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CHAPTER 1
NICK
Where the bloody hell is Ash?
Rain lashes the panes with the fury of gods, punctuated with an occasional flash of lightning. In ancient times, men questioned their decisions before such a storm. Weak men perceived lightning as Zeus’s anger.
Modern man understands nature has no interest in the goings on of a singular species. Neither do the dead gods.
A bolt of lightning strikes, and the bright reflection draws my eye to the priceless seventeenth-century map hanging in my office, portraying boundaries that no longer align with contemporary divisions. A subtle reminder of the fluid nature of alliances. The faded compass rose yields true north.
Through the rain-pummeled window faint sparks flicker in the distance. A trick of light?
No. Headlights. It’s Ash.
I’m off, barreling through the musty, stodgy corridor and never-used formal rooms, reaching the massive oak door and swinging it open before he knocks. The man’s absolutely drenched. His mop of straw-colored hair is dry, but everything from his shoulders down is soaked. Rain droplets drip from his Barbour jacket, and there’s a field hat in his hand clutched against his stomach.
“Proper nasty out there,” he says, stepping inside and dutifully removing his muddy boots.
With the click of the door and one glance around the barren foyer to ensure my sister, Lina, isn’t lurking, I ask, “Is it done?”
Ash offers me his mobile. The screen is lit.
I press the arrow and watch as a vehicle slams into a guardrail on a two-lane bridge and careens over the edge.
On screen, a shadow crosses the road and peers over the railing.
“Let’s go to my office.”
Ash pads along in his socks, following me along the corridor. On the off-chance Lina saw a vehicle approach, it’s best we continue our conversation behind closed doors. Once inside the confines of my office, the door closed and locked, I ask, “Who took the video?”
“It’s from our man’s vehicle.” Ash doesn’t bother sitting. The fireplace is lit, but Ash doesn’t step closer to the heat. He stands at my side.
“Leo’s truck? It sank?”
“Right fast.”
My part’s done. Now we’ll see how good these blokes are at their job. Interpol—that’s the contact Leo left. The conductor of the arrangement. But the players…I’ll wager they’re from all over, the unofficial black ops types who break the law on behalf of governments.
“Our man’s asking for an additional fee,” Ash says while shoving one hand in his trouser pocket.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Cohen. Said he didn’t know the Lupi Grigi were a part of it.”
Fuckwit. As if he cares about a branch of the Italian mafia.
“Don’t tell me the bastard’s saying there’s extra risk involved.”
Ash shrugs. “He didn’t know who the girl was in the truck.”
I want to keep Cohen as a resource. Ex-Mossad—full name Ashraf Cohen—he’s an asset. But coming back and asking for more…it’s not a good look. And it’s bollocks. The assassin could take out John Wick, if the man wasn’t a Hollywood creation. He’s got mad skills. I don’t buy he’s afraid of Italian thugs.
Ash takes the mobile, flicks past the video, and hands it back, set to photos.
I flick through the shots. The snapshots focus on the SUV and the pitch-black river. It’s too dark to make out the embankment from the shots.
How far away was the team?
“How’s Lina going to take the news?” I slant an inquisitive eye Ash’s way. Why’s he asking? “Was she close to the girl?”
“Hadn’t known her long.” Lina isn’t one to get close to friends. She keeps them at arm’s length. She’s rational like that, all thanks to being raised by a stone-hearted scoundrel, me . With an exhale, I pass the phone back to Ash.
I’ll miss the Texan. The man worked close to me for over five years. Ah, Leo Sullivan. A mole in my midst, yet I still hold he’s a good one. Talk about being good at the job.
“We’ve got Andrew from Scotland Yard reporting back. With the storm, they’re swamped at the moment. Search and rescue called off. Locating the wreck not a priority.”
I step up to the window, running through logistics. “If a story develops that may need a burial…”
I let the sentence fall behind the howl of wind. Ash knows the drill.
“When you get confirmation on your end, will you let me know?”
I narrow my eyes at the head of my security. “Getting soft?”
“I liked them, ya know. She seemed nice. Leo…good guy.”
Yeah, he was. Turncoat and all.
“You didn’t tell Cohen about the second part of the plan?” This is an important piece. If anyone has any idea that Leo Sullivan is still alive, he won’t be safe. He violated a code. I’m all right with letting him slink into the night, but others we work with won’t agree with my leniency.
Ash’s right eye twitches at a rhythmic pace. It’s a side effect of a head injury when serving with the SAS.
“Of course not.” He sounds both pissed and aghast at the notion.
“These days, I’ve got to question everyone.”
He gives a quick nod of understanding. “Cohen might question why the car drove off the bridge, given he didn’t ram it off, but he gave no sign he’s harboring suspicions. If anything, he might be wondering if his bullet caught the driver.”
The instructions had been to shoot to corral, not shoot to kill. We had a number of routes planned. Cohen believed he acted as a herding dog, but he also believed that after the confrontation, he’d need to dispose of the leak.
A risky fucking plan. But the message I received from an unknown number forced my hand.
The American isn’t who you think he is.
When confronted, Leo confirmed.
The question remains, who sent that message? Who else knows?
With Leo presumed dead, does it matter?
Cohen believes he’s dead. But he’s not likely to talk about it—would be bad for his business. So is asking for money after the deal.
“How much of a fee are we talking about?”
“Cohen?”
I scowl, losing patience. What the fuck else would I be going on about?
“Extra hundred.”
“One hundred thousand pounds?”
“He’s never been cheap,” Ash says, looking about like he’d like to take a seat.
“Greedy wanker. Unacceptable.” I drop into my desk chair, the spot where I get my best thinking done. “Take care of him. And keep an ear on the accident. We need word to filter.”
“Our guys? You want them talking about it?”
“No. We’ll crank suspicions if we know more than the bobbies. Need the story kept close, then, in a couple of days, be certain the victims’ names are released. If for any reason they aren’t?—”
“We’ll leak them,” he interjects.
“We won’t.” Media isn’t Ash’s strength. “It’s gotta be the proper authorities. It’s got to be natural. Believable.”
The mobile flashes a flood alert.
“They’re saying we might lose electricity,” he says.
I won’t. I have a generator.
“Why don’t you head home? Check on your old man.”
He nods, grabbing his coat and hat.
“When your pop’s ready, say the word. We’ve got land, you know. Can set you up with him out here.” Ash lives in the village, a stone’s throw away.
He grins. “The old man’s happiest within walking distance of the pub. And while I love the man, I don’t wanna live with him. But I will head on. Make sure the oaf’s stumbled home.”
I follow him through the house to the foyer, as much out of boredom as anything else.
“Think this is the end of it?” Ash asks after he’s donned his boots.
Eliminating the traitor helps. At least, it might satisfy the person who messaged. But that message doesn’t sit right. How did this unnamed person know Leo was the leak? What else does he know? Who is he?
The wind blows the front door back, and rain paints the entry.
“Let’s ratchet security up a notch.”
“You expecting the Grigi boys to come after you?”
I eye my friend. “Always a possibility. But unlikely.”
“Possible, though,” he says, a touch too argumentative for my taste. “They were after them, too, you know? Might have saved yourself a mint if you let them take care of it.”
Ash is wrong. Leo wouldn’t leave Willow behind with an ex-Mossad assassin hunting her. He loved his wife. And he wouldn’t confront Cohen either. The man’s skills precede him. He wouldn’t risk a loss to Cohen knowing he’d be leaving his wife unprotected. If it had only been Italian goons in a car, he might’ve walked outside and blown their brains out. Problem solved. And Leo might’ve exited, following Interpol’s plan—without his bride. No, I needed to act.
Besides, if I didn’t act, the mystery messenger might have.
“What’s next?” Ash asks.
“You’re going home. Tomorrow, when the storm’s passed, beef up the ranks.”
“I meant the Italians.”
He’s right to ask. We’re not done with the thieving bastards.
“Believe it or not, Willow was the winning sacrificial pawn.”
Ash doesn’t understand what I’m saying, but there’s no need for his understanding tonight. He’ll understand soon enough when I bring Willow’s charming cousin into my home.
Some plans come together so perfectly, it’s tempting to believe in the gods.
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