He closed his eyes. Tapped the mouse. The loading wheel spun, and then a whoosh indicated that the money had gone.

René eased the needle out of Evan’s neck, and Evan allowed himself a quiet exhalation. He stared at the screen. WIRE SENT.

“What’s coming won’t be worth twenty-seven million dollars,” he said.

René turned to Dex. “Put this animal back in its cage.”

Dex seized Evan, yanking him to his feet and shoving him toward the door.

“At last,” Evan said, “we’re calling things what they are.”

44. Celebration

44

Celebration

René stood before the picture window of the master bedroom, hands clasped at the small of his back, watching snow flurry against the pane. It occurred to him that it was a pose suited to a Cassaroy. Regal and imposing, spine held straight enough to disguise that two-inch deviation. An artist could come along and paint an oil of him planted here victoriously, an oil that would have been worthy to hang alongside portraits of Cassaroys past that sobered the grand halls of his childhood manor.

And yet.

He had a niggling sense that it wasn’t time to rest on his laurels. He’d prevailed in the battle, sure, but there was a greater war to be won.

He felt a stirring, the sensation he got when he was closing in on a financial trail, readying for the kill. He closed his eyes, sensed the data shifting, so many bits and pieces, a pattern almost discernible just beneath the surface.

Behind him David stirred in the silk sheets, exhausted from the day’s travails. “Are you coming to bed?”

“Our guest is clearly not who I thought he was,” René said, watching the snow shape-shift outside. “But I think he’s something even bigger than I imagined.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” René said, finally turning. The rungs of David’s stomach muscles stood out like something artificial, something poured from a mold. René was surprised by how little the sight aroused him. His office awaited. There were queries to be made, baited hooks to be tossed into the Deep Web. He walked past David, heading for the door. “But I’m going to start digging.”

*   *   *

The women’s bathroom in Mexico City International Airport smelled of disinfectant and Montezuma’s revenge. Candy wet a wad of paper towels in the sink and retreated behind a stall door. She peeled off her shirt and bra, the fabric clinging to her burn scars, then gingerly patted her weeping back with the damp towels. She allowed herself to grit her teeth but did not make a noise.

Relief was relative.

The pain was so constant that she sometimes forgot it was there. But not after an eighteen-hour flight spent leaning against a scratchy polyester seat cover.