Guy #2 took his eyes off the stall, looked at me, and frowned. Then he went over to the row of urinals and unzipped his fly. Watching him to make sure he didn’t kick open Sergei’s door would be weird, so I went back to my table and took a sip of lukewarm coffee that I didn’t taste. Less than a minute later, Guy #2 walked past me and out the front door, but he set up shop against the mailbox just outside rather than across the street. If Sergei’s disguise was off at all, or if Guy #2 decided to stop every patron who exited before I did, then we were fucked.
And when Sergei came out of the restroom, I knew we were fucked. His ball cap was too low. His jacket was zipped up as requested, but way too high. Everything about him was conspicuous. I knew his cover was blown before he stepped foot out the door.
But just as soon as the thought entered my head, Sergei walked out, past my unwelcome babysitter, and hung a right at the corner, as instructed. I waited for Guy #2 to follow, but he didn’t. Three more people left before I finished my coffee, and he paid no special attention to any of them either. I was so relieved, I bought Guy #2 a blueberry scone and tossed it to him as he started following me back to my apartment. It bounced off his chest and landed on the ground. He made no move to stop and pick it up.
“I want to see you start doing some actual work, Carter,” he said, wiping crumbs off his shirt, “or we might need to dip into our bag of motivational tricks.”
“Been working this whole time,” I said, walking backward. Then I flipped him off and spun around before he could respond.
Lucky for me, that work was about to pay off.
CHAPTER NINE
Of course I’m interested, read the text from Ian.
This is the big one, kid, I wrote back. You’re ready for it.
He was. The MI5 agents were most ideal. They were within his operating range, geographically, and my preference was to stay as local as possible. As a rule in recruiting, corporate or otherwise, it’s always better to find a local candidate rather than one that requires relocation. Transplanting a CEO from one state to another means extra money, extra time, and extra hassle for both sides—all of which hold the potential of torpedoing the deal.
For this job, less travel meant less of a trail for anyone to follow. And once this went down, there would be plenty of people looking for any kind of trail to follow.
Ian was still in Brussels, fresh off the masterful double hit he did for Leon, but London was drivable, especially for the fee he would receive. More important than the money, though—and for a kid who grew up robbing homeless people for enough spare change to purchase a school lunch, $1 million was very important—was what this contract would do for his career. Pull it off, and he’d be elevated into the upper echelon of hitters for hire, which is where I knew he belonged. Helping candidates achieve that kind of success was why I started recruiting in the first place. For just a second, I was able to forget what “success” meant for a man in Ian’s field, and enjoy the moment.
I put my old phone down on the couch cushion next to me and picked up the one I’d bought from Sergei for the equivalent of nearly one year’s rent. There were two chat rooms open on the new one, each in a different encrypted site so far down the dark web, it was illegal just to know they existed. Both chat rooms contained a single text, encased in a blue box that indicated it was written by me:
Got a job.
Ian had responded to my initial text within five minutes. I hoped my other two candidates responded within the five days I had left before Trish’s submission deadline expired. If they did, this would be the easiest million I ever made. If they didn’t, well, that’s what backup plans were for.
Candidates D through F had already confirmed that they were in the area and were available if needed. I never told them what the job was or that they were contingency plans, of course, but I didn’t have to. None of them had any work lined up in the next few days and were willing to wait to see if my contract “came to fruition,” which was the standard euphemism I used when I wanted to keep a candidate engaged without letting them know they weren’t my first choice.
Problem was that my babysitter wanted to see me do “actual work,” and everything was already wrapped up. That’s when I remembered the slip of paper Joey had given me, tucked into the box with my new Glock. On it was written a phone number and a name: Eric Krieg.
No way would I submit a new candidate on a job this big, but an interview, someplace public, would get Guy #2 off my back. I texted the number on the paper and Eric responded almost instantly.
Where do you want to meet? he asked.
Coffee shop on Adolphe Max by the bank, I wrote back. 2:00.
I’ll be there.
Look for the guy in blue jeans, black blazer, and a bandage wrapped around his left pinkie finger.
I like to arrive early whenever interviewing a new candidate. Let them come to me instead of the other way around. Allows me to get a lay of the land, make sure nothing looks suspicious. We’ll typically only meet in person once or twice during our time working together, so it’s critical I make a commanding first impression. I need them to trust me from the beginning and know just how well-connected I am. Which is why I do my homework on everyone before we ever set eyes on each other.
Joey had never met this guy, but from what he’d heard, Eric Krieg was tall and blonde. Former German Special Forces (KSK). (Joey sent me a lot of ex-military.) Dishonorably discharged after assaulting his commanding officer. Operated in and around Belgium the last two years doing low-level contracts for low-level thugs. Debts that were never paid. Snitches that needed silencing. Revenge hits. The kind of emerging talent for which I was always on the lookout. Again, not ready for the prime time of Trish and her people, but worth checking out to stash on the bench for something more his speed down the road. A full pipeline of quality candidates is a recruiter’s lifeblood.
The café, a different one than where I’d met Sergei earlier, was busy but not packed. I’d secured a round, two-person table by the side window that afforded me a full view of both the front door and anyone approaching from the side street. Guy #2 was at a table in the back, alone, his earpiece hidden in his pocket.
“I’m fine if you want to play peeping Tom,” I’d told him as he followed me to the interview, “but if you make yourself as obvious as you are now, our man will turn around and walk away.”
Guy #2 wasn’t happy, but he lost the earpiece and agreed to stay on the sidelines.
“Try anything funny,” he warned, “and all bets are off. I’ve been easy going so far, letting you do whatever it is you do, but I’m not a man you want to fuck with.”
“Okay, John Wick.”
“It’s Colin, actually.”
“I don’t care.”
At precisely 2:00 the café door opened, ringing the quaint little bell suspended above it. A few seconds later a tall blonde sat in front of me, which I expected. What I didn’t expect was that the tall blonde also had boobs. And not man-boobs, like the kind I try to stave off by doing push-ups on the mornings when I’m not busy vomiting, but real ones. The kind that men without any class stare at for too long.
“Eric?” I asked, trying not to be classless. I failed.
“Erica,” she said, emphasizing the a. Her accent was thick, but decidedly un-German. Swedish? Maybe Dutch? I couldn’t be sure. And I was still staring.
She smiled. White teeth. Straight. Expensive. “Were you expecting someone else?”
“Yes and no,” I said, looking her in the eyes for the first time. Brown, like the tight leather jacket she wore. Pretty. “So who’s your plastic surgeon? He does great work.”
She smiled again. No teeth this time. “I heard you were a wiseass.”
“And I heard you had a penis.”
“Who told you that?” she teased.
