Page 159 of Lethal Legacy

I thrust my personal issues to the side and focus on the presentation I’m about to give. It feels strange to be in the Hale offices. I’ve been so absorbed with the Mercura launch I’ve spent hardly any time here for weeks now. But that’s the thing about running a legitimate business front: in order for it to look legitimate, sometimes you actually have to show up. And the Hale offices are perfect for today’s meeting. Nobody watches who goes in or out of Hale’s revolving doors.

A dozen limousines winding up a Malaga mountain to an obscure software facility, however, is a different matter entirely.

And I don’t need anyone looking into Hale Tech. Not even the people who are about to make a fortune out of it.

“Mr. Stevanovsky.” The receptionist’s voice crackles through the intercom. She’s lasted longer than any of her predecessors, not least because I’ve spent so little time here. “The first of your guests has arrived. I’ve sent her to the boardroom.”

“Let me know when they’re all here.”

I stand at the window, staring out at the city below but barely seeing it. Pavel isn’t keen on me having this meeting before he and Mickey have tracked down what they need to. But I’ve trusted my gut for a long time, and right now, it’s telling me to act.

The longer we sit on Mercura, the higher the chance it gets uncovered or a competitor beats us to it. And although Pavel and Mickey have been working night and day, they both shake their heads whenever I ask about the trojan and the possibility of Andersson being involved. I get the feeling they both know more than what they’re saying, but I also know Pavel won’t waste my time by talking before he’s got a complete picture.

I wait until I get confirmation that all twelve have arrived, then stand up, shoot my cuffs, and head for the door.

It’s time to fucking do this.

“That’s the proposal, in a nutshell.” I look around the gleaming boardroom table. The Russian faces looking back at me would make government agencies across half a dozen countries shit their collective pants.

A stone-faced young man who took the bratva into Thailand and now runs one of the largest criminal associations in Southeast Asia.

A Russian Jewess who is ex-Mossad and now runs a team of the world’s deadliest assassins for hire.

Sitting next to her is a man named Makari Tereschenko, with whom I’ve done a lot of business over the years. He’s an ex-Russian FSB agent and now heads up the world’s biggest private mercenary army. According to my research, he and the ex-Mossad agent have been unofficially doing business for over a decade.

A few extremely brutalpakhanswho run most of Greece, Turkey, Lebanon and Syria despite decades of relentless scrutiny trying to expose them.

Zinaida Melikov, Russian heiress who reportedly murdered her own father before taking over his London-based bratva organization and building it into the most deadly in that city.

The heads of two competing Paris bratva clans, neither of whom acknowledge the other.

And, just to round it off, a couple of Russian arms dealers whose real names were buried long ago.

Between them, the people sitting at this table control around eighty percent of the world’s illegal financial transactions.

That’s excluding the government-sanctioned deals, of course. That’s a whole other business, one anyone with half a brain stays the fuck out of. The people at this table manipulate government agencies. We don’t deal with them. That’s the thing about governments: they can be brought down overnight, along with the fragile protection that bribery buys from them.

That’s a mistake Yuri made, and not one I will ever repeat.

“I’ve explained as much of the tech side as I’m willing to. Any one of you can decline my invitation. There’s no bullet waiting for you if you do, on that you have my word.”

I smile coldly.

“Of course, if you attempt to sabotage me, that guarantee is null and void.”

“You say there is almost a month until launch.” One of the Parispakhansleans forward. “Why bring this to us so early?”

“Because it will take that long for you to liquidate what you hold elsewhere and divert it creatively so it enters our system without detection. Between us we control the GDP of several small countries. The disappearance of that money will shake the international markets. That’s why my proposal is to stagger our respective investments. The key to making this work is to do it without drawing any attention.”

“Then what, exactly, are you expecting from us today?” It’s Zinaida, the London heiress, with whom I’ve done business more than once, and who, in my humble opinion, is possibly the most dangerous person sitting at the table.

Psychopaths are a whole different level of ruthless.

“Before I give you the answer to that, I need to know if you’re buying in or not.”

There’s a general murmur of uneasiness and shifting of seats around the table.

I wait until they’ve all settled and are looking at me again.

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