Page 165 of Lethal Torture
Stewart sneers. “I didn’t think youhada country, Tereschenko.”
An oddly steely shadow crosses Mak’s eyes, and the hand caressing Agatha’s shoulder abruptly halts. “If you think that,” he says softly, “you are very sadly mistaken, my friend.” Then, before Stewart can think too much on his words, Mak continues in his customary sardonic tone. “In exchange for your cooperation in this matter,” he says, “you will of course be generously compensated with not only a position in another North African country, but another illegal arms deal, one which I can promise you will net you a far greater sum than the one I’m asking you to cancel. You see?” he says, spreading his hands expansively and smiling around the table. “I’m not an unreasonable man. Just a practical one.”
“What guarantees do you have that I will get this position?” Stewart glares at him. “Or that this lucrative deal of yours will go through?”
“Rhys.” Agatha speaks in a low, tense voice. “He has guns on us as we speak. And if we don’t agree—right now—not only will we die, but tonight’s plans will be ruined.”
Stewart glances at Lowbridge, who gives him a slight nod.
“I am glad you see it my way, Agatha.” Mak busses her temple affectionately. I almost explode with laughter, heady with the tension and anticipation. He pulls a paper from his jacket pocket. “I’m going to need you to sign this appointment approval, though.” He hands her a silver pen. “Just to be sure.”
For the first time tonight, Agatha’s fierce glare isn’t feigned at all. “I’m not sure I’ve agreed to that,” she says through gritted teeth.
“Oh, you haven’t.” Mak smiles politely. “But you’re going to sign it anyway.” He leans forward, once again putting his mouth close to her ear. “You won’t regret it, Agatha, I promise.”
“Oh, I’d better not, Mr. Tereschenko.” Behind the shield of Mak’s head, she gives him a look that would demolish lesser men, but she signs the paper.
Mak hands it to Rhys Stewart, who eyes the contract warily.
“In case you still have hesitations,” Mak says, pulling out his phone, “give me your code, and I will transfer enough Mercura into your account to compensate for the lost deal, plus a bonus for your trouble.” His mouth curls when Stewart looks confused. “Rhys, please.” He spreads his hands. “I’m a criminal, a traitor, and an arms dealer who is currently threatening your life. What do you think I’m going to do—call the local bobbies to come and arrest you?”
Stewart scowls. “Fine.” Grabbing the contract, he scrawls his signature across it, then snatches the phone from Mak and punches in a series of numbers before handing it back.
“Well, then.” Folding the contract and putting it in his breast pocket, Mak stands up and smiles beatifically at the table. “I think that’s everything we need, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Damn fucking straight,” I say into my comms, grinning. “On tape, in their own words.”
“Cooked as a Christmas fucking goose,” Paddy adds. “Can we grab the fuckers now?”
Below us, Mak puts his hand out to the home secretary. “Agatha,” he says. “Why don’t you join me up in my private booth? I assure you, it’s a great deal better positioned than this one. With far better service. And,” he adds, lowering his voice,“there’s a barman named Rocco I think you’ll adore. He has extremely...uniqueskills.”
She looks between Mak and the men in the booth, then a slow, extremely satisfied smile spreads across her face. “Do you know what, Mr. Tereschenko,” she says, taking his hand and standing up, “I believe I just might.”
“Agatha!” Simon Lowbridge leaps up, glaring at her. “We’re not done here.”
“Oh, I’m certainly not.” Agatha pins him with the glare that has reduced dozens of junior ministers to quivering wrecks. “But you, Simon, most definitely are. At last count, I believe we have you on conspiracy to murder and election manipulation, both in your own words.” She pulls the tiny microphone from her sequinned mask and waves it in his face. “And that’s before we even start on exposing your abuse of government contracts to enable human trafficking, you utterly despicable piece of shit. And as for you,” she goes on, turning her glare onto a quavering Rhys Stewart, “you deliberately fucked up multiple diplomatic deals that I not only helped broker, but which have cost our country billions of pounds. I intend to make damned sure you spend the rest of your life paying for that.”
“And me?” Lowbridge’s voice rasps in his throat. “What about the rest of my life?”
“Unfortunately, Simon,” Mak drawls, “I fear it may be filled with pain.” He looks up and nods at the tuxedoed security men surreptitiously making their way down the aisle toward the booth. “Yes,” he says agreeably. “A great deal of pain, I fear.”
I watch Lowbridge and Stewart being escorted, grim faced, from the theater as the curtain drops over the final warm-up dance, and the lights below dim as the set is rearranged. The chatter subsides into a low, excitable murmur as the waitresses all hasten to ensure bottles are replaced and glasses filled before the star attraction begins.
“Paddy,” I murmur into my comms. “You’re clear to take out Kozlov and his men.”
“Copythat.” Paddy’s enthusiasm is unmistakable.
I scan the crowd for danger out of habit, but I already know the danger is done, either dead or about to be locked in the basement cells.
I turn back to the stage, all too aware that my decision to watch Zin from the privacy of the control room has fuck all to do with security and everything to do with my lethal edge of tension.
I touch my comms. “Zin,” I say quietly. “We’re clear.”
There’s a pause that feels endless.
“Thankyou.” Her quiet one-word response, when it finally comes, feels like a farewell.
I fight a savage urge to go backstage and pull her out of the theater altogether, but I know it’s too late to stop her performance.
