Chapter 32
The air has a chill in it as I wait on the roof of my building, looking out toward Golden Boy’s abomination of a headquarters and analyzing every nuanced detail. It’s what I always do, regardless of whether a strategy is going to plan or not. Only through constant awareness can I make micro-adjustments as needed. Because people are not static, stationary, and predictable one hundred percent of the time, no matter how much I wish it were so.
And it is in their actions and reactions that I find the most interest.
Goldstone has hired a private investigator, is paying an exorbitant amount of money to track down his little fleshpot’s friend. So it appears that he does not know where Isabella is and is getting worried. It’s the barest hint of a reward for what I’ve already gone through to see this particular plan to fruition.
But Jericho assures me the pictures are frauds, and that Miss Turner is alive, not rotting in some forest as Jackson vouched. At this point, I believe Jericho over the photos, considering the lack of a body.
So the question becomes... if she’s not dead, where is she?
Jackson’s resources are vast, both personally and in his connections, so he could have stashed her away nearly anywhere, but I suspect he’d keep her close.
That damned woman, drawing men in like flies to a spider.
“Give me a stable firing platform up here and I can have that entire penthouse reduced to ash in thirty seconds,” Jericho calls from behind me. That he knows where I am looking is concerning in itself, since I have not told him anything of my issues with Thomas Goldstone, merely giving him the needed orders for Gabriel Jackson and Isabella Turner. I do not like others having information beyond what I choose, especially when it is about me.
But a man of his particular skill set is not to be wasted, so I delve into his expertise. “An interesting proposition, and one I’ve considered,” I answer, sipping my tequila. “I once thought about what it would take to bring a sniper up here.”
“A very difficult shot with a rifle,” Jericho confirms, squinting and staring into the distance as he analyzes the conditions. “The wind is favorable though. Still... a missile would be much better. Larger payload and certain to defeat any sort of bulletproofing he might have on his windows.”
“And very visible,” I counter. “Even in this town, I can’t silence every security camera, every idiot with an iPhone. There would be too many questions I couldn’t silence if someone used my roof for destruction... even if it would carry with it a certain pleasure.”
“Questions... is that why you haven’t given me a green light?” Jericho asks. “Concern over visibility?”
It’s a subtle probe of my intentions, and maybe of my steel. If so, Jericho will find that I stand while others fall. “I have other plans for your target...” My lips spread in an evil smile, and I correct myself. “Forgive me, I mean targets.”
“Targets?” Jericho asks, lifting an eyebrow. While his outer shell barely reacts otherwise, I know the truth. He’s a true sadist, a man who lusts for cold cruelty.
“I want Gabriel Jackson dead. Betrayal and dishonesty are simply something I will not tolerate. But the saying ‘two birds with one stone’ seems rather apropos. Use the girl to lure him, then kill her in any manner you wish. Dealer’s choice,” I offer, knowing that by gifting him with free reign, he will shine in his monstrous form of creativity. “However you do it, she will serve her purpose.”
I don’t explain the impact her pain will cause. I have no need to justify myself to a man like Jericho. And he doesn’t need any explanation. His sadistic nature means he will do my bidding in this job happily, though a dangling carrot couldn’t hurt. “If you can do it inside two days, I’ll give you a bonus that will make it worth your while. Let you relax on a beach somewhere warm for as long as you wish.”
“Are there visibility concerns for Jackson and Turner?” he asks. I appreciate his attention to detail, consideration for my specific wishes.
I frown, shaking my head. “Only to the people I want to know of their demise.”
“Two days,” he agrees. “Consider it done.”
As he slips back out the door, I swallow the last of my tequila and look across the entirety of Roseboro to the gold building glimmering in the moonlight once again. Perhaps it’s a fortuitous sign, but the moonlight’s not pale but ruddy, almost bloody against the tower’s surface. It makes me smile.
“Soon, Golden Boy.”