The Black Wolf (In the Company of Killers, #5)(71)

Niklas





Izabel is sitting on the balcony when I come out of the restroom in my boxers. I pass Nora up, going through the main room with the giant bed—she was a good f*ck; not sure if I’ll ever do it again, but never say never.

I join Izzy outside.

“Niklas,” she says once I sit down in the wrought iron chair across from her; a matching table separates us. “I know you’re not one for talk, but I wanted to ask you something personal.”

I slide my elbows back on the chair arms, hook my fingers over my lap and stretch my legs out comfortably. I feel a pang of guilt all of a sudden, but I ignore it.

“No, I’m not one for talk,” I say, “but what do you want to know? Unless it’s about”—I point with my thumb toward the suite, indicating Nora—“anything that happened with her last night.”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s not about that,” she says, and that pang of guilt from before turns into disappointment—why, I have no clue, but I don’t like it.

I feel her eyes want to look at me, but she keeps facing forward, looking out at the hundreds of rooftops dotting the city below. I get the sense that this is serious.

“Have you…well, I was just wondering if you, or anyone else in our Order—even anyone you knew when you and Victor were under Vonnegut—has ever had to worry about…pregnancies…or dealing with children?”

I find myself stunned—where the f*ck did this come from?

“Don’t tell me you’re pregnant, Izzy, that would be the same thing as pissing in my Cheerios.”

Izabel looks over sharply. “No!” she says quickly, as if the longer I believe that the more chance it might be true. “No, I’m definitely not pregnant”—she looks offended; I laugh inside—“I was thinking about it because…of Sian. When I was in the compound, girls got pregnant all the time.”

“What’s that got to do with me or anyone else in our Order? Victor is who you’re really asking about though, right?”

The glare in her eyes answers the question before her words do. She swallows nervously and looks back out at the city.

“Don’t make this something it’s not,” she scolds me. “It’s a legitimate concern, considering our line of work—what happens if someone gets pregnant? How would Victor—or even you—deal with pregnancies?”

I can’t shake the feeling that Izabel asking about this sort of thing, has more significance than what she’s letting on. But whatever—I don’t care to probe further into that head of hers. OK, maybe I care to probe a little—all right, all right, I care to probe a lot. But I’m not going to. Not my f*cking business.

“You and James Woodard,” I begin, “are two of few who haven’t been…fixed.” I can’t help but laugh when Izzy looks over at me with disgust, her eyebrows tight in her forehead—she looks offended, which is what I was shooting for.

“We’re not animals,” she says. “We don’t get fixed—are you calling me a dog?”

No, Izzy, you’re certainly no dog…

I laugh again, letting my head fall back. Then I look at her and say, “We’re all f*cking animals, especially that adopted brother of yours you have such a soft spot for.”

“Fredrik’s not an animal, Niklas,” she defends, disappointment in her voice. “But you shouldn’t judge—you’re not so human yourself.”

“I admit I’m an animal,” I say. “And if you were ever to ask Gustavsson yourself, he’d admit the same thing—anyway, to answer your strange question: selling babies isn’t our style; Victor may be a cold-blooded, murdering bastard”—I couldn’t resist—“but he’d never resort to something like that.”

“Then what would he do?” She looks right at me—what is that in her eyes? Fear? Hope? A little bit of both? Damn, it’s killing me not to probe. She’s hiding something—but what?

“For starters,” I say, pointing my index finger up briefly, “Victor, as you know, is all about prevention, first and foremost. Most in our Order who haven’t already been sterilized, it’s mandatory that they become sterilized. The exceptions being people like Woodard who already have families, or members who might benefit the Order in some way by getting knocked up.”

By that shocked look on Izabel’s face, it’s obvious my dear brother hadn’t gotten around to telling her this part yet. I smile thinking to myself, rubbing my hands together metaphorically in my mind, excited about being the one to break the news—any little thing I can do to make my brother’s life more difficult, I’m going to take it.

“Benefit our Order by getting knocked up?” She appears confused, maybe wanting to have heard me wrong.

I nod, smiling, and then light up a cigarette.

“Sometimes operatives who work on the inside,” I begin, “as you know already, have to play their roles one hundred percent, that includes starting families and blending in with white-picket-fence societies. An operative I worked with under Vonnegut has been married to a woman undercover for fifteen years, had six kids with her before I left The Order.”

Izabel shakes her head with disbelief.