“One point two for all three. Are you sure we should really be talking about this—”
“I’ll give you an extra fifty.”
“What?”
“One point two-five, but I want you to back out.”
There was another pause, longer this time. “Rick, what the hell are you—”
I stood up, grabbed my carry-on bag, and started walking. Fast. Almost running.
“Hey,” Frank the bartender called after me, “you didn’t pay!”
I pulled out my wallet, cursing and jerking my arm as it got stuck in the folds of my jeans pocket, and tossed a pair of twenties over my shoulder.
“I need you to bail on this one, Ian.”
“Why? Who is this guy?” Ian sounded as frantic as me. A routine call had gone sideways and he wanted an explanation.
“He’s nobody,” I lied.
My eyes were everywhere as I moved. Scanning every kiosk, every coffee stand, every bench for one of Trish’s agents. Knowing she wouldn’t send anyone I had seen before. Becoming more paranoid as a result. Everyone looked suspicious. Every mother pushing a stroller, every elderly couple on a bench holding hands, every businessman chattering away on his Bluetooth was tailing me. And I suddenly cared a lot. My earlier apathy had been replaced by abject fear. I felt my pulse quicken again and concentrated hard to get it under control.
“Please, Ian, I just need you to do this as a favor. You’ll be helping me out and you’ll pocket an extra fifty grand.”
“Do you even have that kind of money?” he asked, not liking any of this.
“I do as of this morning.” Another lie. I still hadn’t checked to see if Trish’s second payment had gone through.
“Rick, none of this makes sense. I just wanted to keep you in the loop and now you want me to bail on the biggest job of my career? This could set me up for life.”
“You’re going to make more money from me NOT to do it. And I’ll get you other jobs, Ian. You know I will.”
He sighed. “Yeah, but ones like this? If I back out, my rep will be shot. No one’s going to want to—”
“IAN, FOR GOD’S SAKE JUST TRUST ME!”
They all stopped. All the spies, corrupt agents, and deep cover families of four within a hundred feet of me froze and gawked at the crazy man shouting into his phone. The one with the beady, shifty eyes who had started sweating right through his cotton shirt.
I raised my hand and patted the air in a feeble attempt to convince them that this was just a normal, everyday public meltdown, rather than a precursor to something that would land everyone on the nightly news.
It worked. Kind of. They stopped gawking, but they also gave me a wide berth as they resumed whatever they’d been doing. A few of them had a sudden urge to use the restroom. At least I knew they weren’t following me.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly as I started walking again. Not quite so fast this time, but still with some urgency. “I just need you to do this for me. I can’t say you owe me one because you’ve lined my pockets as much as I’ve lined yours, so I’m just asking. As a personal favor. Don’t do this job. Let me pay you a shit ton of money NOT to do this job, Ian.”
The silence lasted a long time. No more than thirty seconds in actuality, but it felt eternal. “A hundred,” he said at last.
“What?”
“I want an extra hundred, not an extra fifty. And I want it in cash. Tonight.”
I stopped walking and put my hands on my knees. My breath came easier and my muscles got their strength back. I heard Ian call my name two, then three times, and put the phone back to my ear.
“Thank you,” I said. “Meet me at the place we first interviewed. Ten o’clock.” Getting my hands on that kind of cash in less than ten hours wasn’t going to be easy, but I could make it work. Knowing a bunch of unscrupulous people comes in handy sometimes.
“Who is this Baglioni guy, Rick?” Ian asked. “No bullshit.” He sounded calmer too, but still more than a little worried. About me or him I couldn’t be sure. Probably both.
I started to tell him. Wanted to tell him.
“I’ll see you tonight,” I said instead and hung up. Then I shifted the strap for my travel bag higher up my shoulder and continued toward the pickup zone outside where a line of Ubers waited, not seeing or not caring about the dirty looks they received from the taxi drivers further up the curb.
Inside my bag, Sergei’s phone bounced against a pair of socks. I barely felt it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Robert Baglioni, the man who would soon become my children’s stepfather, being targeted for murder by an organization that was clearly involved in some global-level illegal shit, raised a lot of questions.
Was he somehow involved with the task force that Trish referenced during our meeting, the one comprised of agents from multiple intelligence agencies? If so, what the fuck did a cop from Philly have to contribute to whatever they were investigating?
Or did he pose a different kind of threat to Trish and her Board of Directors? Something more direct? Something more personal?
All deserved an answer, but they were secondary in my mind. At that moment, all I cared about was:
Why didn’t Trish tell me he was on the list? Why hide that name in particular?
There were a few possible answers to that simple question, and I didn’t like any of them. The most benign reason was that Trish really was just trying to save some money.
It had happened before. It’s why I tell all my candidates to call me if anything changes after they accept the offer. I get paid 30 percent of whatever the contract pays. If a client offers my candidate more money for extra work after I’ve already delivered them, then they don’t have to pay me as much for my services. Doesn’t take an evil genius to hatch that scheme. Maybe Ghost and The Persian got extra names as well, and just didn’t bother to let me know.
