Page 290 of The Black Trilogy

I choked on a prawn cracker. “I’m not sure Luke would be too happy about that. Besides, I thought you wanted to be an artist?”

She shrugged. “Art doesn’t pay. Everybody says so.”

“Some artists make money. Or what about something else creative?”

“I like textiles, but fashion design’s really hard to get into.”

“Get good exam grades, and you might be surprised. Somebody’s got to be the next Vivienne Westwood.”

“You think?”

I smiled at her. “I don’t think; I know. You need to follow your heart. If you do something you love for a living, it won’t seem like work.”

“Do you love what you do?”

“I’m compelled to keep doing it.”

“But you don’t love it?”

“Maybe once, but not anymore.” Not without Black beside me.

“Couldn’t you leave? Do something else?”

I shook my head. “I can’t.”

The evening before Tia flew back to England, a group of us went out for dinner. Jed was still wearing his cast, which, strangely, seemed to behave like a magnet for women. At first, it was amusing, but by the time the eighth one came over to coo sympathy at him and leave her phone number, just in case he wanted any help, with anything, it wore a little thin. He waved me next to him, fastened his arm around my shoulders, and rolled his eyes dramatically.

“Save me!”

“They didn’t teach you how to deal with horny women in the Army Rangers?”

“Not officially. And not in a fancy restaurant.”

I was glad to see Tia among those laughing. She hadn’t been happy to see me with Jed at first, but she was coming around to the idea now she realised I’d still give her the same amount of attention as when I was with Luke. At least she hadn’t reverted to her brattish self when her brother and I split. It would have been all too easy for her to go back to her spoiled ways, but she’d turned a corner.

I lent her my big plane to fly back to London, which I think made her year. That wasn’t as wasteful as it sounded because a team from the London office needed it the following day to take some equipment to Japan. When I left Tia at the airport, she was taking photos of everything from the cockpit to the bathroom fittings. Her Facebook page wouldn’t know what hit it.

Tia’s departure left me free to start working nights, which meant I could catch up with the drug dealers working the evening shift. Nothing like a good fix at six.

I tapped into my network in Richmond, slowly clawing my way up the food chain. After three days, I came across a guy who interested me. A key player, perhaps? He masqueraded as a bar owner, but no way had he earned the Porsche he drove through an honest living. I put him under surveillance, and it turned out I was right. Couriers brought him shipments two or three times a week, and after a few dead-ends, we tracked a batch of levamisole-laced coke back to one of the man’s New York acquaintances. While the DEA followed up at that end, I went to have a little chat with our guy in town.

“All I want is a name,” I said.

A perfectly reasonable request, especially when one considered the knife in my hand.

The prisoner didn’t seem to think so. He spat at me, but the disgusting glob fell a foot short. I stepped forward and ran the edge of my boot down his shin. That earned me a whole array of curses.

“Would it help if I said please?”

“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you!”

Really? I jammed my fingers into the spot between his earlobe and his jaw, wincing as he yelled loudly enough to wake an Ambien addict. Good thing I’d turned the music up.

“I’d like to see you try. Last chance. A name.”

I pressed down on his carotid artery. He held on almost to the point of passing out, then whispered, “Louis Santos.”

“Thank you. And I meant what I said. Try and kill me. Just try.”

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