by Helena Maeve
Cleo had liked him enough to marry the man—a romance Will had admittedly encouraged in order to bolster their cover. Perhaps sneering, unpleasant Julian had some good sides to balance out the rotten core.
“Okay.” Cleo drummed her fingernails against the door. “Don’t stay up all night again.”
“Yes, Mum.”
She rolled her eyes as she turned away, the click-clack of her heels broadcasting her movements around the antechamber. Now she would be throwing on her trench coat. Now she would be donning her hat. Slinging her purse over her forearm. Shutting off the reading lamp.
Her voice rang out through the open door. “Oh, and don’t forget Mr. Jennings’ parcel! If it’s still on my desk tomorrow morning, I’m opening it myself!”
Will’s stomach sank. “I won’t!” He had forgotten the parting gift.
“Good night!”
“Night,” he called out, straining to hear the slam of the door.
Silence blanketed the first-floor landing like a thick, oppressive shroud. It took a few good seconds before he found the strength to push himself up from his chair and make his way to the antechamber. Brown paper was neatly wrapped around the package on Cleo’s desk. Nothing rattled or ticked when Will picked up the bundle.
Bombs seldom behaved in real life as they did in cartoons.
He closed the office door behind him and sank back in his swivel chair. Every instinct urged him to report both package and sender to Section. Every bone in his body yearned to find out what lay inside.
Gently, he slid a fingertip beneath a loose fold in the paper. The edge bit into the skin, sharp like a razor and every bit as efficient. Will started to pull his hands back, stung, but fervor won out. Paper crinkled and tore in strips to reveal—nothing worth panicking about.
Heart drumming, Will laid out the contents on his desk.
Comprehension dawned bit by bit.
Disappointingly, Karim hadn’t left him another threat. Inside the parcel, Will exposed a false passport with his picture on it and a .22 caliber pistol in a pristine lacquer cherry wood case. It was too expensive, too new to fit Section regulations.
He unfolded the note attached to the box and held it up to the light.
The passport should help if you decide to run. The gun is there in case you don’t.
As I remember, Ignacio is an excellent shot.
The anticlimactic discovery curdled Will’s stomach. He crumpled the note in his hands and lobbed it violently into the bin.
Chapter Three
Like all major metropolises, Sao Paolo was crowded and busy at all hours, pedestrians clogging sidewalks and motorists honking at every intersection. Evening hardly triggered a change of pace. As windows lit up and streets cleared of rush hour traffic, specific parts of the city began to pump with the lifeblood of night owls. The more exclusive the venue, the longer the admission queues, the greater the desire to step inside the hallowed walls and worship at the altar of loud music and expensive liquor.
The Blue Dragon was one venue among many, nondescript on the outside, the façade a colonial front for the soundproofed, minimalist ornamentation within, but it was the place to be on a Saturday night. Attractive men and women paraded beneath the gleaming shafts of light that shimmered from the vaulted ceiling, a surfeit of skin on display. Liquor flowed into salted glasses, ice cubes clinking at the base, sparking thirst with every sip.
Will smacked his lips against the sharp tang of lemon in his cocktail. He had deliberately picked a gin and tonic. He couldn’t stand the taste of either. He also needed to pace himself without appearing out of place. Wolves skulked around the club, recognizable by their identical suits and the wire of an earpiece discreetly peeking from beneath their shirt collars.
Important guests hid among the revelers. If Will waited long enough, he’d figure out the best way to approach them.
“Buy you another?” a voice asked.
He swiveled around on the barstool to find a young man in a turquoise shirt smiling at him. A silver stud winked in his lower lip.
“I’m good,” Will replied, in Portuguese. He had spent enough time chiseling his accent into obscurity, but sometimes it still peeked through—now, for instance, beneath the sultry beat of an unfamiliar song, in a room filled with people at least ten years younger than him and infinitely more pleasing to the eye.
Turquoise Shirt shrugged and sidled up to the bar. “Then you can buy me one. No one should drink alone,” he added, brushing his shoulder against Will’s in a move too conspicuous to be accidental.
“What makes you think I’m alone?”
“I’ve been watching you,” the boy confessed.
Were his eyes turquoise, too, or was that just a trick of the light? Will didn’t trust himself to guess. “Why?” he asked instead, swirling the dregs of his gin and tonic with a restless hand.
His admirer shrugged. “You’re cute.”
Will didn’t mean to scoff, but he found himself doing so all the same. He was cute?
“What makes you say that? The Kurt Cobain hair or the five o’clock shadow?” He’d never been the metrosexual type, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see himself in mirrors.
Nondescript was good in his line of work. It was a necessity. Beauty was eye-catching and the beautiful were remembered. Will was pale and sallow. He evaded notice.
Were it not for Flor’s machinations, the bouncers never would’ve let him in the door.
Turquoise Shirt chuckled and reached up a hand. It took everything Will had not to seize his wrist, turn him around and slam the kid face down against the bar. Unmolested, Turquoise Shirt brazenly brushed his fingers through Will’s hair.
“You’re funny too. I like that in a man.”
“I’m flattered.” But I’m actually hoping to meet someone else.
Turquoise Shirt seemed like a nice kid—young enough to be Will’s son, certainly, but still nice. He would be better off shifting his attentions onto more worthy candidates.
“Come on,” the kid contended, hip grazing Will’s thigh. “Let me brighten up your evening…” He had a voice like the rustle of silk on a windowpane and he smelled of danger and orange blossoms.
Will saw the possibilities laid out before him, the many delightful ways in which he could spend the night—and perhaps even tomorrow morning. A vision of soft, unblemished skin laid bare for his pleasure flashed behind his eyes. It had been so long since he’d bothered to satisfy that part of himself. The intensity of his lust was almost frightening.
He could ruin this boy. He could enjoy it.
“I’m sure it would be very bright,” he agreed. “And I’m sure you’re lovely, but—”
“But you’re here to work?” Turquoise Shirt guessed.
Will snapped his gaze up. His young friend was smiling coyly.
“What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” the boy replied, “but if you’re done grimacing at that glass, I can take you to see him.”
“Who?” Will asked, frowning. Until he had proof positive that he was in the right place, that the right mobster had caught his scent, he could still feign bewilderment.
Turquoise Shirt pushed away from the bar and cleaved a slow, swaggering path through the dancing mob. He left Will no choice but to follow.
It wasn’t easy to do. Even with the bright blue-green of his shirt to single him out, the kid’s steps were graceful and swift. He clearly knew where he was going, untroubled by the dizzying lights or the crowds that pressed in all around them. Will did his best not to fall behind, the cacophonous drone of exotic noise throbbing between his ears like the thundering echo of his heartbeat.
He only caught up with the lad at the foot of a spiral staircase. Two suited thugs flanked a velvet rope, veins all but popping in their thick necks.
“VIP area,” said Turquoise Shirt. “Very exclusive.”
Exclusive didn’t mean sparsely populated, though, as Will observed once he’d reached the up
per landing. A wide balcony strewn with geometric love seats and lounge chairs overlooked the dance floor below. Beautiful women clad in miniskirts and tight, spaghetti-strap tops milled about in small groups, usually encircling this or that far less attractive man.
Turquoise Shirt led Will through the knots of Very Important Patrons without sparing anyone a second glance. The far end of the balcony was almost entirely in shadow, just a few LED candles casting a shimmering glow onto the silhouettes crowded around a low glass table.
Conversation cut off abruptly when the clients noticed Will.
“You were right,” Turquoise Shirt drawled, rounding the table to drape himself over the back of an incongruous wingback.
“I’m always right,” its occupant replied smugly.
Will looked on as the speaker took Turquoise Shirt’s hand in his and pressed a kiss to the knuckles. The men around the table saw and heard, and didn’t blink an eye.
There was, Will noted, no sign of the wife he’d read about.
“You’re a long way from London,” said their leader, addressing Will.
“I haven’t been to London in years… You know that.”
He thought he spied the faint shadow of a smile, but it might have been a figment of his imagination.
Nothing here felt quite real, least of all Ignacio, holding court over a clutch of local thugs. Will didn’t need to pinch himself to know that part was very much unfolding right before his eyes.
As his vision adjusted to the darkness, he recognized Ignacio’s curly head, his gleaming black eyes. He looked perfectly harmless in his white shirt and black slacks, less international criminal mastermind than domestic Lothario. Older, though, like Will himself.
Turquoise Shirt added to the effect, the idle scrape of his hand over Ignacio’s shoulder eliciting a soft rustle of fabric.
“Leave us,” Ignacio said sharply.
For a startled heartbeat, Will thought the dismissal was meant for him. Then the men around the table started to rise. They moved silently, hulking behemoths who gave Will a wide berth on their way down the balcony.
“You too,” Ignacio added, squeezing his paramour’s hand.
“Are you sure? I could stay and—”
“No.”
Turquoise Shirt swallowed as he straightened. Hurt flickered onto his youthful features before he turned and stalked off, a kitten put off at being denied Ignacio’s attention.
Will couldn’t blame him. There was something to be said for having a protector like Ignacio, even with his bloody history. Especially with his bloody history.
“I was wondering when you’d work up the nerve to come see me,” Ignacio admitted, switching to English. “Have a seat. What will you have to drink?”
“That’s not what I’m here for.”
Ignacio shook his head, shoulders slumping. “Always business with you… Very well, but it’s your loss. They make an excellent martini. Shaken, not stirred, of course. That’s how you spooks prefer it, yes?”
Ten years on and his smile was just as warm as Will remembered. He had the kind of face that made men want to confess their sins and beg absolution. Will had been stupid enough to trust his soft, slanted eyes once. He had worshiped diligently, on his knees, and nearly lost his job for it.
“Manuel Sosa,” he replied, sidestepping the question altogether.
Ignacio froze, whiskey halfway to his lips. “What about him?”
“He’s in custody. He’s under our protection. I’m here to request that you don’t attempt to interfere with that state of affairs. Again.”
A sharkish smile taking form on his lips, Ignacio clucked his tongue.
“No, that’s not it… You look like you haven’t slept in weeks. Has this meeting been keeping you up? Did you play it out in your head until you drove yourself crazy, like you used to?”
“It’s been ten years,” Will shot back, bristling. It took everything he had to keep his voice even. “I’ve grown out of it.”
Of course it had been a mistake to divulge his private, innermost thoughts to Ignacio, never mind sleep with him, but it had been part of the job once—much like trusting Karim with his life. Cultivating an asset was one thing. It came with the territory, as long as said pawns were merely cogs in a wider operation and they could be controlled.
But Ignacio was the Macias family now. He held all the cards. And he knew how to play Will.
His glass hit the table with a dull thump. “You don’t approach a friend with a request like that and you don’t make requests of an enemy. If this is all you have to offer, then…” Ignacio waved a lackadaisical hand toward the stairs. “You may tell your superiors I refuse.”
“I’m not here under orders.”
“You? Bucking the system?” Ignacio scoffed. “Now I’ve heard everything.”
He’d always been a smug, self-important asshole, but until this very moment Will hadn’t realized how trying Ignacio could be.
His revolver was heavy beneath his jacket. The urge to reach for it and plant the barrel squarely between Ignacio’s eyes simmered within him, foolish and reckless.
He knew better than to give in. Ignacio could have him disposed of in minutes.
“I don’t need you to believe me. You have a deal with MI6, yes?”
“Shouldn’t you know that? Chief Officer Rowe?” Ignacio stressed the title as if to make the point that he’d done his homework.
“Your last attempt at settling debts cost us two agents.” Will had researched the attack in Dorset after Karim’s departure. He had nothing else to occupy him. “Another was wounded—”
“And you believe I had something to do with that?”
“I know you did.”
Ignacio laughed mirthlessly. “Where’s your proof? My hands are clean. I have not left Brazil at all this year… You can check.”
There was no need. Will had done his due diligence. He’d also spent time crafting a smokescreen for the research in case someone at headquarters flagged his use of various databases and access to surviving agents in the field. He took no chances.
“Arthur Foley.”
“Never heard the name before,” Ignacio retorted with an earnest mien.
Will wasn’t fooled. “Keep that up and your special relationship with London will reach a swift and inevitable end… And who do you think will hold off the Firm then?”
It was too dark to tell if Ignacio’s cheeks reddened at the unsubtle threat. The many-fangled interests of the Macias clan spanned most of the eastern seaboard, from New York down to Sao Paolo. They had stakes in casinos and hotels, restaurants and chain stores, all of which sooner or later served to accommodate rich and powerful characters.
Ten years ago, the patriarch of the Macias family had been close to certain African dictators. Now, the latest MI6 briefs—those yet to be declassified with copious amounts of black ink—suggested affiliations with Qatar, the Saudis and other unsanctioned groups.
Seeing as Ignacio resisted calling one of his minions to break his arm, Will opted to consider his silence a tentative victory.
A lull in the music gave him the courage to go on. “I’m not here to make your life difficult. Just show leniency this time. Look the other way and so will we.”
“It is that simple?”
Will nodded.
“Your methods have become rather crass. Used to be you’d court me first… What do you offer me this time?”
“The status quo. You continue to make money, undisturbed, with our protection from the…Christians in Action. It’s a good deal.” It was a rare deal, at that, but lucrative because hotels and casinos were excellent intelligence-gathering venues. No one suspected the Macias family of being in cahoots with the SIS. Their credentials were boilerplate. With more than seventy years of prison sentences served between its high-ranking members, their track record spoke for itself.
But that fine balance was easily upset—say, by an old spy with nothing to lose.
“In other word
s,” Ignacio surmised, “you’re ordering me to lay down arms.”
“Call it what you will—”
“A shakedown? An arm-twisting attempt to control my affairs?” All trace of amusement was gone from Ignacio’s voice. “You can tell Jennings that if he thinks sending you to do his dirty work will sway me, he must not be paying attention.”
“Jennings?” Will balked.
“We met last week,” Ignacio confirmed, no trace of pleasure in his sneer.
“That’s not…” Possible. Jennings was an office rat. Like Will, he didn’t leave his desk except to go home—and even then, they had couches in their offices for those late nights braving evening traffic seemed like too much of a hassle.
The lights in the nightclub swirled with dizzying intensity. It was enough to make Will feel drunk. Back in the old days, he would have medicated the sensation with a pill or a toke, or whatever other distraction was on offer.
Where the Macias family was concerned, vice was never in short supply.
“Your proposal is no more interesting than his,” Ignacio decreed. He ran a fingertip over his bottom lip as he tipped back in his chair. Shadows danced on his face, but the faint glow of the LED lamp served to illuminate the whites of his eyes. His focus was steady, gaze glued to Will’s. “Come to the house tomorrow. Make me a better offer.”
It wasn’t an invitation. Will heard it in his voice—the terse command, the certitude that he would be obeyed. Ten years had changed the bumbling, eager boy he’d been into a man who fully understood the limits of his power—and, particularly, that there were none.
“Now who’s making demands,” Will muttered under his breath.
He suddenly wished he’d taken Turquoise Shirt up on his offer of another drink before he came up. He wasn’t nearly legless enough to claim he didn’t notice the sly curve of Ignacio’s smile.
