Chapter 23

Mordaunt regardedthe man behind the huge oak desk who perused a document.

He acts as though he owns the world.

Maybe having that attitude had gotten Mr. S to this point. Maybe that was also why being summoned to his presence was intimidating as fuck.

It crossed Mordaunt's mind briefly that Mr. S might be compensating for something, considering that desk was worth at least twenty thousand dollars. And that was a conservative estimate. Knowing his boss, Mr. S had probably spent a hell of a lot more on it.

He peered at his boss. The man was cool as a goddamn cucumber. Even though Mordaunt had been in his employ for six years and had seen all kinds of shit go down, he didn't have those kinds of nerves. Hell, even the best of his associates didn't. The man was in a class of his own.

A fucking scary class.

Mr. S looked up from his document, peering up at him from beneath those dark lashes, and that glance chilled Mordaunt to the bone. It was like staring into the eyes of a pit viper. Dark, dangerous, hypnotic. Mordaunt could see why he was able to convince so many people to work for him.

Mr. S twirled a hand. "I can see you want to ask me something, so please, feel free."

And Mordaunt knew he had to choose his next words very carefully.

He also knew what happened to those who didn't.

Mordaunt regarded him with a frown,and an air of trepidation clung to him.

He's afraid. Good. A healthy dose of fear might keep him alive.

"Is there a problem?" He arched his eyebrows.

Mordaunt hesitated before speaking. "Are you sure about this, Mr. S?"

He blinked. "I could ask you the same thing. Changed your mind?" He hadn't thought it likely that Mordaunt would get cold feet. It wasn't in his makeup.

"No, no, of course not." Mordaunt's reply was instantaneous.

He smirked. "Good. Because if you had, maybe I need to rethink this." The intercom buzzed, and he pressed the button. "Yes?"

"He's here." The guy on reception spoke in a low voice.

"Send him up." He sat back in his chair, surveying his wide desk. A line from a Thomas Harris novel came to mind, and he smiled. It's my moat, what separates me from them. The polished surface was devoid of clutter, containing only a monitor and an ornate carved receptacle that held his pens. Except today there was something else. A tray containing a bottle of whiskey and three squat glasses sat on it, along with a silver bucket for ice. Usually he didn't approve of alcohol in the middle of the day, but this was a special occasion.

When the knock came, he pressed the button under his desk. Vreeland entered with his habitual confident air. That tiny jump when the door locked behind him betrayed the nerves he hid, however.

"You wanted to see me, sir." Vreeland's gaze flickered to Mordaunt, and he pressed his lips together into a thin line.

Ah. You sense you have competition, and you don't like it, do you?

"Indeed." He didn't offer Vreeland a seat. He didn't want him to feel comfortable.

Besides, it was going to be a very short meeting.

He leaned forward and perused the document in front of him. "I've read your report." He tapped it with his fingertip. "Not exactly impressive."

Vreeland flushed, and he adjusted his tie with a slightly trembling hand. "Dr. Malone hasn't left CrossBow once during the last two weeks, and access to the building has proved?—"

He glared. "I don't expect excuses. I expect results."

"Yes, sir." Vreeland's Adam's apple bobbed sharply.

"With that in mind, I've made a decision." He indicated Mordaunt. "The pair of you will work on this together. Maybe two heads will prove to be better than one."

He didn't miss Vreeland's sigh of relief, and took it for what it undoubtedly was—acceptance that cooperation with Mordaunt was better than being replaced by him.

Vreeland glanced at Mordaunt. "I'm sure we'll be a great team." His voice lacked his usual confident tone.

Vreeland was a very bad liar.

"I'll drink to that." He gestured to the bottle. "Will you join me?"

Some emotion flickered across Vreeland's face, something akin to mistrust. His hesitation in responding confirmed the assessment. "I'm not sure it's a good idea."

"Your choice, of course, but you'd be missing out." He poured himself a shot, then sniffed it. "I laid in some of the good stuff. Yamazaki twenty-five-year-old single malt. It's a blend of precious single malts that were distilled under the supervision of Suntory's founder, Shinjiro Torii, and later aged in Mizunara casks. Very rare, very exclusive, and very hard to get. They only produce a few bottles each year." He chuckled. "I was lucky to find this one." He tossed it back, swallowing and enjoying the burn. It really was one of the best drinks in the world.

He peered at them. "Gentlemen? Join me?"

Vreeland still looked unconvinced, but Mordaunt nodded.

He held out the bottle. "Vreeland?"

Vreeland blinked. He narrowed his gaze, and it was almost possible to hear the cogs turning. Finally he sighed. "Of course. Thank you."

He uncapped the bottle and helped himself to another, before pouring a finger of whiskey into the two remaining glasses. Mordaunt stood and joined Vreeland.

"If I'm not mistaken, Vreeland, you drink yours on the rocks, correct?"

"Yes, sir." He smiled. "Only way I can stomach it."

He used silver tongs to add a few cubes of ice to one of the glasses, then turned to Mordaunt. "Do you prefer ice as well?"

Mordaunt grinned, exuding confidence. "No, sir. Ice makes a good whiskey into a cheap drink, to my way of thinking." He smiled at Vreeland. "No offense, of course."

"None taken." He accepted the glass, sniffing at its contents.

"Thank you, Mr. S." Mordaunt smiled as he took his own glass. "Especially because we seem to share the same taste in whiskey." Another grin. "A very expensive taste."

He raised his glass. "To success."

The two men mimicked him. He brought the glass to his lips and drank.

Mordaunt drank his slowly, clearly savoring each mouthful. His eyes sparkled. "Heaven in a bottle."

Vreeland glanced at Mordaunt, gave the tiniest shrug, and drank his in one gulp. All three placed their glasses on the tray.

"Would either of you care for another?"

Both men thanked him, but declined. Mordaunt retook his seat, but Vreeland remained standing.

He sat back in his chair, his fingers laced over his stomach. "Tell me how you'll be planning to proceed."

"I was thinking we could—" Vreeland coughed. His eyes narrowed as he stared at him, his throat working. He tugged at his collar. "We could?—"

"Go on," he prompted. "Could what?"

Any second now.

"What was in that whiskey?" Vreeland demanded, his voice cracking. He drew his gun from its holster, his hand shaking, then dropped it to the floor, where it landed with a clatter.

"The whiskey? Nothing. We drank it, same as you. Why?"

Vreeland's face contorted in a grimace.

He shook his head. "You were worried about the whiskey, but you completely ignored the ice. That tells me how sloppy you've gotten. It also confirms why I decided we need to part company." He regarded the soon-to-be ex-assassin with raised eyebrows. "Something wrong? Fingers and toes tingling?" He gave a satisfied nod. "That's one of the signs of poisoning from a Cloak of Gold toxin derivative." He smiled. "Now, be a good man. Tell me how it feels. Science must move forward, after all, and we need thorough notes for our team."

Vreeland's face reddened, and the cords stood out on his neck. He clutched his throat, eyes bulging, mouth opening and closing, the only sounds issuing from it a strangled wheeze. Then he collapsed on the floor, his body racked with multiple spasms.

He glanced at his phone, then watched as Vreeland gave one final croak. "Thirty seconds. Not bad, but also not as fast as I anticipated. I was told it would take fifteen seconds or less, so I expect that to be the benchmark."

Mordaunt stood. "I agree." He glanced at Vreeland with an impassive expression, then turned his back on him. "If you'll excuse me, I'll get to work." He offered a humorless smile. "And I won't give you excuses."

"Before you go?" He pointed to the body on the carpet. "Clean up the mess. You know what to do with the body." He scowled. "He used to be the best, but he'd gotten sloppy."

Mordaunt snorted. "I'd say drinking that whiskey was pretty sloppy."

"Exactly. What kind of assassin trusts anyone that easily?" Not that it mattered. If he hadn't drank it, he would have been shot before he left the room.

He made sure he had Mordaunt's full attention. "Either way, he had too many failures to allow him to continue in my employ. He became useless in life, but maybe in death he can redeem himself. Once you've dealt with him, get onto the research team. Thirty seconds is good, but I expect them to improve on that." He smirked. "Let them know if I'm not satisfied with the results, their status may change from that of lab rats to guinea pigs."