Page 13 of Light Me Up

Konig studied the long box by the fireplace for a moment, and moved his gaze back to Russo’s thick, expressionless face. “You’re sure no one witnessed the switch?”

“Absolutely sure, sir. It took place before dawn, at an abandoned warehouse outside of Benevento. Nothing but potato fields for miles around. No one saw us. Naimo and Vilardi and I drove the fake cross to the Palazzo Bellocchio. The men downstairs were the only witnesses. I just need the vest for Lella, andwe’re all set.”

Konig opened a white box on the table and lifted out what appeared to be a bulletproof vest. Thicker than a normal one. Heavier. Designed according to the exact dimensions of Lella’s stocky torso.

It occurred to him that he should be feeling excitement by now. Soon he would be one of the wealthiest man in the world. A terrorist attack that killed so many CEOs and gods of international finance at once would trigger a fast, hard fall in volatile global markets—and he was perfectly placed take full advantage of that violent shift. He would make tens of millions within minutes. Hundreds of millions as time went on.

But the Cross of Orazio, so rare and precious, was the one thing that he could not bear to sacrifice for this plan. So he’d salvaged the cross for himself. His secret prize.

He should have a pleasant buzz of anticipation, at the very least. But he felt nothing like that. Just a dull,dead flatness.

Konig placed the vest back into the box and shoved it toward Russo, feeling obscurely cheated. “Take it,” he said curtly. “Final payments will be wired into your accounts tomorrow, if all goes well. Your new identities are ready?”

“Yes, but if you—”

“I never wish to see or hear from you again,” Konig said.

“Of course, sir. As stipulated inthe contract.”

“Get out, then. We’re done here.”

Russo hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t want another detonator?” he asked. “What if there’s an issue with the signal? Or Lella’s implants malfunction? I’m thinking we should have a backupplan in place.”

Konig stared at him. “The equipment was designed and installed by geniuses. You field-tested the implants yourself.”

“Yes, sir.” Russo looked down, cowed.

Konig kept staring until the man reluctantly liftedhis eyes again.

“Lella himself must push that detonator button,” Konig said. “The whole world has to see him do it. Streaming live, on multiple cameras. An insane act of senseless violence provides a ready-made narrative that everyone understands. In this scenario, none of us will be investigated. The stakes are very high, yes. So are the rewards.”

“Ah…yes, but—”

“There can be no backup plan, Russo. This isthe only plan.”

“Of course,” Russo said stiffly. “I just thought that it would be wise to have…ah…an alternative.”

“Leave the thinking to people who are better at it,” Konig told him. “Andbon voyage, wherever you’re going. For God’s sake, don’t tell me. I don’twant to know.”

Russo’s mouth tightened. He picked up the box with Lella’s vest and turned toward the door.

“Wait,” Konig said, as Russo put his hand on the door handle.

Russo stopped without turning his head. “Yes?”

“Open that box for me.” Konig gestured imperiously at the crate bythe fireplace.

Russo didn’t move, clearly tempted to tell his employer to go fuck himself. And he would have, but for the millions to be deposited into his bank account the next day.

Russo set down the box that held Lella’s vest. A crowbar had been conveniently placed on top of the long wooden crate. Russo took it and wrenched the lid up at each corner of the box. He then put down the crowbar with a dull clank before resting the lid on the floor.

He waited silently to be dismissed, mouth set, eyes averted.Sullen bastard.

Konig nodded. Russo picked up the vestand walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him. Thank God, that was the last he would see of those thugs. He would time things tomorrow so that all three men would be killed in the blast. If by chance any of them escaped, the nanoparticles they’d just swallowed in the wine would make them traceable for twenty-four hours, possibly longer. More than enough time to have them shot, stabbed, or clubbed to death in some back alley, no matter where on earth they went.

Loose ends, neatly trimmed. Snip, snip.

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