Page 27 of Lethal Torture
LUKE
The linkto the file lands in my inbox before I even make it back to my warehouse apartment on the Thames.
I put off opening it for now. I loosen my tie and take my jacket off.
I need a Scotch. A big one.
And a very cold shower, Macarthur, if you’re serious about this fucking job.
My apartment is old style rather than a sleek renovation. Timber floorboards, doors that open to let in the breeze, and a balcony where I can kick back with a beer and watch the river move.
There are some luxurious touches. A gleaming stainless steel kitchen, because after a lifetime of army food, I like to cook the good stuff. An enormous bathroom with an open rain shower for similar reasons. And a custom-made bed big enough for at least three people, because if you’d spent years trying to put yoursix-and-a-half-foot frame to sleep on a fucking naval carrier cot, you’d want one, too.
I have several large plants that I pay a kid from a local gym to come and water when I’m away, because I can’t stand artificial shit. Several rugs from Afghanistan, where I did a lot of time. Books, but no TV. A scrubbed wooden table and chairs made by a mate of mine. It’s spartan, but I like it that way.
After several years of working for Mak, I could easily afford the gleaming walls of a glass penthouse.
I’ve just never liked the fucking things.
They all look the same to me: completely soulless.
My phone shows two missed calls. The first one is from Mak: “I’ve sent you the brief. Call me with any questions.” There’s a brief pause, in which I can hear the sound of female laughter in the background and the popping of a champagne cork. “On second thought, just text me,” he drawls. “I plan to enjoy my Sunday.”
The message cuts off, leaving me shaking my head but smiling anyway.Fucking Mak.
There’s a second message from an unknown Australian number.
“Hey, Luke, it’s Kate, your sister’s friend.”I can hear the clink of glasses. Kate is clearly out drinking somewhere. “Liana tells me you’re still overseas with work. Hit me up when you get back, okay?”She lowers her voice. “No strings, you know. Just fun.”
I grin despite myself. In our few brief exchanges to date, Kate has seemed blissfully free of head fuckery and extremely open to a good time. Her profile photo shows her doing a handstand on a surfboard, wearing a white string bikini that leaves very little to the imagination.
It should be enough to put me on a plane back home.
Mak’s voice rings uncomfortably through my head:The truth is, if you really wanted that life, you’d have stayed in the army and worked toward a pension.
“Oh, piss off,” I say aloud, stripping as I walk toward the bathroom.
I leave Kate’s voicemail for now and take a long, luxuriously hot shower, trying my hardest not to picture Zinaida Melikov naked.
It’s a fucking struggle.
I emerge from the shower and pull on sweatpants, then return to the kitchen with my laptop. I pour myself an enormous Scotch.
I take a few good swallows then top it up before I switch my head into the game and open the job brief.
Christ. I wasn’t wrong about it being dangerous.
Half a dozen assassination attempts in the past months, several that got uncomfortably close to succeeding, and none that could have even been attempted without intimate knowledge of Zinaida’s routine and security arrangements.
An unexpected bolt of anger rips through me.
She’s got a traitor in her own house.
Someone is watching Zinaida. Spying on her in her most private moments. Using their position of trust to not only infiltrate her organization, but to try to actually murder her.
A very dead someone, when I find out who it is.
Even the thought rouses something primal in me which definitely isn’t strictly professional.
