Chapter 30

30

The flickering blue light from the television cast eerie shadows across the darkened bedroom. The man’s eyes, dry and gritty from lack of sleep, were fixed on the screen with an intensity that bordered on mania. His silk pajamas, normally pristine, were rumpled and damp with sweat.

“We’re bringing you live coverage from the scene of a bizarre attack at a society gala in San Francisco about four hours ago now,” the news anchor’s voice intoned, her perfect hair and makeup in no way affected by the chaos behind her.

The camera panned across the scene: smoke billowing from ornate windows, disheveled party-goers stumbling out of the mansion, their designer gowns and tuxedos in disarray. And there, in the midst of it all, was Charles Winthrop—one of his bosses, for all intents and purposes—looking utterly terrified.

With a shout he hurled the remote at the wall. It shattered into a spray of plastic and batteries. The destruction did nothing to quell his rage.

His divide and conquer tactic had failed spectacularly. If only he’d known Reilly and that infuriating woman were planning a move. He could have been the one to send in operatives and save Winthrop. The thought of how close he’d come to proving himself indispensable to Seven-Five made his teeth ache.

He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. Reilly was out-thinking him. That couldn’t continue.

The images set his gut on fire, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the unfolding story. The news was spinning it as a terrorist attack. A brilliant maneuver from the Seven-Five leadership to use the unanticipated assault to their advantage.

Sowing seeds of fear and distrust in the populace. Masterful.

A bead of sweat trickled down his spine. He shivered despite the warmth of the room. Either he proved his worth. Soon. Or he died.

The sound of his ragged breathing filled the room, punctuated by the incessant drone of the television. Just as he was about to spiral further into panic, his phone buzzed with an incoming message. The screen’s harsh glow illuminated his sweat-slicked face as he read the terse summons from Seven-Five leadership.

Chicago. In five days .

He let out a strangled laugh, equal parts relief and terror. “Well, isn’t that just peachy?”

Five days to sweat. Five days for his imagination to conjure up increasingly horrific scenarios. Another move in their cruel, brilliant game. Time would soften him up, his own mind becoming his worst enemy.

He flipped back the covers and got up, pacing the length of the bedroom, bare feet sinking into plush carpet with each agitated step.

He couldn’t run. Where would he go? No. The only option was to deliver the goods. If he couldn’t capture Reilly, he’d make sure the man was dead.

But he couldn’t do it alone. This time, he needed the best of the best.

His fingers hovered over his phone, trembling slightly as he weighed his options. The risk was immense, but the alternative was unthinkable. With a deep breath that did little to calm his racing heart, he dialed the number he’d long ago memorized, but so rarely used.

One ring. Two. Then, a voice like warm honey poured through the speaker.

“This is unexpected,” the woman purred.

He swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry. “I need a favor.”

A pause, pregnant with unspoken costs. “I’m listening.”

“I have targets that need to be eliminated. Immediately. Four days, tops.”

Another pause, this one calculating. “Unrelated casualties?”

His response came without hesitation, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “Absolutely. Preferred, even.”

That would tidy up the annoying little loose ends. Might as well. The woman charged by the job. The cost would be the same either way.

“I understand.”

The line went dead, leaving him alone with the weight of what he’d just set in motion.

A fresh sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead.

He sank back down onto his sweat-soaked sheets. He’d crossed a line, one there was no coming back from. The television droned on, forgotten, as he stared unseeing at the ceiling.

In five days, he’d be on top of the world.

Or six feet under it.

Which outcome did he truly fear more?