“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t make me regret this, Colin.”
“Oh, you won’t.”
The call was cut from the other end, leaving Colin a little bereft that he hadn’t been wished luck or to break a leg. Then again, the latter comment might well have given him a sense of foreboding, and he couldn’t have that.
No, because at the moment, he puffed his chest out, full of pride and purpose. He was useful again, like he’d been in the war. And that was something he’d wanted for longer than he cared to admit.
His good eye prickled then filled, and he dashed the dampness away. He wasn’t crying. He didn’t cry. His eye was just watering, that was all.
He stowed the phone back under the bed and left his room. Quietly, he walked towards Randall’s office. Pressed his ear to the door.
“It’s rather an expensive racket your boss is running,” Randall said.
“It has to be. We’re risk-takers, people who do what the majority wouldn’t. We have the threat of being caught to deal with.”
“Yes, I understand the cost, and I certainly don’t mind paying it, but what I was implying was, why don’t you go out on your own? Why don’t you take the full price instead of a cut?”
The bald man coughed. “Because this way I don’t have to dump bodies or do anything much except kill. If I had to do what Sid does and make the plans beforehand, set up the meetings with clients, do the job and then the clean-up, well, it’s quite a bit of work. I might not be as sharp as I should be by the time the kill comes around.”
“I see. So starting over somewhere else with your kind of job isn’t something you’d contemplate then?”
Why is Randall asking such a question? Or is he just making polite conversation?
Suspicion sent Colin antsy, and he shifted from foot to foot. The floor creaked. He held his breath. The conversation in the room had stopped. Thinking it better that he disappear rather than risk getting caught listening, he stepped back, away from the noisy floorboard, and went to his room.
He wanted to sit and think about what he’d heard. Something told him there was more to that conversation. Something he ought to know about.
Chapter Eight
Jackson left Randall’s office and headed to the foyer to send Sid the agreed text about the money transfer. He received a reply almost immediately, saying things were on the move. He slid his phone into his back pocket.
He stared at a chandelier, the dangling, tear-shaped glass droplets catching the fading sunlight streaming through a row of large windows above the front door. The foyer had to be about half the size of Jackson’s penthouse apartment. He wondered what Randall’s family had done over the years to enable them to afford such a luxurious place—or whether the mansion hadn’t been handed down to him from a long line of ancestors at all. Maybe he’d just bought it. The estimated cost of the place, and of running it, was enough to boggle Jackson’s mind. And he’d thought he was rich. What the hell did Randall do for a living, if anything? Jackson suddenly found himself wishing that he’d asked for more background.
He thought about why he did this job. Why he had to keep his mind busy.
Jackson had been away with the army, had come home on unexpected leave to find Christine enjoying someone else’s attention. Jackson had stood shocked in the bedroom doorway. He’d never forget that smug smile of hers, the exaggerated groan as she’d stared into Jackson’s eyes. Would never forget the young bloke in his bed, lifting his head to find Jackson there and not even flinching.
Don’t think about it.
Seemed it was too bloody late. The floodgates had opened, and everything from that day came roaring back on a wave of gut-twisting pain. Their languid rise from the bed, the pair of them casually dressing as though Jackson didn’t exist. The long, slow kiss in front of the bedroom window, the sunlight rendering them silhouettes. Light touches using hands that had clearly already been to those places several times before. Jackson rooted, unable to move, the big, tough army man who couldn’t speak a fucking word. His throat had tightened, his eyes had stung, and he’d watched it all, blinking, blinking, and wishing he was still on duty in the dirt, rifle raised, him ready to shoot the first motherfucker who came out of hiding. Him stupidly thinking Christine had waited for him at home, as faithful as her letters had said she was.
Hadn’t fucking happened like that, though, had it?
After dressing, Christine’s lover had swept past, giving a taunting finger-waggle of a wave, leaving their flat with an uncharitable slam of the front door. That noise had woken Jackson up, had forced him to step into the bedroom and gather his belongings. He’d stuffed them into a suitcase without a word, without looking at Christine, who’d flopped back onto the bed, body on show, a final taunt as to what was no longer his.
The memory of leaving that flat had been a blur—still was. He’d found himself at his mother’s and holed up in his childhood bedroom for the week, then had returned to duty a changed man. He no longer felt guilty if he killed someone, because every time he did, he was killing Christine and what she’d done. He no longer had sleepless nights wondering how long the affair had been going on, why he hadn’t been enough to wait for.
No longer gave a shit about anything much.
Randall came out into the foyer, and Jackson jumped.
He needed to remain vigilant. He hadn’t heard the man coming,
