Page 163 of Lethal Torture
Nothing to do with whatever X-rated performance Zin is about to give.
Or with what Mak just said.
I rub a hand over my face.
Focus, Luke.
But my mind keeps dancing around, trying to make sense of what will happen if tonight goes wrong.
And bywrong,I don’t mean Zin getting shot.
Wrongis what happens if tonight leaves me with no choice but to walk away.
Because the thought of leaving Zinaida makes me want to kick a wall. Let alone the thought of anyone else trying to keep her safe.
I don’t give a shit how good her security team is. They can’t do what I can.
And my heart literally skips in horror at the thought of abandoning her to the ambitions of motherfuckers like Lowbridge. To inadequate men who think they can take down the only woman in their world who can outsmart them.
The thought of Zin vulnerable and alone in that world is fucking killing me.
I’m almost grateful that Mak chooses that moment to appear onscreen in front of Agatha and Lowbridge’s table.
“Who the fuck are you?” The ridiculous mask he’s wearing makes Lowbridge’s attempt at a menacing snarl sound a lot more like fear.
Mak smiles silkily beneath his own mask. “Right now,” he says politely, “I may be your new best friend, Simon.” Turning to Agatha, he nods politely. “Madam Home Secretary,” he murmurs. “It’s been far too long since we last spoke.”
Agatha’s imperious stare drips with impressively contrived disdain. “I wish I could say the same, Mr. Tereschenko.”
“Tereschenko?” Lowbridge’s eyes widen, then dart nervously sideways.
There’s nobody coming to help you, motherfucker,I think coldly.
“Ah.” Mak lowers himself into the booth and slings one leg elegantly over the other. “My reputation precedes me, I gather.”
“What do you want?” Lowbridge’s pathetic attempt at bravado isn’t at all convincing.
“Rhys Stewart,” says Mak promptly. Ignoring Lowbridge’s empty glass, he pours Agatha a fresh whiskey from his own bottle. “It’s much smoother,” he murmurs, winking surreptitiously as he hands her the glass.
For the first time since her charade began, Agatha bites her lip to stop herself from smiling.
“Stewart?” Lowbridge, having missed their exchange, frowns in confusion. “What do you want with him?”
“I thought you understood who I am, Simon.” Mak smiles lazily. “Intelligence is my business, and Rhys Stewart is neck-deep in the intelligence business. Rumor has it he’s about to start poking his nose into a North African country in which Ihave significant resources invested. I’d like him to understand how things there are going to work.” He hands Simon a cell phone. “Please give him a call. Invite him here to have a little chat.” He takes a leisurely sip of Scotch. “He’s a Pigalle member, so he’s already been cleared. And I’ve added him to tonight’s guest list as my plus-one.”
Lowbridge stares at the phone like it’s a weapon. “How did you get that in here?”
“Dear boy.” Mak gives him an amused glance. “I installed the security here.”
Lowbridge gulps. “Why here? Tonight? Can’t you talk to Rhys some other time?”
“I’ve always found a little pressure and the right timing to be more effective than long conversations.” Mak waves his Scotch airily at the tiers of seating surrounding them. “And right now,” he says pleasantly, “I have over a dozen operatives in this room who have instructions to kill all three of you unless we come to an understanding by the time Miss Melikov takes the stage.”
Agatha gives a convincing gasp. Lowbridge turns deathly pale beneath his mask.
“I have no interest in your plans here tonight,” Mak goes on. “But if you wish to live long enough to execute them, I suggest you make that call.” He nods at the phone in Lowbridge’s hand.
The lights dim. On stage, the curtain goes up on the final warm-up dance before Zinaida’s. The audience leans forward eagerly, the tension in the room growing by the minute.
