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Jack knew he ought to have woken Zeph before he left, but what could he have said that would have made the situation any better?

He intended to return, but that might not be possible for any number of reasons.

Leaving before Zeph woke had avoided Jack having to promise something he wasn’t sure he could deliver.

Even so, he didn’t like the way he’d behaved.

From this point, Jack could afford no distractions.

He had to compartmentalise to keep himself and Zeph safe.

He’d done what Thomas had told him to do, selected an identity from the safe room, packed a few other items from in there, and destroyed the SIM card from his phone so Zeph couldn’t call him, and Zeph couldn’t be traced.

The target was a Saudi businessman—if human trafficking counted as a business.

Saad Al-Shuaibi. Forty-two years old. Married with three children, but with a taste for young blond guys in his bed when out of the country.

Jack was his type. Jack had a room booked at one of the better hotels in Cannes, but before he checked in, he had something to collect in Marseilles.

It was going to be a long drive, but he had plenty to think about.

Al-Shuaibi was due to arrive in Cannes tomorrow by private jet.

He’d chartered a superyacht for the week.

The Agiolis. Over a hundred metres long with a swimming pool, gym and media room.

Al-Shuaibi’s personal floating hotel. Jack had no idea whether he’d even go to sea or not.

He had details of the company it had been rented from and knew where the yacht was berthed.

It came with a crew but Al-Shuaibi would undoubtedly have his own men on board.

Jack had studied photos of the Agiolis and memorised the layout, including the rooms with balconies, which gave access to the water and escape.

The Saudi’s favourite casino was the Royale, again well researched, though details were harder to find.

It was where he’d bump into Jack—or rather Sebastian Green, the son of an English tech giant.

Sebastian was a disappointment to his wealthy father, his mother was dead, no siblings.

He had a large trust fund, a gambling habit—but one he was skilled in—and he was currently studying history at Cambridge University. About to go into his final year.

That made him think of Zeph. He hadn’t mentioned his exam results. Had he even checked? There was no way he wouldn’t have passed. Jack clenched his teeth in annoyance. Think only about the job.

Thomas had taught him to vary his methods to avoid being traced and identified.

When Jack was a young boy, Thomas had shown him a funny Christmas film with robbers who styled themselves as the Wet Bandits.

They left the taps running in the places they robbed.

Thomas had explained why it was a bad idea and Jack had got it.

Though varying your methods when you were going to kill someone had limitations.

He’d been trained to handle explosives but blowing things up risked innocent people getting caught in the blast. Jack had cut it fine on a couple of occasions.

Using a knife was quieter than a gun but messier and riskier.

Miss the place where you intended to stab your adversary and it gave them the chance to fight back.

Jack’s preferred method was shooting, preferably from a distance, but close up if necessary.

Some jobs he’d done had been easier than others. He had a feeling this one was going to be tricky.

Thomas had suggested using succinylcholine again and the line that Jack was a diabetic.

It was an option. No one had suspected murder in Türkiye.

He’d be picking up the succinylcholine and insulin in Marseilles along with more Euros.

In order to administer the fatal dose, Jack would need to be very close to Al-Shuaibi, but then they were counting on the guy wanting to fuck him.

The Saudi would definitely come ashore to gamble.

There might be an opportunity then, though casinos were heavy on surveillance so Jack might have to let him take him back to the yacht.

And he was assuming the target would take one look at him and want him.

Make him want you, Thomas had said.

If Jack killed Al-Shuaibi on the yacht, getting away might prove tricky whether the craft was moored in the harbour or outside. He’d have been seen by the crew and bodyguards, and would be pursued by them if he ran. Or swam.

Much easier if it looked as though Al-Shuaibi died of a heart attack.

Jack could play the freaked out gay guy and hope they didn’t shoot him.

He didn’t like planning missions based on hope or chance.

The gun he’d brought with him from the house was essential.

Sniping might have been a possibility if he’d had longer to set this up and been able to find a place where he could see the Saudi coming and going, but a few days wasn’t long enough.

Al-Shuaibi was only in Cannes for a week and Thomas hadn’t arranged the supply of a rifle.

He kept thinking.

By the time Jack arrived at the hotel, he was tired.

He’d parked a tactical distance from where he was staying.

He didn’t want the car to be spotted, but he needed it near enough to use to make his escape if necessary.

If the car disappeared, it wouldn’t be the end of the world, but it wasn’t worth the risk of having it valet-parked at the hotel.

There had been no reason to use counter surveillance techniques prior to his arrival in Cannes.

No one knew he was coming. Even so, Jack caught a taxi around the corner from where he’d left the car and had it drop him off at a different hotel.

From there he walked the short distance to the one where he had a room.

He did his usual checks because Thomas had ground them into him…

escape routes, position of cameras, places to hide.

He hung up the tux in the wardrobe but didn’t unpack his bag.

It now held the packages he’d collected, along with the gun.

Since he intended to buy some new clothes tomorrow, he might need to purchase a bigger bag.

Once he’d showered, he collapsed into bed. Sleep didn’t come as quickly as he’d hoped. He was thinking of Zeph, wondering what Zeph was thinking about him.

By lunchtime the following day, he’d bought a couple of sets of smart new clothes, including deck shoes to make him look like the preppy guy he was pretending to be.

He paid in cash. Once he’d dumped all his purchases back at the hotel—there was no sign that anyone had interfered with his padlocked bag, though the room had been cleaned—he’d changed into one of his new outfits, picked up his backpack containing his insulin travel case—because he always needed to be ready—and headed for the harbour.

He chose a café from where he could see the Agiolis.

Just. Entry onto the pontoons was strictly controlled.

As he drank his lemonade and ate his croque monsieur, he saw a limousine arrive and Al-Shuaibi was inside.

That was lucky. Photos were never as good as seeing someone in the flesh.

Jack noted the number of bodyguards, four, also noted the way they were not checking their surroundings as they should be, though that didn’t mean he should underestimate them.

Al-Shuaibi was in western dress. He had a thick, dark beard and he was overweight—good. Though that wouldn’t make him easier to subdue, just make him slower. Once Jack had finished his lunch, he strolled back to the hotel.

Blackjack was Al-Shuaibi’s preferred game and one that Jack was good at.

Thomas had been impressed by how well he took to playing cards, then shocked by his card counting skills, but both Thomas and his coach had warned him to take care not to be spotted doing that or he’d get thrown out of a casino.

People noticed winners and didn’t like them.

Losers attracted far less attention. Jack could play any game the Royale had to offer.

All he needed to do was to come to the attention of Al-Shuaibi.

He practised with cards for a few hours, slept for a few, then put his tux on, including his bow tie.

His insulin case, money, passport and hotel key went into his small backpack.

Nothing he left in the room would give him away.

He’d hidden the gun deep in an air vent rather than take it.

He wasn’t sure whether his backpack would be searched and even if it wasn’t this time, it might be the next.

If there was a metal detector, he’d be stopped and he’d not get in again.

Tonight was more about getting a feel for the place.

Al-Shuaibi might or might not turn up. If he did, Jack wanted to be seen. The tux should help.

He showed his passport to gain entry and changed money for chips at the cashier cage.

He’d be under surveillance everywhere except the bathroom.

Although he usually avoided letting any camera catch a glimpse of him, there was no point worrying about that in here.

There was also far more security than the cameras he could see.

He walked past the slot machines, he never played those, and headed for the tables at the rear, noting the emergency exits as he went.

Even before he’d reached his destination, he was asked by a pretty cocktail waitress if he wanted a drink.

The answer was no thank you . He wouldn’t be drinking any alcohol unless he had to and he was wary of anything when he hadn’t opened the bottle.

Jack watched for a while, taking in the skill of the players, noting the mistakes they were making before he took a seat vacated by a guy who’d stormed off having lost all his chips.