The world of art would always be a puzzle to him.
Donati seemed to notice. The man was perceptive. ‘You don’t like the paintings?’
King shrugged. ‘Art’s not my thing.’
‘Nor is it mine,’ Donati said. ‘But there’s advantages to it.’
‘Advantages?’
Donati didn’t seem to care about divulging trade secrets. ‘You know why it’s so good? Because pieces can be worth whatever the hell you want them to be.’
‘I’m not following.’
The big man pointed to a framed piece hanging on the teak-panelled wall next to his desk. It was comprised of a white backdrop with tastefully applied streaks of red. King figured he could have painted the same thing with his eyes closed.
Donati said, ‘Let’s say I buy that for a million, and then I donate it to a college as an act of charity. A few years later, I can claim it’s worth ten. Because, you know, art. That’s nine million dollars worth of tax deductions. The college isn’t going to say otherwise. I just gave them the painting, after all. What’s the IRS going to do? It’s bulletproof.’
King didn’t say a word.
Donati said, ‘You think I’m gross.’
‘You’re not paying me to think,’ King said. ‘You’re paying me to keep you alive. Right now, that’s all I care about.’
Donati smiled. ‘Now you’re speaking my language. Straight to the point. I like it.’
As the sun set behind them, he pointed to a chair in front of the desk.
He said, ‘Let’s get down to business.’
8
Slater wasn’t used to the civilian world.
He existed in a different sphere of society. His usual life was a carefully constructed system to maximise his time. He didn’t cook his own meals. He didn’t wait in lines. He didn’t unnecessarily complicate his schedule. He trained as hard as humanly possible, then he recovered as efficiently as humanly possible, and between those moments he rested and fuelled his body and strategised.
Then, when he was sent out on operations, he was blessed with the satisfaction that there was nothing else he could have done.
If he failed, it was because the task was insurmountable. Not because he’d slacked off in training. Not because he’d cut corners. He always ensured there were no corners to cut.
So this was odd. Standing in line at Cancun International Airport, waiting to get his false passport stamped, Alexis’ fingers intertwined around his. There was no place he’d rather be. All that efficiency, all that prioritisation — it was draining. Sometimes he forgot that life didn’t have to be one endless stream of never-ending improvement.
Sometimes you could rest.
Sometimes that’s the only place true stillness lay.
Alexis noticed he had withdrawn. ‘What?’
He looked over. ‘Nothing.’
‘You’re thinking about something.’
‘I’m always thinking about something.’
‘Care to share?’
He looked into her eyes. ‘There’s a lot to it. But I guess, when you break it down… I’m just happy to be here.’
‘I don’t want you to say that if you don’t mean it.’
‘Have I ever said anything I didn’t mean?’
She touched his lips with hers. ‘No. You haven’t. That’s what I appreciate more than anything. That’s not an easy thing to do.’
‘I’ve never seen you do it, either. And trust me — I can tell.’
She said, ‘That’s deliberate.’
‘Is it?’
‘You’re not a regular catch. I’m taking this seriously.’
He leant closer to her and muttered, ‘I couldn’t tell.’
He winked.
They fell silent. That was something else he appreciated about their bond — the fact that they didn’t need to fill the quiet moments with superficial conversation just for the sake of talking. When they said anything, there was a purpose behind every word.
They made their way past a tired customs officer without incident. Alexis didn’t even blink at the name Ronald Wood on Slater’s passport. She knew it came with the territory. The document had been manufactured by an expert counterfeiter discreetly employed by one of the subdivisions Violetta controlled, who’d doctored the serial number without tainting the hologram.
The thought of Violetta, and the world she operated within, churned his insides.
He forced it all aside.
Enjoy this, he thought. Then figure out your future.
That thought alone threatened to spiral him into indecision. He’d never even considered getting out. Not when King fled with Klara all those years ago. Not when he found himself excommunicated from the division he’d spent the majority of his adult life working for. Whether he’d been a vigilante or an operative, he’d never wanted to abandon the fight. It was as much a part of him as breathing.
So is that really what this is? Or are you just confused?
He didn’t know.
They hired a small nondescript hatchback from a rental car service outside the airport, and Alexis demanded to drive.
Slater protested. ‘I’ve been cooped up in a tube all afternoon. I’m not used to this. Let me do something.’
‘But when we get there,’ she said, ‘how will you know where our destination is?’
He shrugged. ‘How many resorts can there be in Tulum?’
He knew exactly how many resorts there were in Tulum.
She said, ‘There’s a few. I’ve picked a good one. You won’t know until we get there.’
I already know, he thought.
He couldn’t fight down the sensation that fate would lead him there again.
But he begrudgingly stood down.
Now wasn’t the time to tell her.
That he feared they were heading to the exact place he’d reunited with the last woman he loved.
They took Highway 307 south out of Cancun, and the chasm in Slater’s gut widened. With increasing disbelief, he realised he hadn’t even felt this terrible before his most dangerous operations. He tried to discern why.
Because, he realised, this means something to you.
Nothing used to mean anything to you.
He knew it was true. For fifteen years he’d considered his life forfeit. He’d accepted the warrior state of mind, the understanding that death on the battlefield was infinitely preferable to a life lived without taking risks. In the end it was a simple equation, and he’d always broken things down that way. He
