About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
The story made the front page of the City section. Below the fold, no picture, but that’s only because Ian was so good at what he did. In the hands of a lesser professional, it would have been the top headline, paired with a full-color photo of a grisly crime scene. Police would already be searching for suspects and there would be whispers of the first move in an underground turf war.
I smiled. There was none of that. Thanks to Ian and his impeccable attention to detail, it was being treated as a crime of passion. Both bodies had been found naked in the man’s apartment. There was mention of his suspected ties to organized crime, but he wasn’t a major player and the reporter clearly didn’t feel that was a thread worth tugging on.
The woman had bruises around her neck. One hand cuffed to a bedpost, the other lying limp in a pool of blood. This came from a hole in the man’s jugular, which was only partially plugged by the stem of a broken champagne flute. The rest of the pieces were on the floor next to the nightstand. Her prints were all over the stem. There were heavy amounts of amphetamines in both their systems. No sign of forced entry. No other prints found at the scene. A wild night of rough sex gone horribly wrong.
Ian was an artist. I should have charged Leon double. He’d balked at my fee during our first meeting, but that wasn’t unusual for new clients. People who have never worked with a recruiter—or have only worked with bad recruiters—don’t always appreciate our value when it comes to finding top talent. That was as true when I worked in corporate America as it was with mid-tier crime bosses like Leon White. Then they’d see the quality of candidates I bring to the table, and suddenly money wasn’t an issue.
I finished reading the article and closed the paper, confident it would be treated as an open-and-shut case. My “No Cops Guarantee” track record remained unblemished. A part of me—buried deep inside—took a small measure of pride in that. The rest of me was just cold.
The early spring temperatures a few days ago proved no more than a tease. Winter had returned to Brussels with a vengeance, well-rested from its brief vacation. I was the only person sitting outside my favorite café on that sunny but blustery morning, trying to freeze out another hangover with a bowl of melon and a thirteen-degree windchill. Unorthodox, but it worked. Better than any of the other home remedies I’d tried over the years. By the time I popped the last piece of not-quite-ripe cantaloupe into my mouth, I felt almost human again.
I left the paper on the table, weighed down by my empty coffee mug so it wouldn’t blow away, tucked my gloved hands into the pockets of my wool overcoat, and pulled it tighter. Halfway through the walk back to my apartment, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?” I said, slightly out of breath from the cold.
“I wanted to wait until you finished reading,” Leon said. The thick Serbian accent was unmistakable. “Did you see the story?”
I stopped and looked around. There were a few people sharing the sidewalk with me, and a few more across the street. One guy rode past on a bike. The two cars that drove by never slowed. No obvious signs I was being followed.
“I did,” I said. “Can you believe Wu-Tang Clan’s gonna play Forest National this summer? I had no idea they were so popular over here. Wanna go halfsies on a club box?” I scanned the windows. None were open, and the sun glare was too bright to see anything through the rest of them. Certainly no sign of a lens, a scope, or any other type of surveillance device.
“Your candidate does good work, Mr. Carter,” he said, ignoring my attempt at ignorance. “I am very impressed.”
“And I am very busy. You paid your fee, so unless you have another search for me, I’m going to hang up.”
“You should learn how to take a compliment.”
“I prefer them over text. In a secure chat room. The way we’ve always communicated.”
“And how about referrals?” Leon asked. “Do you only take those over text as well?”
“Ideally, yes,” I said impatiently. This call, which never should have happened in the first place, was already taking far too long and was far too public. Still not sure where his eyes were but convinced I wouldn’t be able to find them, I started walking again. My apartment was a straight shot from the café, but two blocks away I turned right, just to be safe.
“Are you not going home?” he asked.
I stopped again. The melon and coffee suddenly felt very unwelcome in my stomach. Leon White owned a strip club on the outskirts of the red-light district and made most of his money running drugs and whores from the back room. He was a medium fish in a big pond who hired me to find someone to take out one of his rivals. We’d met in person exactly twice, neither time giving the impression that he had the ability to track me the way he was, and he damn sure shouldn’t know where I lived.
“I play bridge every Tuesday morning,” I said. “We drink tea and discuss Oprah’s latest book club selection. Why do you care?”
“I have someone I want you to meet.”
“Great, give me their name and number and I’ll be happy to reach out.”
“No, no,” he said, amused. “They do not do business over the phone.”
“And I don’t do business on my living room couch.”
“They will be at your apartment in one hour,” he said, the humor gone. “It would be a shame if you’re not there to greet them.”
Go ahead and run, Rick.
That’s what he was really saying.
Try to figure out which of those sun-stained windows has a sniper rifle behind it. Think you can get it right before the bullet enters your brain?
“I guess I can skip my game today,” I said. “I wasn’t a fan of Oprah’s pick this month anyway.”
“Good,” he said. “I gave you a glowing recommendation, Mr. Carter. Don’t make me regret it.”
Before I could reply, the line went dead. I stared at my phone for a few seconds, then redialed the number. I hung up while a recorded voice explained that it was no longer in service.
CHAPTER TWO
The knock came at 10:57 a.m. Eight minutes early. I stood up from my worn leather couch, buttoned my black suit jacket, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Then I walked to my door and looked through the peephole.
There were two of them, a little younger than me. Midthirties, maybe. Each with close-cropped dark hair and matching dark suits. One looked like a banker, the other a lawyer. A slick one, the kind that handles divorce cases because he enjoys it, not just for the money. Both wore sidearms on their belt, and neither tried to hide it.
Obviously not a banker or a lawyer. Cursing Leon under my breath, I opened the door.
“Rick Carter?” said the one closest to me, the banker. I couldn’t place the accent. Not another imported American, like me, but he definitely wasn’t Belgian.
I nodded.
“Our car’s waiting outside.” He held out his arm, beckoning me into the hallway. The overhead light two doors down flickered and buzzed, bathing the fresh piss stains on the green, threadbare carpet in an irregular fluorescent glow. I didn’t move.
