We cross a short, curved driveway and the guards, without speaking, usher us into the main entrance, through an arched doorway and into a grand hall. The windows are floor-to-ceiling and have taken no damage. There’s a huge limestone fireplace, lit. A drift of smoke rises from crackling logs that give the room a dense, expensive feeling. The ceiling is crossed with thick wooden beams. From the centre one hangs a wrought-iron chandelier fitted with low-wattage electric bulbs. Houseplants sit squarely against the walls, neat and trimmed. The walls have dark panelling, black with age, and the floor is worn flagstone. Ornately framed oil portraits are fixed on the walls.

Akuji paces the walls of the room, looking at the portraits, hands clasped in front of her body, down at her slinking hips. She walks lightly, almost on her toes, feet turned slightly inward. In another life, she might’ve been a dancer.

In another world, she probably is.

I look at the frames on the wall. Solemn faces stare back at me. Paintings of people I suspect are all masters. “So, the Collective has money,” I say.

“Why not?” Vidhan says, tapping his temple. “Some of the finest brains going.”

Malik points up at an oil painting. “Prof here thinks his ugly mug will one day join these bad boys.”

“Ya better believe it, mate,” Vidhan says. “But not unless they paint me in my board-shorts. Whaddaya reckon, Kuji? I’d look bloody ace up there, no?”

“It’ll never happen,” a curt reply comes booming through the air.

Not Akuji.

A tall man—dark and powerfully built—dressed in long robes. He strides silently across the floor to us, as if he owns every square foot.

“Gabe!” Vidhan cries.

The man laughs easily, full of charm. He puts a broad hand on Vidhan’s shoulder and dwarfs him. “Hell, it’s good to see you. What’s goin on?”

“I’m still alive, Gabe.”

“Well, that’s what matters, Prof.” He looks at the others. “Yo, Malik,” he says, turning. They clasp each other—a man hug, a little shoulder barge—warm and awkward at the same time. “Still got the trigger finger?”

“Hasn’t let me down yet,” Malik says.

“Man, look, you know I’m faster.”

“The hell you are.”

Gabe smiles. He looks slightly older than the rest of us, perhaps in his twenties. Beneath his sand-coloured robe, he wears a holster sporting a gleaming six-shooter. He exudes natural confidence and charisma. But the dark rings under his eyes suggest he’s on the edge of exhaustion. The kind of tired that only comes with months of unrelenting effort.

He looks at Akuji and gives her a nod. “The silent one,” he says. She stays where she is on the far side of the room, gazing coolly—but respectfully—back at him.