“You stole from them, and now you’re stealing from the king, and for some reason I’m surprised you’d lie to me. You asshole.” Kylar heard her turn, and then Devon was stepping close to the bed, putting the chest down on it, his legs just inches away from Kylar.

“Bev, I’m sorry.” He was moving toward the door, and Kylar was stricken with panic. What if Devon went after her, and she went down the steps? Kylar would have to kill both of them on the stairs, knowing that the guard would be coming along any minute. “Bev, please—”

“Go to hell!” she said, and slammed the door.

Wish granted. It was the blackest kind of humor, Durzo’s kind of humor. He liked to say that the irony of overheard conversations was one of the best perks of the bitter business, though he said that the wisdom of last words was highly overrated. Wish granted? Kylar didn’t like that he’d even thought that. Everything this man had planned was about to end, and Kylar was smirking about it.

Devon swore to himself, but he didn’t follow the woman. “Where’s that guard anyway? He was supposed to be here by now.”

This was what it was like, Durzo had told Kylar. You come in at the end of a drama—whether it’s just started or has been going on for years, your arrival signals the end—and you rarely get to know what the story was about. Who was Bev to Devon? His lover? His partner in crime? Just a friend? His sister?

Kylar didn’t know. He’d never know.

There was jingling on the stairs, muffled behind the door. Devon picked up his ledger. The door opened.

“’Lo, Dev,” the guard said.

“Oh, hello, Gamble.” Devon sounded nervous.

“That courier find you?”

“Courier?”

“Little shite musta got lost. Everything fine up here?”

“Sure, just fine.”

“See ya round.”

Devon waited until the guard had been gone thirty seconds, and then he stepped close to the bed and started stuffing his pockets. Kylar couldn’t see with what.

Here it is. The guard would be far enough away now that even if Devon managed to cry out, he wouldn’t be heard. Devon stepped away from the bed toward the bureau and Kylar crawled out from beneath the bed like a bug. He stood and drew the knife. Devon was mere paces away. Kylar’s heart was pounding. He thought he could hear the rush of blood in his ears.

Kylar did everything right. Low ready stance, advancing quietly but quickly, balanced so that if at any moment the deader reacted, Kylar wouldn’t be caught flat-footed. He brought the knife up to eye level, preparing to grab Devon and give him what Durzo called the red grin—a slash across the jugular and deep through the windpipe.