Twenty-Nine
Councillor Dillon leaned back in his embossed brocade wing chair, a glass of wine dangling between the fingers of his left hand.
‘You’re positive he’s dead? Jackson Kyle has an annoying habit of survival against all odds.’
‘I sent twelve of my best men after him. They will not fail.’
Dillon swallowed the last of his wine and placed the crystal glass carefully on the table beside his chair. The art of making crystal glassware had been lost in the aftermath of the freak infection, making his collection, handed down in his family for generations, priceless. He was the first to begin using the glasses, gaining considerable pleasure in drinking out of a vessel few people could ever hope to possess.
He leaned forward and stared at the mercenary. ‘So, you haven’t received confirm
