Page 1 of Scarlet Angel

CHAPTER1

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?

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