Part 1

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Chapter 1

I'd been desperate for a good story for weeks—one with the potential to pay well, ideally enough to keep me above water for another year. Going freelance five years ago had seemed like a step up—right up until the newspapers began haemorrhaging money as their circulations nosedived. Suddenly, the staff writers saw freelancers like me as pariahs, stealing precious column inches and wages. The bosses still loved us, though. We were expendable, easily replaceable, and downright cheap, especially when pitted against one another. The lowest bidder always won.

I'd learned the hard way to keep my best pitches to myself. If I gave the editors a real gem, they'd share it with other freelancers to drive my fee down. So, I waited while the novices bashed their heads against the wall, letting them feed the editors half-baked ideas until something decent came my way. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was the only way I'd occasionally see my byline in print. My photo, of course, hadn't been updated in nearly a decade, back when I was a little lighter and a lot more optimistic.

To land the kind of paycheque that justified all this hassle, a freelancer needed a truly unique scoop—something nobody else could sniff out or replicate. You had to have a private source, solid verification, and an airtight timeframe to lock down the sale. If you were lucky, more than one paper might fight over it, driving up the price. On the best days, that price could stretch your survival for an extra year or two, especially if it made headlines. But lately, chasing stories had felt like panning for gold in a creek that had dried-up long ago.

Then my old friend Charles Kent got in touch. Charles: once with the Observer, once a resident of Notting Hill, and once married to the lovely Lucinda with three privately educated children. Now, he was divorced, disgraced, and living on the fringes of London as an alcoholic paparazzo. In three short years, he'd lost his marriage, his career, and his respectability. But in a way, that made him more honest than most people I knew. Maybe we were all destined to wind up where he was; Charles just arrived first.

He'd found a lead he claimed was huge—something he couldn't handle alone. When I asked him why he needed my help, he admitted he'd destroyed his relationships with a few editors after a story about a young up-and-coming singer had collapsed spectacularly. I remembered it vaguely: it involved drugs, an arrest, an exclusive, then hasty retractions when it turned out the singer was set up. The case was dropped, and so was Charles. I hadn't known he was the one who sold that piece; freelancers often took risks by over pitching their wares. Sure, you could get paid more, but you'd never get the byline or the loyalty of a newspaper that way. Charles had gambled and lost big. Now, nobody trusted him, so he needed a proxy—someone naive or desperate enough to give him a hearing. Apparently, this time at least, that was me.

I hadn't always been so desperate. I'd graduated from Durham back in 2003. After two years studying Politics, I'd switched to a joint degree in Politics and Journalism. It was rough cramming everything into that final year, but I fell for journalism in a way that I'd never fallen for anything or anyone else. Joining the student paper as a volunteer sealed my fate.

I learned I had a knack for interviews; I'd always been fascinated by psychology, by the little tells and gestures people offered unconsciously. I could coax out more than they intended to share. Maybe it was the thrill of the chase—digging for truth and telling it with clarity.

Just before I finished at Durham, I landed a tip: a local independent college was selling student visas abroad, facilitating illegal immigration. Immigration had always been a hot topic in the UK, so I went undercover with a hidden camera. One day, I was drowning in rejection letters for unpaid internships; the next, I was on BBC Breakfast discussing how I'd exposed a bunch of ruthless villains threatening our precious British borders. By the evening of that broadcast, every national paper had picked up my story. My student paper, Palatinate, earned decent syndication money, and I got a summer slot at The Times. The principal-turned-visa-salesman got six years at the Crowns pleasure, and the rest of his gang got a one-way trip out of the country. I'd say I got the better end of the deal.

Whilst at The Times, I scored another major scoop: a seedy Swindon church group was coercing children into sex acts. Horrible stuff, but it dominated the national news for a full week. I was back on the BBC Breakfast sofa, and the producers, remembering the visa story, tagged me as some kind of bright-eyed newshound who kept turning up with bombshell investigations. I got an award, a full-time job, an instant raise, a quick promotion and then another, along with a new title: Senior Reporter. Three years of progress beyond the imagination of mere mortals. Best of all, I was free to pursue my own leads. I felt untouchable—epic, even. And the paper's success from my stories inflated my ego. Earning £105k a year was good, but I naturally started to think I deserved more. After all, I was the saviour of investigative journalism, right?

I asked for a bigger slice. They caved. I bought a flat in Chelsea. A good one. Then, obviously, I needed more money for those intimidating mortgage payments. The Times gave it to me. I redecorated—top interior designer, no expense spared. But it wasn't enough. Not for the famous newshound who brought the worst offenders to the bright lights of British justice. I wanted more. No, with the mortgage, the car, the constant chasing of leads over expensive meals and lengthy drinking sessions to loosen tongues, I realised I actually needed more. And that was where my luck ran out. Suddenly, "fuck off" was their final offer.

I sniffed around. Everyone knew that the real money came from owning your stories outright. If you did, you could sell to any publication, naming your price. So, I made the leap to freelance. Initially, it was great. A couple of big exclusives kept my balance healthy and the bank off my back. But leads became more costly, as the trust in my motives declined. People started viewing freelancers as unscrupulous operators out to sensationalize anything for a fat paycheque. That made me angry. However, my mortgage needed paying too. If the stories weren't good enough, sometimes you had to pump them up a little. It's marketing, not clickbait. But word spread quickly: "Don't talk to freelancers." After three years on the outside, I was far enough on the fringe that I'd listen to anything—and I mean anything—Charles Kent might offer. I knew it only took one game-changing story to get me back in the spotlight, to resurrect my name, to maybe get me back on that fucking BBC Breakfast sofa again.

Charles whispered the name, "Michael". Even as he said it, his eyes darted to every corner of the room, his bottom lip quivered, and his hand shook so hard the tea he was holding splashed out onto the table. If Charles was to be believed, Michael was dangerous but reliable. Interesting mix, I thought. He was also practically invisible to anyone who might want to track him down. For a freelancer, that last quality was gold: no other reporters could swoop in at the last minute with a better offer.

Charles said he'd found Michael through some news about an Asian gang that wanted him and his associates "destroyed". It was an interesting turn of phrase that gave me pause. I was already weighing "Asian gang" and "destroyed" against the permanent ringing in my ears, which was the end date of my mortgage forbearance. I perhaps deliberately overlooked the question of exactly how Charles found Michael, if the Asian gang had failed.

He wove a story of how a meeting in the back of a London pub coaxed Michael into sharing the beginnings of his story. The story was apparently so outrageous that Charles thought it was bullshit—until he dug into a few details and discovered they were actually true. Big true, from the sound of it. Michael wasn't even after money. He wanted to blow the lid off something, and his only stipulation was that certain names must appear in print. He refused to budge on that point. That sounded suspicious to my ears. Who was Michael? Who did he want to reveal? Was he afraid?

Klaxons should have been sounding. Flashing lights. "Alert, Alert." Find your nearest exit—you get the idea. But there I was, letting Charles play matchmaker, reaching out to Michael to let him know I had an impeccable reputation—well, at least one that wasn't as tattered as Charles'. Too desperate to let a good lead pass me by, I let him set up the meet. There were rules. No phone, laptop, or anything with wi-fi. The meeting would be out of the country, overnight. I agreed too quickly. I hoped I wouldn't repent at my leisure.

And so, I flew out on a scheduled flight, instructions waiting for me the moment I stepped out of arrivals: a slip of paper in a plain brown envelope, thrust into my hand. Directions for me to walk to a particular chain hotel that anyone would recognise. The note spoke of being careful. No taxis, no buses, no conversations with anyone. It was a little on the warm side for a stroll, but I got moving.

The hotel was big and bland. The reception team had accents that made you think they were from both everywhere and nowhere. The room was under a false name, pre-paid, the key slid across the desk, and I was directed to the elevator. I noted that I wasn't asked for ID. Interesting. Efficient. Within a couple of minutes, I was sitting on a king-sized bed, staring at the armchair that seemed standard in these corporate rooms. It was always too small to get comfortable in for anything other than working at a laptop for a couple of hours.

I started fingering the envelope that had been left for me. It had my name printed on the front in a sans serif font. The note inside was printed too. No handwriting, and no signature. Nothing for me to guess at—nothing that would give me an idea about the intriguing Michael.

My message was simple: "Stay in the room. Relax. Refreshments are on their way. Your evening meal and breakfast have been arranged and will also be delivered to the room." Fortunately, I had a book with me.

I'd had a restless night, finally falling asleep in the early hours. The mini-bar was empty, and I didn't want to risk blowing the meet by heading down to the hotel bar or ordering drinks on room service. It was after 8 a.m. when the sun pried my eyes open.

Michael was sitting in the armchair, which he'd moved to the corner of the room. He smiled and held out a glass of water as I jolted upright in shock. My heart hammered in my chest.

"You're fine," he said, calmly. He stood and looked out the window, down to the street below.

He was tall, perhaps mid-thirties. A couple of inches over six feet, with short dark hair and striking features. He was wearing black trousers, with a dark coloured t-shirt under dark blue Oxford shirt. Hard wearing, but polished black shoes, made him look like any average office worker. If I had to pick one word to describe him, it would be strong. He wasn't bulked up like a bodybuilder—more like a professional tennis player in his off-season, completely at ease in his own body.

I took my clothes to the bathroom and quickly dressed. When I returned, Michael gave me a firm handshake and a reserved smile. He had made the bed. It was as good a job as any maid I'd seen. He then gestured for me to take a seat while he settled back into the chair. He'd made us both a cup of coffee—milk, no sugar. It was as if he already knew how I took it.

I held up my voice recorder, and he nodded. I opened my notebook, clicked my pen, and got ready to write.

What follows is an edited transcript of our conversation—tidied up only for clarity. My original recordings and notes are locked away, safe and sound. But these words you're about to read are Michael's own, from his unique perspective.

Chapter 2

I sat in the hotel lobby, watching the clock tick past 11:10. She was late. People rarely keep me waiting; they know I'm exacting when it comes to details—especially time. Being early, on time, or out of time—it all matters. Know which slice of time is yours and use it wisely.
She and I had texted a few times over the past couple of days, but this would only be our second face-to-face. The first was... let's call it "unusual." That day, she was on her way to meet a private investigator named Simon Leske. Simon had a reputation for competence and a weakness for high-stakes gambling—one that got him killed. I know because I was the one who killed him. She had no clue, of course. Now she was coming to meet "Simon" again, which really meant me. That alone guaranteed that both encounters would be out of the ordinary.

Let's rewind to Simon for a minute.

Simon leased the top floor of Pentonville House in SW1. It was contemporary chic—marble floors, track lighting, art that whispered money. But it wasn't Simon's money. If it had been, I wouldn't have been waiting in his office that morning, waiting for him to come back from a night of surveillance.

For ten years, Simon owed the wrong people just the right amount of money. They extended credit, charged interest, and let him keep paying until he was barely treading water. Everyone was happy. A reliable debtor is a golden goose. Then Simon got greedy. He opened a second account with a rival crew—same service, just a different set of heavy hitters. I usually work for the first lot, but as a freelancer, I could've just as easily been hired by the other.

Either way, Simon now owed two dangerous groups the wrong amount of money—an amount he couldn't possibly cover. Hell, he couldn't even hope to manage the interest payments. He went from "reliable" to "unreliable," and that's when people like me get the call. Think of it as balancing the books. The debtor is liquidated, permanently, so both groups maintain their peace and prosperity. It's cleaner that way.

The usual plan went into motion for Simon—until she showed up.

Let's talk about Simon's last week on planet Earth.

My first step had been to set up a camera on a rooftop across the street from his office, watching his comings and goings when I couldn't. I wanted to know what hours he worked, who visited. He kept living what appeared to be his normal life. In denial, I guessed. I kept waiting in the shadows.

The week before his death I broke into Simon's office. I took pictures of all his files, backed up every hard drive, even rummaged around in his safe. In there I found a brand-new MacBook Pro—valuable—and ten grand in cash. I left everything exactly where I'd found it because I couldn't let Simon know I'd been there. The key detail in my line of work is that the mark should never see you coming—especially if the mark is a PI whose job is to notice everything.

To cover my tracks, I forced the lock on his main door and again with the inner office, then tripped the alarm. The scene looked like a hasty burglary—someone smashed a lock, grabbed a few shiny trinkets, and bolted. I would later leave the pilfered junk near St James's Park station, where I assumed someone homeless would snatch it up and sell it on the street within hours. By then, the evidence would be out of my hands and out of Simon's too. I didn't want to underestimate him.

Simon had an assistant. She took care of the office, but also helped with the routine stakeouts for clients. Her name was Emma. Late 50s, very professional demeanour, and from what I could tell she took her hot beverages seriously. One of her desk drawers had a selection of teas from around the world, plus a pack of filter coffee bags—so, not the instant type, and not one for the overpriced Starbucks or Costa. I already liked her. Anyway, she arrived first and immediately called building security. Then she called her boss.

When Simon arrived a little later, he found the police already there. As Emma had only made two calls, I assumed the building's security had been the ones to phone the cops. Simon argued with them—maybe they weren't taking him seriously, or maybe he was just rattled. Either way, he was sloppy and uncontrolled. But it worked in his favour this time, as they brought in a forensics technician who checked the locks and dusted for prints. They rarely do that these days. I noted that as soon as the technician finished, Simon was all over them, demanding answers. But they wouldn't find anything. I use cheap woollen gloves dipped in olive oil, dirt, and a bit of cat food. It leaves a disgusting greasy residue I call the "sign of the tramp." No one wants to analyse fish-scented grime. I laughed when the technician offered a sample tube to Simon for a sniff, and he recoiled in horror. The words he shouted were unmistakable.

The police left, Emma made coffee, and Simon checked the contents of the safe. The relief in his shoulders was obvious.

Eventually, Emma hired a locksmith—who happened to be on my payroll. That's a handy bit of intel for you: most locksmiths in London work with folks like me at some point. Bent means reliable in my trade. If you ever have a break-in, pick your locksmith carefully. I'd be getting copies of his new keys at almost the same time he did. No more breaking and entering for me.

As soon as I'd got hold of Simon's MacBook, it was already game over. He reused the same password, "4luckyaces," on all his accounts. His bank details, credit cards, online IDs... I had everything. What I'd been told by my employer was just the tip of the iceberg. He was leveraged to the hilt and had borrowed against every asset, both real and imaginary. My conclusion was that the ten grand in his safe was his "run money".

The night before I took him out, I followed Simon until 3:30 a.m. He was tailing some city banker type who was fooling around in a flat above an Italian restaurant. I admired Simon's technique—he had collapsible aluminium ladders that were light enough to carry easily, he was dressed all in black, and he drove a painter's van with a Polish-sounding name on the side—all very forgettable to the average bystander. He got his incriminating photos, all right, but he'd never live to collect the bounty. The bankers lucky day then.

By 6 a.m. I was waiting inside Simon's office. I'd disconnected the CCTV for the fifth floor of the building and looped the feed so nobody would see me come or go. The new keys to his office made it too easy. Emma wouldn't be in until lunchtime. More bankers to tail. While I waited, I destroyed any physical evidence linking Simon to my employer, but left ordinary bills on display—gas, electricity, office rent—all of them overdue. I pocketed the cash from the safe and settled down to browse AutoTrader on his MacBook, just to pass the time.

Simon showed up at 8:25 a.m. He was the first to arrive on his floor. He unlocked the doors, walked to the inner office, and spotted his laptop open on the desk, displaying a sweet Audi S6 Avant for sale. I doubt he had time to register it was the very car he'd sold a few weeks earlier—still owing finance on it—just to raise a little cash. I came up behind him, pressing my modified taser to his neck. He collapsed awkwardly behind the desk. He groaned and move his right arm, so I gave him another five seconds. He was out. Saliva dribbled onto the floor—unfortunate, but not a deal-breaker.

"Sorry, Simon. This really isn't personal."

From my pocket, I pulled out a syringe filled with a special blend of opiates. I found a vein in his neck and gave him the good news. He drifted away. Opioids are a quiet way to go. He might've even felt a moment of peace.

RAP, RAP, RAP.

That's when she knocked on the outer door.

Timing is everything. If she'd arrived a minute sooner, she'd have seen things she shouldn't and I'd have been forced to do something I desperately didn't want to do. An hour earlier, or later, she would have missed Simon altogether. Instead, she showed up exactly when she did—right in that slice of time when it was still possible to believe Simon could help her.

She was, in a very literal sense, dead on time.

Chapter 3

I paused in the doorway of Simon's inner office, watching a slender silhouette shift behind the frosted glass of the outer door. The first and second knocks were soft and apologetic—like someone too polite to intrude but forced to do so. I could tell she was wearing gloves by the faint, padded sound against the wood. Odd, because it wasn't cold outside. You don't see many people wearing gloves in London unless they're heading to high-end restaurants, boutique shops, the opera, or some exclusive charity auction—the sort of places wealthy people frequent. So, a slender woman with money?

My initial instinct was to keep silent, let her think the office was empty. But her third knock had a firmer edge to it. Something told me she knew someone was inside and wouldn't just go away. Perhaps she had an appointment I hadn't spotted in Simon's diary. Or maybe she was the type of client that didn't need one. Slim, woman, gloves, money, and maybe also entitled? If that was the case, she might be familiar with Simon, or at least know what he looked like—and that could be a problem.

I saw her raise her hand to knock again. Too much noise. I couldn't risk drawing attention from anyone else in the building.

"Hold on," I called through the door, pitching my voice in that reassuring, 'coming now, no worries' tone.

I turned around and glanced at Simon's fresh corpse stretched out on the floor. Simon had never been tall, but a dead body is always cumbersome. I've mentioned his old desk before—well, it saved her life. It was one of those solid-wood, full-back numbers from the sixties, oak probably, big twin pedestals, and about as modern as flared trousers and a kipper tie. But it made an excellent hiding place.

I had to fold him like a contortionist's nightmare, hauling his legs up over his head to wedge him into the desk's kneehole. His eyes stared back up at me in mute indignation. From the client's side, you could only see a little sliver of cloth amidst the sprawl of computer cables. Not perfect, but good enough.

Satisfied with my "packing," I took my spare syringe of "hot-shot" from my inside coat pocket and slipped it into my left trouser pocket, giving it two quick taps with my fingertip. It's a habit—helps when your adrenaline spikes and you need to remember something critical. If I needed it in a hurry, I needed to know where it was even quicker. Then I moved to the outer office door, sliding my right hand into my right trouser pocket to curl around my stunner. You never want your finger anywhere near the trigger in that position. One misfire and the only person getting stunned is you...and not in a pleasant spot either.

I opened the door to see a woman step back, her body language wary. The corridor lights were bright, so maybe she'd glimpsed movement inside. If she'd been out there long enough, she might've seen two silhouettes, mine and Simon's. Probably not, but it worried me. If she had, that meant Simon might soon be getting some company on the next leg of his journey.

"Oh, sorry," she said, voice low and careful.

"That's all right. I was just checking my voicemails in the back," I replied. "My assistant—Emma—doesn't start till later."

I'd planted the seed that I was, in fact, the boss. If she knew otherwise, I'd see it on her face, and if that happened, things would turn ugly fast. My grip on the stunner tightened.

She just looked left and right, then leaned closer to speak quietly. "I think I need your help. I mean... Well... Can I come in?"

Her voice cracked a little, suggesting nerves. So, I became "Simon Leske, P.I." I stepped aside, ushering her in with my left hand while keeping my right hand curled casually around the stunner in my pocket. She hurried past me, but I never let her get more than six feet away. I could easily close that gap, hit her with the stunner, and dose her with the syringe if necessary. I felt in control.

"Let's head into my office," I suggested, giving her my best warm-but-professional smile. She glanced back at the corridor one more time, then practically dashed to the inner office with Simon's name picked out in flaking gold paint. She wore a dark red ensemble—shoes, skirt, jacket, blouse, and gloves all in rich wine shades. The skirt and blouse were slightly lighter in tone but perfectly matched. My first thought: immaculate. My second: expensive.

She removed her gloves and stuck out a hand. "I'm Jessy... Jessy Kellar."

I shook her hand. "Pleasure, Jessy. I'm Simon. Why don't you have a seat? Can I get you a drink?"

She refused with a quick shake of her head. I was relieved, since I had no idea where Simon kept anything. There wasn't a bathroom in these offices, no water cooler either. Another lesson for me: if you're about to impersonate someone, make sure you know where they stash their teabags.

I sat behind Simon's desk, not once looking down. She took the client's chair, opposite. Without breaking eye contact, I opened the top drawer of the right pedestal and retrieved a yellow legal pad and pen. I made the action smooth, as if I did this ten times a day. A P.I. has to be a details man, surely? The look I went for was concerned but with the faintest suggestion of a smile; like I was both sympathetic and all-knowing. Exactly how I'd seen the real Simon behave with his real clients.

Jessy was in her mid to late twenties, I guessed—slim, athletic, blonde hair, intense blue eyes, and undeniably gorgeous. The type of woman who could scramble a man's mind with a single smile. I forced myself to stay focused.

"So, Jessy, are you alone, or did someone come with you?" I asked, perhaps too bluntly. I was calculating the angles. This situation was still very much developing.

"My friend Carrie's downstairs in the car. She's just giving me a lift," Jessy explained, fidgeting with the straps of her handbag. "She has no idea I'm here to see you. She thinks it's my solicitor's office."

That was half reassuring. No immediate entourage, but I was sure that whoever this Carrie might be would notice if Jessy didn't actually come back. If they started searching the building—or reviewing CCTV—things could escalate quickly. My foot slid forward, accidentally nudging Simon's shoulder beneath the desk.

"How much time do we have?" I asked, realising immediately how weird that probably sounded. However, she didn't seem to pick up on it.

"Ten minutes?" she said it like a guess, testing my reaction.

I gave a thoughtful nod, as though that was exactly what I'd expected.

I'll be honest now and say that everything I was getting from her was screaming 'civilian.' She wasn't from my world, and I wasn't going to hurt her. Also, ten minutes wasn't enough time to kill her, stash two bodies, and arrange a pick-up. I was going to have to let this play out. I was now "Simon the P.I." and Jessy was eager to unload her story.

"Okay, Jessy. Tell me how I can help."

I did the whole 'lean back, steeple the fingers, raise the eyebrows' routine. I can't say that I saw Simon do it with his clients, but maybe I was enjoying the role-play. Might as well commit fully. She squared her shoulders. Despite the anxiety in her eyes, she radiated a poised, privileged confidence. A slight re-evaluation. Perhaps this lady is more predator than prey?

"I'm in a difficult situation. It's my husband, Felix. Well, my ex... soon-to-be ex," she began. I noticed that she touched and then rubbed her left forearm when she said his name. Looking more closely at her face, I noticed that the makeup was a little thicker near the left eye. Clear signs of distress and domestic violence. I felt something tighten in my chest. A memory of a young French woman in the African heat. Loss and despair.

"We're heading for a messy divorce. He knows it's coming," she continued. "He's liquidating assets, squirrelling money away. It's probably all in cash, and he'll fly it over to Switzerland or who knows where else, so he can plead poverty."

She paused for breath. I jumped in, mustering my best detective air. "And you need me to gather evidence for the divorce?"

Her lips curled in annoyance. "No. I've already got evidence of him shagging half of London. I need you to do what you did for Rebecca Hadson—follow the money."

That made me freeze for a moment. I had no idea who Rebecca Hadson was or what I was supposed to have done for her. I leaned back again, exhaling loudly, lifting my eyebrows as if to say: my work is confidential.

Jessy lowered her voice. "All I know is Rebecca said you found where Geoff was stashing his cash. I need the same. Well sort of. Felix has already sold our flat in Notting Hill for cash. He's going to hide it so the lawyers can't find it. Then he'll try to come after my inheritance for good measure."

Money, then. Potentially a lot of it. I liked the security money could bring. "So how much are we actually talking about, Jessy?"

She shrugged. "There's the flat. Even if he sold it cheap, I doubt he'd let it go for less than four hundred and fifty. Then there's our cash holdings, and if he liquidated his watch collection... we'd be talking six-fifty to seven hundred thousand in cash. It'll be in a briefcase somewhere in our house, probably locked in the attic room he calls his office. He's had it soundproofed, fitted a keypad lock. To keep me out of course. There's no way I can just stroll in and find it. That's what I need you for—to track him... track the briefcase... and make sure he can't take the cash overseas."

I nodded again. "For clarity. You'd like to hire me to stop the money from disappearing overseas and ensure that he's forced to declare it properly in your divorce settlement. Correct?"

She gave a nervous laugh. "Yes. When you put it like that, it sounds a little crazy. But look... I don't want his bloody money. I just don't want him taking mine. Do you understand? Will you do it?"

I hesitated for a second, shifting my foot and accidentally kicking Simon's chin. I glanced down at the dead man, wondering how many times he'd gotten offers like this. If this was typical, he must have had plenty of chances to make real cash. Get out from under his debts. And yet here he was, a fresh corpse under his own desk.

I clicked the pen and moved the yellow pad closer. "Sure. I'll need a few details."

Five minutes later, she left the office with my burner phone number. She handed me an envelope containing a thousand pounds in twenties, a photo of Felix, their Kensal Green address, and her own mobile number. I told her that we would need to draw up paperwork, but for now I could get started with the advance she gave me. If nothing else, a grand is good petrol money.

I escorted her to the lift, watched the doors close, then waited thirty seconds before calling Brian on my burner. "Ready for pick-up."

His reply came back, calm as ever. "Two minutes away."

Brian and his son, James, are my cleaner crew. The father is reliable, discreet, and always two minutes away, no matter where you are in London. Honestly, you could be halfway up the Shard and he'd still show up two minutes later, whistling cheerfully. He's a short, stocky man with a broad grin, usually found wearing an old pair of grey overalls bearing a nondescript company logo: "Vitols Vending," apparently the Latvian word for 'willow.' Their actual, legal vending business is a convenient cover, but the real money is in dealing with the likes of me.

The son, James, is taller, slimmer, and a twitchy, coked-up liability. Same big grin, but there's a menacing vacancy behind his eyes. He rarely speaks, which is a blessing, but I can't help being wary. He wants to "move up" in our line of work, but Brian has so far kept him on a leash—probably hoping his son will survive long enough to inherit the legit side of the business. James is evidence that the apple can, in fact, fall a long fucking way from the tree.

Moments later, I heard Brian's trademark knock at the outer door—knock... knock, knock, knock—and I let them in. James rolled in a big vending machine on a sack truck, the sort you'd see in every office corridor in a building like this. I watched Brian unlatch a concealed panel and swing the machine open. Flawless workmanship. We lifted Simon's body, zipped him into a lightweight bag, and then placed him inside the padded interior. James sealed it up, tapped a cheery little rhythm on the metal sides, and flashed me that eerie grin.

Brian thanked me for my custom and strolled off, whistling all the way to the lift. They'd be loading up in the van outside in no time. Neither father nor son ever discusses what happens next, but in fifteen years none of the bodies they've collected have reappeared. I don't ask questions. Brian's method is a mystery, and that's the way it stays.

Alone again, I packed Simon's MacBook Pro into my rucksack, along with the ten grand from the safe and the extra grand Jessy had given me. I had a final look around, re-armed the alarm, and slipped out with the morning crowd swarming in for their nine-to-five.

The day had barely started, and I had already completed a job, found a new and potentially lucrative one, and pocketed some extra cash as a bonus. Some days are good days. Yeah, I should have realised that things could only go in one direction from here.

Chapter 4

Armed with the yellow pad and pen I'd taken from Simon, I picked up my car and drove to Jessy's house in Kensal Green. Earlsmead Road was a decent area, complete with a new multi-purpose tennis and basketball court on the corner. Rows of terraced houses lined both sides, and the one I wanted stood taller than most, its attic clearly converted.

"Bingo," I muttered. "That'll be Felix's secure office."

I parked a little way down the road, noting that every available space was marked Residents Only. Each car bore a council parking badge. From my glove box, I retrieved a forged city mayoral car pass. The Mayor's official fleet exceeds sixty registered vehicles, with even junior staff occasionally issued their own permit—so an old Ford Mondeo sporting one wouldn't raise any eyebrows.

Positioned so I could keep an eye on Jessy's front door, I copied the relevant notes from my new yellow pad into my smaller notebook. Then I got out and began my customary slow-paced circuit of the neighbourhood. It's almost a ritual for me—understanding the local layout is essential. Which shops stay open all day? Where are the bus stops? Where do the locals congregate—the pub, the corner shop? There's always a focal point that draws attention. On Jessy's street, it was a slick-looking hair and beauty boutique.

Modern, pristine, and clearly designed to keep customers loitering, the salon advertised with bright posters: Free nails with full hair restyle and Top up your tan while you're here—free tea and coffee provided. The front had large windows for maximum natural light, allowing anyone inside a wide view of the street.

Two smokers huddled by the door, shoulders habitually hunched despite the mild weather. Smokers annoy me. They've become a plague for people in my line of work—forced outside by the smoking ban, they loiter as unwitting sentinels, noticing far too much. No one thought of my profession when they passed that law.

A light breeze drifted down the street, rustling takeaway flyers on a nearby lamp post, while one of the smokers flicked ash onto the pavement.

I mentally flagged this spot as a potential problem. If I needed to take Felix down in a hurry, the salon's vantage point would complicate matters. Nearby streets had a family-run shop and an off-licence, both likely to attract clusters of teenagers in the evening—again, more potential witnesses. I'd have to tread carefully.

Still, the walk proved helpful. Different options began forming in my mind, along with a growing list of potential obstacles. The variables were many.

Back in my car, I unwrapped a Co-op "all-day breakfast" sandwich. It tasted like a wet, eggy fart squashed between two slices of wholemeal bread. Grimacing, I settled in, turned on Radio 4, and watched the house. Jessy had mentioned Felix had an afternoon meeting and an evening engagement, so he'd presumably leave at some point, though it sounded unlikely he'd be moving any large amount of cash today. My main goal was to get a look at him—judge his size, his build, and how much of a challenge he might be if things turned physical.

After four hours, I started wondering whether I'd missed him. Jessy said his meeting was early afternoon, so two o'clock was cutting it fine. Stakeouts are easier in winter; lights flick on and off, making patterns easier to track. I can map out someone's tea breaks and even predict their bathroom visits if I watch long enough.

From time to time, a delivery van rumbled past, stopping briefly to drop off parcels or groceries, its engine noise grinding against the otherwise quiet afternoon. Now and then, a child's laughter carried on the breeze, reminders of everyday life continuing around me.

Three possibilities rattled around in my head: maybe Felix was still inside, or he'd left before I arrived, or he'd slipped out while I was canvassing the area. If he'd taken the money with him, that'd be game over. But Jessy mentioned he kept it in a safe in his attic office—hardly the kind of thing you casually haul around central London.

I'm no professional safecracker. I can bypass alarms and pick a decent lock, but a serious safe is another matter. Then again, Simon's own digital safe had been hilariously easy, thanks to his "override key" stored in a file marked Office Security. Pitiful. In my opinion, people that sloppy deserve to be robbed.

Growing uneasy, I texted Jessy: Can you confirm Felix is at home?

Her reply arrived two minutes later: Just called him. Still in his office. Waiting on a call from Africa.

I unwrapped another sandwich—chicken salad with bacon and mayo. Slightly better than the first, though my sandwich standards might be too high.

Finally, just after four, Felix stepped out. Tall, athletic, sharply dressed; he looked like a runner, same as Jessy. Maybe they used to jog together and discuss divorce settlements on the track. You learn to consider fitness in my job—if your target flees and you can't catch him, you become the hunted. No one hires a compromised hitman.

Felix carried a briefcase, but it was small and formal, not the worn brown leather case Jessy had described. That was good; I wasn't ready to move yet. You plan, prepare, and only then do you execute. Going with the flow is a good way to end up knee-deep in trouble. Best to do it right.

A long-wheelbase BMW Seven Series pulled up. Felix climbed in. I jotted down the registration. Cars like that aren't for everyday errands; they're for the very rich, or VIPs—celebrities, oligarchs, wealthy criminals. Which one was Felix, I wondered?

With no sign of the cash and Felix presumably off to his meeting, I shifted focus back to the house. If I could get in, maybe I could grab the money without a direct confrontation. Or at worst I could get a close look at what security was in place and perhaps reach out for a specialist to come in to help. But the risks of triggering an alarm were considerable. I could blow everything for nothing.

I took a wander down a narrow alley three houses away. It gave access to the rear gardens, which in London are often little more than postage stamps of land. At the alley's end, I looked towards the back fences—tall gates, CCTV cameras, and who knew what else. Breaking in here seemed unwise. People are paranoid these days.

A cat sat perched on a fence further down the alley, tail flicking as it watched me. Somewhere, a radio played from an open window, the faint thump of a bass line drifting out into the mild air.

Returning to the front, I looked carefully at the thick hedge running across the length of Jessy's property and up to their front gate. It was nearly two metres high, offering privacy for the ground floor. The neighbouring houses were similarly hedged off, forming a kind of secluded row.

I noted the angles of nearby CCTV cameras. They covered large swathes of the street—but as far as I could tell, Jessy's place might have a blind spot behind the hedge. If I moved fast enough, I might slip in unnoticed. Maybe.

Chapter 5

By four o'clock in the afternoon, I'd seen enough for one day. I headed home to shower, shave, and change into fresh clothes. Felix could make his move at any hour—if he'd decided to hop a late-night or early-morning flight out of City or Heathrow, I needed to be alert. People seem drawn to the dark when they're dealing with anything morally questionable, as though their misdeeds can hide in the shadows. That means my work often starts right when everyone else shuts their doors and pretends nothing bad ever happens.

I tried to sleep. I couldn't manage it, but at least I got some rest. Jessy had mentioned dinner plans with Felix, so I gave myself until ten-thirty. By eleven, I was back on Earlsmead Road, parked a little further down. The house stayed dark until Jessy's car pulled up. The couple, clearly dressed for an exclusive restaurant, went inside. Lights flicked on downstairs, then upstairs; the ground floor went dark around half past midnight, and the upstairs lights followed at one in the morning. No sign of activity in the attic. They seemed settled for the night.

I was grateful it was summer. During winter stakeouts, you freeze your arse off in the car. Leaving the engine running draws unwanted attention, and those cheap electrical heaters plugged into the 12V socket will barely keep your hands warm. The real answer is multiple layers of clothing and a proper winter coat. At least tonight's mild air made waiting bearable. By half two, I decided it was safe to venture out of the Mondeo—Jessy and Felix should have reached deep sleep. They'd hardly notice a mouse in their bedroom, never mind a man prowling outside.

The street was still. No lights in the windows, no curious neighbours peering out. The only sound was a distant dog barking, maybe ten houses away. Perfect. I moved the car to a safer spot, then made my way back on foot. Outside their front door, I set up a small wireless motion detector and camera synced to my burner smartphone. Its range was about five hundred metres, enough to cover me from the pub car park I'd scouted earlier. People often leave their cars overnight if they've had a few too many, so nobody would think twice about a lone vehicle in the corner.

As I was about to cross the road back to the pub, a car turned out of a parallel street. Immediately, I spotted the lights on the roof and the reflective stripe along its sides—police. I dropped behind a parked car, holding my breath. Fortunately, the patrol car drove on without slowing. I let out a quiet sigh. The last thing I needed was to be stopped and questioned, even if I had decent fake ID.

There were three CCTV cameras around the outside of the pub—none angled so they'd clearly catch me or my battered Ford Mondeo. Even if they did, the car was as disposable as my burner phone, with false plates, bogus ownership records, and matching insurance documents. Good enough to fool a bored copper at two in the morning.

I spent the next hour refining my plan to take Felix down. Simplicity was key: I'd approach through the front garden, use the hedge for cover, and lure him outside where there was no CCTV coverage.

The steps were simple enough:

Confirm with Jessy when she'd leave for work in the morning and get updates on Felix's schedule.
Move into position near the house.
Dress as a courier—fluorescent vest, Every-branded cap, a cardboard box weighed down with a brick, and a clipboard. Independent delivery drivers in the UK often use their own vehicles, so an unmarked car wouldn't look suspicious.
Wait until the street was clear, then make a direct approach to the front door.

As with all plans, timing was crucial. I'd ring the bell, then immediately push a "Sorry we missed you" card through the letterbox with a handwritten note saying the parcel was behind the hedge. Felix would (hopefully) open the door, see my uniform, and I'd act relieved—"So glad I caught you, I hate leaving parcels outside"—while handing him the box with my left hand. Once he stepped out, away from the safety of his hallway, I'd give him the good news with my stunner in my right. Then I'd nudge him back inside.

Once inside, alone with Felix, I'd have all the time I needed. After a lot of thought, I'd concluded the easiest way into his safe was simply to make him open it. No external safe-cracker required. The only loose end was Felix himself. Arranging a pick-up with Brian and James would be easy; they charge extra for a short-notice job, but that was fine. I texted Brian a polite heads-up, promising details later.

My main concern was Jessy. How would she react when her husband vanished? She expected him to travel with the money anyway, so she might not raise the alarm right away. And when she inevitably realised something terrible must have happened, she'd find that neither Felix nor "Simon Leske" could be located. The texts on her phone could prove awkward if the police started asking questions. If she pushed, I could remind her that life can be perilous. Then again, she'd claimed not to care about the money—just keeping Felix away from her inheritance. Wasn't this exactly what she wanted?

All in all, everything seemed to be falling into place. I'd complete the job, and then keep half an eye on Jessy for the next few weeks, just to be sure. If she played along, she'd walk away with the life she said she wanted, minus the husband who'd stood in her way. If she changed her mind, I had contingency plans. Unfortunate for Felix, of course, but he'd run out of options the moment his wife hired the wrong detective.

Chapter 6

It was twelve minutes past six when my alarm went off. It's a good time—early enough to intercept a mark if they're an early riser, but late enough so I don't pass out later from lack of sleep. Always a balancing act. I was satisfied to see my camera at the Kellars' house hadn't spotted any overnight movement.

I can't say I slept any better in the car than I had the previous day in my own bed, but it was enough. I woke hungry, disappointed to find I'd finished off my fig biscuits before drifting off, and was now two-thirds into my Hobnobs. Not exactly a slimming diet. I got out, feeling the cool dawn air nip at my face, and stretched until my joints cracked. I rechecked the pub's CCTV camera positions in the early light, confirming I was out of sight, then relieved myself behind a dew-soaked hedge for privacy before stretching once more.

I decided to risk a quick trip to the convenience store near the Kellars'. These corner shops are a blessing in my line of work—local, open early, and increasingly equipped with branded coffee machines. A light breeze carried the smell of fresh bread from a warming cabinet alongside the coffee machine. I grabbed a warm bacon-and-sausage roll to pair with my machine-brewed americano in a single-use insulated cup. Heaven, after a rough night in the car.

They also stocked McVitie's fig rolls. Not my favourite brand, but good enough. I only took one packet. In my job, you can't get too comfortable; between the stakeouts and minimal physical exertion, it's easy to pile on weight if you're not careful. A quiet pop song played on the shop's small radio, the fluorescent lights making everything look pale and artificial. I paid the sleepy shopkeeper, an older Asian man who barely looked up, and I was already halfway through the roll by the time I reached the end of the road.

I retrieved my camera from outside the Kellars' front door just before half six. No sign of movement there or next door. Still, I thought I saw a curtain twitch across the street—though it didn't move again when I glanced back. Clearly not many early starters in this millionaire's row.

I collected the mighty Mondeo and parked almost directly opposite their house, giving me a partial view of the front door. The downside was how exposed I felt, slouching in the driver's seat, hoping the morning shadows would keep me inconspicuous. I found myself wishing for an early window of opportunity—once the neighbourhood got moving, I'd stand out as "that random bloke idling in his car."

Luckily, I didn't have to wait long. Jessy left the house around seven, driving a brand-new Land Rover with a private plate—top of the range, very expensive. She didn't notice me. As soon as she turned the corner, I texted her about Felix's plans. She replied that he'd be home till lunch, then off to his city office around three. Naughty Jessy, you know you shouldn't text and drive. I noted how she still seemed to know a fair bit about a husband she supposedly wasn't getting on with.

That settled things. I decided to hold off until after the morning rush, letting the locals head out to work. I quickly replaced my surveillance camera, then moved the car to the end of the road so I could still watch the house without literally sitting in front of it. The rising sun warmed the Mondeo's interior just enough that I dozed off. Another text from Jessy jolted me awake: He's cancelled with the office and will be home all day. He has tickets to fly from Heathrow this afternoon at 4:30.

Odd. I'd seen her drive away to work. Why would Felix broadcast his movements to her so soon after she left? And how did she know about the flight? Maybe they shared a credit card and she got alerts for any transactions. People in strained marriages do strange things, and it didn't actually hinder my plan—if he was home all day, I had a wider window for my "delivery boy" routine.

I opened the podcast app on my personal phone to kill some time. It's better than my burner but still not in my real name. I downloaded the latest episode of The Rest is History, which was covering the French Revolution. I like a bit of history; it keeps my mind sharp. Then, on my burner, I flicked through Jessy's text chain. Plenty of damning messages there if I ever needed leverage.

I'd intended to make my move before noon, figuring Felix wouldn't leave until two if his flight was at half four. So, I was surprised when my camera alert showed activity at the front door at half ten. Sure enough, Felix strode out the gate and up the road, no driver in sight, likely heading for Kensal Green station. He carried a backpack and two cases: one a professional briefcase (seen that before), the other a large, soft brown leather bag with gold hardware.

Ah, shit—he had the money bag. If he was off to Heathrow via the Tube, he'd be in crowds all the way. It looked like I'd missed my best shot. He must've fed Jessy that false schedule. Maybe he suspected something. She could have slipped up over dinner, or maybe he was simply the cautious type. Either way, the next few seconds were critical.

I fired up the Mondeo, pulled out, and drove past Felix before he reached the corner. Turning left towards the station, I passed Harriet Tubman House—a community centre—and a small patch of green next to it. The path there led to the pub car park where I'd spent the night. Beyond that, it was all open street, no good ambush points. But those bushes across from the green—maybe.

Luckily for me, there was a free parking space directly opposite. No pedestrians about, though the community centre might bring people by at any moment. I popped the Mondeo's boot, leaving it wide open—risky, but necessary.

I slipped behind the bushes to wait. A faint hum of distant traffic and the rustling of leaves were the only sounds. Felix was nearly on me before I saw him—his confident stride, expensive shoes clicking against the pavement. My stunner was in my right hand, no time to hide it; left hand ready to grab. If he got away, I was finished. There could be more than half a million reasons to get this done right.

Felix appeared, and I stepped out forcefully. I crashed into him shoulder-first; he staggered back.

"Sorry, mate," I said, as casually as I could manage.

He tried to steady himself. I glanced around—no bystanders. In one fluid motion, I jammed the stunner against his throat and used my weight to spin him round, forcing him across the road and straight into the Mondeo's open boot. He grunted and clung to both cases, but his overnight bag, still round his neck, swung awkwardly, half in and half out of the boot. I yanked it up and jammed it over his face, hitting him again with the stunner. When I pulled the bag away, Felix was out cold, his features twisted in fright. I slammed the boot shut.

I jumped into the driver's seat, fired up the engine, and gunned it.

New plan. Step one: get the fuck out of here.

Chapter 7

There are plenty of quiet spots in the city—places where you can have a private chat with someone, if you catch my meaning. I know them instinctively, and lucky for me, I was only a five-minute drive from one. Heading west past Willesden, towards North Acton, there's a turn off Victoria Road onto Atlas Road. The traffic there is always sparse—dilapidated warehouses and the occasional stray dog rooting around empty skips. About halfway along is a reclamation yard with a handy arrangement for people like me. There's a tidy little concrete lock-up with drive-in access, controlled by a keypad.

I drove onto the site, the crunch of gravel under my tyres announcing my arrival, and waved out of the window at the foreman. He barely looked up from his phone but nodded in recognition. I continued round to the lock-up, keyed in the code, and watched the electric doors shudder open. Empty inside, as expected.

I pulled the Mondeo in, killed the engine, and retrieved my stunner along with a fresh syringe of hot-shot. The faint smell of damp concrete and old metal swirled in the still air, but the place was otherwise silent. I closed the electric doors and flipped on the strip lights. Stains on the floor hinted at heated conversations that must have taken place over the years. This small lock-up had been the departure lounge for many unscrupulous people, and I reckoned Brian and James likely had their own parking space reserved.

When I opened the boot, Felix instinctively shielded his eyes against the sudden light. They always do that. Here's a tip: if you ever find yourself stuck in the boot of a car, don't bother shielding your eyes. Attack—that's your best and only real chance. Any second you waste might be your last. If you're in a car boot, you're already in dire straits, so what's there to lose?

But Felix threw his hands up defensively, so I simply pressed the stunner to his neck and held it for a full five seconds. He groaned, dribbled the usual saliva, and slumped—awake, but not going anywhere. The drool was more than a small annoyance—it meant DNA, and that spelled liability. I grimaced, knowing the boot's carpet was contaminated. This car was a write-off. I'd already been lurking around the Kellars' place too long, and there was a chance I'd been seen. Better if the Mondeo vanished. A shame, but necessary.

I leaned in and slipped the battered brown briefcase from Felix's limp grip. He was too out of it to resist or speak. His eyes told me he was scared shitless.

"I believe this is mine now, you wife-beating prick," I said.

He stared, utterly confused, as though he had no clue what was happening.

"You won't be getting any of Jessy's money now, will you!" I grinned.

His confusion darkened into anger at the use of her name. If looks could kill, maybe our roles would have been reversed. But they weren't. I hit him with another five seconds of juice, so he went limp, and then tapped his neck to find the sweet spot. Vein located; I jabbed him with the hot-shot. No last words, no warning. Felix died then and there in the boot of a beat-up Ford Mondeo. Sorry, but also not sorry. If there's one thing I hate in this world, it's a man who puts his hands on a woman.

I shut the boot, leaving Felix inside, and placed the brown leather case on top. It felt right—not too heavy, but with that distinctive "money weight." I flicked the clasp and peered inside.

Hmm. No money!

On top lay a woman's scarf. Beneath that, a torch (no batteries), two small pottery ornaments of a cat and a dog (wrapped in bubble wrap), an old salt-and-pepper mill set, and a few paperback books. Neither was by Drew Moya. Some sealed make-up products, a new and unopened hairbrush set. And absolutely no cash.

Wait—there was money, technically. A small envelope with exactly £3.67 in change, bearing the SCOPE charity logo.

I upended the bag's contents onto the concrete floor and slit the lining with my pocket knife, just in case. Nothing else. This was definitely the shabby brown briefcase Jessy had described, but it wasn't stuffed with Felix's fortune. Jessy must've seen it, jumped to conclusions, or... maybe she intended me to jump to conclusions?

Then I noticed the writing on the back of the envelope: Jessy's name and address. Underneath was a gift-aid box, neatly ticked. I looked at the scattered second-hand trinkets, realising it was a load destined for the local SCOPE charity shop near Kensal Green station.

I'd been played.

Chapter 8

I stared at the useless bag of charity-shop junk, a cold surge of anger twisting in my gut. I'd been played. There probably never was any money—no sold flat, no watch collection—just a dead Felix in my boot and the gnawing suspicion that Jessy had orchestrated everything.

My head spun with questions: Who was Jessy Kellar, really? Did she know who I was from the start? If so, how had she pulled off such flawless timing at Simon's office? And why risk crossing someone as dangerous as me?

I forced myself to focus on the facts. I patted Felix's corpse down, rummaging through his overnight bag and briefcase—no hidden money. I pocketed his keys, wallet, and high-end Samsung phone. It was locked, so I called my tech contact, Graeme, offering triple his usual fee if he could crack it and dig up everything on Felix and Jessy Kellar. He had me hold the phone in front of Felix's face to unlock it, then open a specific website in Chrome. By simply agreeing to a pop-up, Graeme took full control—there's no one better with tech. He told me to leave the phone on and he'd get back to me.

Within an hour, Graeme sent the basics. Jessy had briefly chatted with Felix that morning, but one message stood out: I've sorted the stuff for SCOPE. Could you please drop it off today, they're expecting it. That explained the brown bag of junk destined for the charity shop.

Jessy's online footprint showed she came from nothing—no property, no trust funds—no money until she married Felix. A prenuptial agreement denied her any share of his wealth if they split, except for one crucial clause in the event of his death: the London house. How the hell did Graeme get access to this type of material?

Then I read Felix's file. He was no innocent. His family-controlled land and mineral rights in Africa, channelled through shell companies and a mercenary outfit called Green Harbour. I knew those people by reputation—ruthless ex-military, ready to do anything for the right price. If Felix was a director, no wonder Jessy hired a pro. You don't send some cheap thug after someone that connected. In fact, I couldn't think of anyone reckless enough to attempt it—at least, not without Green Harbour's blessing.

But the final blow came when I examined Jessy's social-media links. Tucked among her old school friends was a familiar face—James, Brian's son. The same James who knew my every trick, who'd stood by his father as he helped him clean up my bodies. A cold realisation settled over me: Jessy hadn't just tricked me; she'd had inside help. James knew exactly how to manoeuvre me into killing Felix and let me believe there was a fortune to gain.

My blood pounded in my ears. Of course, the plan was so precise—someone who understood my methods had guided Jessy step by step. Now Felix was dead, Jessy's inheritance was secure, and I was left with a corpse in my boot, no money, and a target on my back if Green Harbour started asking questions. I was now the loose end that needing tidying up.

I put my phone away. One thing was clear: Jessy Kellar and James had set me up from the start, and if they'd gone this far, they'd have no qualms about throwing me to the wolves. In fact, that was surely the next step in their plan.

I clenched my fists, forcing my anger into check. I had to move fast. Jessy would be home soon enough, and once it was obvious Felix was missing, they could play their next card. Then I'd be the one looking over my shoulder. One thing was certain: I wouldn't let them finish me without a fight. They'd tried to box me in, but I still had the skills to survive.

No more second-guessing. I had to strike back, and I had to do it now.