a cabinet minister.”
Clay shrugged. “That’ll be the easy bit.”
Sebastian arrived at McMurdo’s gym much later in the morning than he’d have liked. He’d slept poorly the last few days, waking up well after dawn, and now the changing room was full of other men crowding in around him. It made the back of his neck prickle, his shoulders tensing with every intrusion into his space.
He grit his teeth through it long enough to change and make his way back out onto the gym floor, claiming a punching bag at the far end of one row.
Sebastian kept his head down and his earbuds in. The playlist was one his cousin Patience had sent him; it was mostly noise, but the deafening blast of it kept him from thinking as he laid strike after strike into the bag, barely pausing between each hit. He breathed in rough, heavy drags, each blow rattling through his arms and shoulders, shaking loose the tension he’d been carrying there for days.
On a normal day, someone would have asked him to spar by now—but the other fighters in the room were giving him a wide berth, occasionally shooting concerned glances his way. They were afraid of him.
Good.
The music abruptly cut out as Sebastian’s phone started to ring. His heart leapt into his throat, certain for a moment that Jay was calling him—but the number was one he didn’t recognise. Sebastian backed off from the bag and took a few breaths to steady his voice before he answered the call. “Hello?”
“Captain Moran?” said a familiar voice. “It’s Rory Franklin—we spoke at the reception the other night.”
Franklin’s polished, friendly greeting was like a saw-blade across Sebastian’s nerves; he forced out a pleasant, “What can I do for you, Mr. Franklin?”
“Well, I was hoping we could meet and discuss the security requirements for our new government contracts,” Franklin said. “Tomorrow evening, perhaps? I have a membership at the Tankerville club.”
The last thing Sebastian wanted to do right now was work, but he was hardly in a position to tell Franklin to fuck off. “Of course. What time should I be there?”
“6:00?”
“I’ll see you then,” Sebastian said, a little too brusquely, and ended the call.
The Seraglio Casino, just off Leicester Square, featured no less than six different bars—including one on the casino’s rooftop terrace. Kitty and Clay had positioned themselves at a high table, right next to the banister separating the terrace from the surrounding rooftop. The place was open 24 hours, which ruled out breaking in while it was closed, so the next best option was to make their move while things were at their busiest.
Kitty’s mobile was tucked into her jacket pocket. She held a second phone in her hand—one that Moriarty had provided when she refused to let him hack her phone.
“I’ve got access to the casino network,” Moriarty reported; he was stationed at a fast food restaurant across the square, using the second phone as a foothold. “Clay, get into position.”
Clay sidled closer to the banister; with the crowd for cover, nobody paid much attention as he hopped over the rail and crept out onto the casino’s roof, darting between the bulky shapes of the HVAC system as he rapidly disappeared into the night.
Once Clay was clear, Kitty made her way out of the bar and down the stairs, dragging a rolling equipment case.
The Seraglio had originally been built at the turn of the last century; back then it was a venue for grand spectacles, circus performances, and the like. Ownership of the building had changed hands multiple times throughout the 20th century until, a few years ago, it had been bought by a man named Tommy Bullock.
Most official sources referred to Bullock as an “entrepreneur,” largely because he raised complaints and legal threats whenever he was called a “gangster.” Bullock had quickly gone about converting the Seraglio into a casino; the permitting process had progressed more swiftly than anticipated, and many suspected bribery was involved.
At the time this was all happening, Joe Harford had been the cabinet member for planning and economic development on the Westminster City Council.
The Seraglio’s main casino floor was surrounded by multiple rows of galleries, each one thronged with restaurants, bars, and various gaming areas. Bullock’s office perched at the far end of the topmost gallery, overlooking the entirety of the venue.
“You’re sure he’s keeping it here?” Kitty asked as she made her way around the gallery.
“Bullock has a few offices all over the city, but this one is the most secure,” Moriarty replied confidently. “If he’s keeping his ledger anywhere, it’s here.”
Kitty approached the door to the office, making a show of struggling with the equipment case. There was a guard stationed outside: a tall, broad man in a suit and tie with a conspicuously-visible radio on his belt. As Kitty’s destination became apparent, the guard reached out to block her path.
“This area is staff only,” he said firmly.
“I’m the photographer from The Strand,” Kitty replied, gesturing to the case. “Mr. Bullock and I have an appointment.”
With a dubious look, the guard reached for his radio and muttered into it.
An annoyed response crackled back over the radio: “Yeah, all right, fucking let her in then!”
The guard ushered Kitty through the door.
Bullock’s office was huge and opulently decorated in polished wood and gold accents. There was a massive portrait on the wall behind the office’s wide heavy desk; it depicted a broad, powerful man with a shaved head, wearing a boxy American-style suit and an impressive collection of rings.
Sitting at the desk, beneath the portrait, was its subject—Tommy Bullock himself. He stood and circled around the desk, approaching Kitty with a warm smile and a firm handshake.
“Hello, love,” he said. “Ready to get started?”
“Of course,” Kitty replied, smiling back.
As far as Bullock was concerned, The Strand was writing a profile on him and Kitty was here for the accompanying photoshoot. Kitty opened the equipment case; she’d brought as many lights, meters, stands, and accessories as could fit inside. Nearly all of it was surplus to requirements, but that wasn’t the point.
Bullock hovered restlessly as Kitty set it all up; the process took nearly fifteen minutes, and she could see his patience waning with every adjustment she made.
“All right,” she said, making one final tweak to the height of her camera’s tripod. “Let’s start with a few test shots.”
“Got it,” Moriarty said in Kitty’s ear. From the other side of the door, the muffled music playing over the casino’s sound system abruptly cut out. There was a low murmur of confusion—one that quickly escalated into a full-blown commotion.
The guard outside opened the door and stuck his head in. “Sir,” he said, “we have a problem.”
Kitty took the opportunity to peek out onto the casino floor. The video screens ringing the Seraglio’s galleries were all plastered with error messages. Every line at the tills had come to a standstill. The customers crowded around the slot machines and video lottery terminals had broken free of their hypnotic state; now they exchanged annoyed glances and mashed buttons, struggling to wring any reaction out of the unresponsive machines.
Bullock hurried out of the office and across to the gallery’s balustrade, leaning over it to survey the chaos. “Fuckin’ hell,” he growled, then waved to the guard. “Come on—we need to go take care of this.”
The guard glanced over at Kitty. “What about her?”
“Oh, I can clear out if you need me to,” Kitty replied helpfully. “Just let me pack up all the equipment, first—”
Bullock reacted immediately. “What? You just finished setting up!”
“This is all quite sensitive,” Kitty said, apologetic. “I’d rather not leave it.” Pretending to misunderstand Bullock’s look of concern, she added, “I’ll set it all up again once you’re done with …” she waved vaguely to the chaos outside.
Bullock shook his head and levelled a glare at the guard. “What, exactly, do you think she’s going to do in there?”
“It’s not secure,” the guard replied, uncertainly.
Bullock ignored him. “Just sit tight, sweetheart,” he told Kitty. “We’ll be back in a mo.”
The guard closed the door, following his boss along the gallery and leaving Kitty alone in the office.
Quietly, into the earpiece, Kitty asked, “What did you do?”
“Ransomware attack,” Moriarty replied, almost disinterested. “I encrypted the whole network, which shut down their gaming terminals, their payment systems … everything, basically.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re fucking terrifying?”
“Yes.”
Any further discussion was interrupted by the sound of a fist knocking gently on glass. John Clay dangled outside the office window, hanging from a line attached to the roof of the building.
Kitty hurried to the window, unlatched it, and slid it open. Clay swung himself into the office and unclipped from the line, then made his way over to Bullock’s desk.
“Watch the door, would you?” Clay’s attention seemed to be on the huge portrait behind Bullock’s desk. He nudged one edge of the frame; the other edge had a hinge installed, and the painting swung aside to reveal a small metal door with a combination dial.
“Really?” Kitty whispered, furious. “The wall safe behind the picture frame?”
Clay shrugged. “Gangsters watch a lot of movies.”
Approaching the safe, Clay reached into one of the pouches at his belt and withdrew a notepad alongside a small black cylinder. He plugged a pair of earbuds into the latter.
“All right,” he said, raising a hand to his ear. “Moriarty, you’re going away now. Kitty, I need you to be very quiet.”
With that, he pulled out his earpiece and hooked the earbuds into his ear. Pressing the cylinder to the safe door, he lifted a hand to the safe’s dial.
Time passed in silence as Clay kept his eyes fixed on the dial, nudging it by degrees and occasionally pausing to sketch out some sort of graph on the notepad. Kitty tried not to fidget, wary of making too much noise but increasingly aware that Bullock would only stay distracted for so long.
After about twenty minutes of this, Clay made a noise of satisfaction. He consulted the notepad, spun three numbers on the dial, then rolled it along until there was a thunk from the inner workings of the safe. He pulled the door open, revealing stacks of notebooks and files.
The differences between running a legal business and running an illegal one were largely contextual. Even illegal operations needed to keep records of how much money was coming in versus how much was going out—especially when one had a large stable of public officials that needed bribing on a regular basis.
Bullock, unfortunately, didn’t trust computers all that much. He liked to keep hard copies, which put his ledger well out of Moriarty’s reach—at least, until he’d brought Kitty and Clay in.
Clay fitted his earpiece back into place and flipped rapidly through the papers until he found what he was looking for. “Here we are,” he said. “Nearly a million pounds in complimentary home renovation services paid out to one Joe Harford. And a very favourable lease on a vacation home in Barcelona. What a naughty boy you are, Joseph.” He pulled out his phone and snapped a few pictures of the relevant pages before filing them away again.
“Bullock’s on his way back,” Moriarty reported through the earpiece.
Clay shut the safe and set the painting into place before hurrying to the window, clipping his harness onto the line. As he swung out and climbed back up onto the roof, Kitty closed the window behind him.
The door opened, and Bullock stepped through. “Sorry, darling,” he said in a haggard tone. “Looks like we’ll have to reschedule.”
“Oh, not a problem.” Kitty set about dismantling and packing away all her equipment. “I’ll get in touch tomorrow, and we’ll figure things out from there.”
The actual plan was to call Bullock in a few days and tell him the piece had been spiked. With everything that was to happen in the next few days, he’d hardly be surprised.
Sebastian had elected to take a cab to the Tankerville; the prospect of riding the tube, bodies pressed in all around him, made him want to claw his own skin off. There was a newspaper lying across the passenger seat of the taxi, with a picture of the health minister gracing the front page.
“You see this?” The driver tapped the newspaper. “Some sort of bribery scandal thing.”
“I saw.” The leak had been all over every paper in the country; it hadn’t taken long for the resignation demands to start. The whole mess had Jay’s fingerprints all over it, but Jay hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort to Sebastian. So he either wasn’t involved—which Sebastian found unlikely—or Jay was running a job without him.
The second option made him feel uneasy.
“Not even six months, and already shit like this,” the driver lamented from the front seat—not an attempt at conversation so much as a pronouncement to a captive audience. “They’re all as bad as each other.”
Sebastian couldn’t convince himself to disagree.
The Tankerville was a venerable member’s club housed in a standalone Victorian building on Pall Mall. The cab pulled up out front; Sebastian paid the driver and stepped out, climbing the steps and shouldering through the club’s heavy, oaken double doors. The interior of the club had changed very little in the past two hundred years: its atrium was ringed in ionic columns and elaborately-carved mouldings, with intricately tiled floors and plush red carpets underfoot.
Sebastian put on his best affable expression as he approached the small desk near the entrance. “Hello,” he said to the receptionist, “I’m here to meet Rory Franklin.”
The receptionist checked her book—the Tankerville maintained an actual guest book, heedless of the march of technology—and said, “I’m afraid Mr. Franklin hasn’t arrived yet. You can wait for him in the lounge, if you’d like.”
Sebastian nodded and made his way up to the lounge on the first floor. It was in much the same style as the rest of the building, with panelled walls and a high, engraved ceiling. Low tables and red leather armchairs were arranged in neat rows throughout the room. There was a decent crowd, by this point in the evening; it made something between Sebastian’s shoulders itch, and he found himself noting and assessing every face in the room, cataloguing every noise. He ordered a drink at the bar—straight whiskey, a double—and claimed one of a pair of lounge chairs, settling in to wait.
Normally the Tankerville’s lounge was fairly quiet, filled with the low murmur of conversation and subdued classical music. Tonight, a cacophony of loud voices emanated from a table not far from where Sebastian was sitting. A group of young men—hereditary members of the club, no doubt—were more than a few rounds in.
“So I pull out, you know,” said one of them, to his enraptured audience, “and there’s blood everywhere!”
“She was on the rag, then?” said one of the others.
“That’s what I thought—I told her, ‘what’s wrong, love? You’d think a bird wouldn’t exactly be surprised’—but she wouldn’t stop crying.”
“Crying?”
“I’d popped her bloody wall!”
The group broke into uproarious laughter.
No-one else was saying anything. Oh, they were engaging in the timeless English practice of exchanging disapproving glances, making clear they all found this behaviour unacceptable—but nobody had done anything to stop it.
Sebastian’s glass was empty. He wasn’t sure when that had happened; he’d barely eaten over the past few days, and the whiskey sat uneasily in his mostly empty stomach. With a soft sigh, he stood and made his way back to the bar.
The bartender was a young woman, dark-skinned with her hair up in braids. She looked just as carefully polished as the rest of the club’s staff, although a hint of a tattoo peeked from the short sleeve of her blouse.
“Another?” she asked, nodding at Sebastian’s empty glass.
“I don’t suppose you have a food menu,” Sebastian replied.
“Sorry, no.” The bartender gave him an apologetic smile. “You’d have to go to one of the dining rooms for that.” She helpfully pushed a bowl of nuts resting on the bartop toward him.
Sebastian huffed a laugh and tossed a peanut into his mouth. “Thanks,” he said, and slid his glass across the bar for a refill.
His phone pinged; Franklin had texted to inform Sebastian he was stuck in traffic, and running late. Sebastian let slip a sigh of annoyance.
“Waiting on someone?” the bartender guessed, pouring whiskey into his glass.
“A client,” Sebastian replied. “Well—potential client.”
“Not the sort you can tell off for being late?”
“Not really.”
The bartender made a sympathetic face.
One of the loud young men—the one who’d been regaling his mates with tales of his exploits—strode up to the bar. “You speak English, love?” He clicked his fingers at the bartender. “Bring that arse over here and get me another drink, would you?”
The bartender bristled at the words, and the last worn thread of Sebastian’s patience snapped.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” he snarled.
The man stiffened, head twisting to the side to glare at Sebastian. “What did you just say to me?”
“I said shut your fucking mouth.” Sebastian turned to face him, shoulders rolling back. “I’m sick of listening to you talk.”
The man also turned, facing Sebastian down, clear challenge in his posture. It fired up something in Sebastian’s blood—the anticipation of violence. It was almost soothing. He could see the young man’s confidence waning as he sized Sebastian up, regret flashing across his face. But his mates had taken notice, egging him on from their table; he couldn’t back down now.
“What’s wrong?” Sebastian said, taunting him. “Fucking scared, are you?”
Sebastian didn’t like fighting amateurs. Someone who was actually trained to fight had practised specific techniques, which could be anticipated and countered; amateurs, on the other hand, were unpredictable. Case in point: Sebastian saw the man’s punch coming slightly too late to stop it.
Later, he would reflect that the strike was poorly-aimed; it collided with the orbital bone above Sebastian’s eye, probably doing more damage to his assailant’s hand than to Sebastian’s face. The ring he was wearing managed to break skin, blood welling from the cut—superficial damage at best, although like all face wounds it bled heavily.
But that was later. In the moment, Sebastian didn’t pause to note any of this; he moved on instinct, hand snapping out to grip the back of his opponent’s neck and lever his face down onto the bar.
The bartender screamed, and that was when the fight really started.
Chapter 4 of “A Reckoning in Whitehall” will be published on March 16. To get it delivered directly to your inbox, subscribe here:
… And if that’s too long to wait, you can also get the completed story as an ebook.
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