“There’s another guy whose name came up from a few of the people I … um … interviewed. Calls himself Mr. Sunday, though I doubt it’s his real name. He’s apparently a new hire—last several months or so—and serves as the head of sales. Does sessions with potential buyers via a platform like Zoom or Crowdcast, but on the dark web. Access only via a special encrypted video conferencing platform. I can’t find him, so that’s something you can tell Church. He can put Bug on it.”

“Why don’t you tell him yourself? People are actually concerned about you.”

“People, but not you.”

“Let’s be real,” he said, and I took no offense. Not sure I’d cry real tears if he got run over by a bus six or seven times. “I’ll pass it along, though. And I have something to share with you.”

“What?”

“I talked to a few of my old cronies in the black market circles,” he said. “Apparently, your escapades have really pissed off our friends. Kuga and Santoro have sicced a specialist on you. A very dangerous chap named Stafford.”

I stiffened. “Michael Augustus Stafford?”

“You know him?”

“No, but that name came up. I assumed he was one of the Fixers.”

“Oh, he’s a lot more than that, mate. Stafford is easily the most dangerous button man in the business. Very discreet, very smart, and very dangerous. Ex–special operations. Expert in all the right stuff—weapons, unarmed combat, disguises, the lot.” He snorted. “He’s rather like the bad-guy version of you. Your evil twin. He even looks a bit like you, come to think on it. Blond-haired, blue-eyed all-American boy with rage issues and a penchant for scorched earth. Not sure where I’d place my bets if you two chaps were in an even match.”

“Let him take his best shot.”

“His best shot, Ledger, is likely to be the one you never see coming. He has an unbroken record for closing cases. And now you’re his newest target.”

I shook my head. “If he’s going to try to get between me and Santoro, he’d better be really damned good.”

“He is.”

“Then he’d better want it more than I do, Toys. And I want it a whole damned lot.”

We discussed the American Operation. We agreed that it was probably a misdirection.

Toys took a sip of wine, made a face, and set the glass aside.

“There’s one way to find out if there’s anything to it.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“Go to America and arrange to let yourself be spotted doing it. Poke around in the militia thing and break some legs, cut some throats. If they send a handful of Fixers after you, then it’s no big deal. They just want you dead. If they send Stafford, you’ll know two things—that something’s really happening in the States…”