“Finish it,” said the man, his voice a dry croak.
Black pressed his foot against the man’s chest, pushing him flat to the ground, keeping his weight on him.
“Who are you?” he repeated.
The man gave a ghastly smile. “Fuck you,” he mumbled.
Black adjusted his footing, pressing on the man’s shoulder. The man screamed. Almost in symphony, the sky rumbled. Black waited five seconds. The man took a deep, ragged breath.
“I can do this all day,” said Black. “Until your blood runs out. No one can hear you.”
“I need to get to a hospital.”
Black nodded. “I agree.” He pressed down again. The man inhaled sharply, releasing a low moan. “Talk.”
“I don’t know anything. We were given instructions. All verbal. We followed you from Glasgow. We were to find out what you were doing, then kill you, and report back.”
“That’s not very sociable. Report to who?”
“I don’t know.”
Black made a movement, about to put his weight again on the man’s wound.
“No, please! The contact didn’t give us his name. Not his real name. But we know him as something else.”
“What?”
“The Grey Prince.”
“Colourful. How do you contact him?”
The man coughed, his lungs bringing up phlegm and speckles of blood. “Please. I need to get to a hospital.”
“How do you contact him?”
“Mobile number. That’s all I have. When the job’s done, I call him. He knows my voice. He doesn’t call us. Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please help.”
“Of course.”
Black shot him in the head.
He had something. A name – the Grey Prince. It meant nothing to Black. But it was a start. Plus, he had the estate of the late Gilbert Bartholomew in his rucksack, whatever the hell that was.
Black left them where they lay. They wouldn’t be found for a good while. Let the wildlife feast.
16
The Arizona climate was a dry heat which suited Boyd Falconer perfectly. He had developed asthma as a young child, his mother was a chronic smoker, and then his aunt, after his mother died. In all the places in the world he had visited, and he had visited many, this was the easiest on his lungs. He rarely used his inhaler here. When he’d made his first $10 million, he decided to build a ranch deep in the Sonoran Desert, two hundred miles south of Phoenix. Two hundred and fifty acres of nothing much. Miles from anywhere. Privacy was high on Falconer’s list of priorities.
Now $10 million was loose change. Human trafficking had proved highly lucrative for Boyd Falconer. But it was just the start. Over the years, Falconer had honed his skills, perfected his expertise. Now he offered a very specialised, niche market product to the wealthy and powerful. And it was a global demand.
Falconer sat in the middle of a large, sprawling, semi-circular cream suede couch, in the living room of the main house. The room was huge. The oiled Georgian oak wood flooring was dotted with plush Bokhara and Kilims rugs. Falconer had them imported from Uzbekistan and Iran. Bespoke Italian furniture; exquisite white marble table lamps. The ceiling was a cluster of rippled cupolas, and from each, suspended Venetian crystal chandeliers. One side of the room was a series of large windows framed in aluminium extrusions, offering a view of the front courtyard. Triple strength bulletproof glass. Afternoon sunshine streamed through. Facing the couch, set in a column of pale-blue quartz, was a television the size of a small cinema. Falconer was watching horse racing. A man in his late sixties. Deeply tanned. Hair swept back, dyed deep black. Lean, ropy muscle. His face oddly stretched and tight – a consequence of cosmetic surgery and chemical peels. He was dressed in jogging trousers, T-shirt, running shoes. He was soaked in sweat. He had just come from his state-of-the-art gymnasium, an annex to the main house. He’d completed a ten-mile run on the treadmill. He did this every day. A slap in the face to his asthma.
His assistant, Norman Sands, sat at one end of the couch. He was dressed casually – blue jeans, white tennis shoes, open-necked shirt. A spindle-shanked, middle-aged man, a tousle of receding dark hair, skin unnaturally pale for the climate he was in, silver-rimmed spectacles. Born and bred in Wichita, Kansas. He was a chartered accountant by profession, and looked every bit of it. He lived at the ranch in a separate outbuilding. He had worked for Boyd Falconer for ten years, and knew him better than anyone. Which was not a lot. He had a laptop sitting on his knees. He waited for the race to finish.
Falconer switched off the television, using a remote. His horse had come in first. He’d won about $200,000, but he displayed little emotion. He had other things on his mind. “Speak,” he said.
“Your friend is anxious. Two men have already been killed. The couple he arranged to… take care of things, haven’t communicated. He’s getting nervous. He’s asked that you intervene. He’s… what’s the expression? He’s reached out.”
“Where the fuck does he get these people,” muttered Falconer. “Incompetents. Now I have to clean up after him.”
Sands cleared his throat.
“What the hell is it that you’re trying to say?” snapped Falconer.
“With respect, I don’t think they were incompetent. He would have picked them specially for this job. It may be he underestimated the target.”
“Perhaps. Now it becomes our problem. Which means it becomes your problem. He should have been taken care of at the girl’s flat. Who the fuck is this guy?”
“A nobody. An inconsequential. It will be taken care of.”
Boyd turned to meet Sands with a glittering gaze. “Well, this inconsequential is becoming a pain in my arse. So, Norman, put a fucking lid on this, or I swear to Christ I’ll put a fucking lid on you. If we can’t resolve this, we’ll lose a fortune. And you know how I feel about losing money. So, if anyone’s reaching out, it will be me. With an iron fist.”
Sands fidgeted on the leather couch. “We have a more
