Page 104 of Twisted Enemy
It’s time to end this.
Tonight.
Granny and Breagha join Cole and me for dinner. Anna outdoes herself with a standing rib roast and jacket potatoes, served beside a platter of roasted veg and steaming Yorkshire pudding.
Cole pours fifty-year-old port for all of us, but Granny and Breagha are the only ones who drink. Granny says it reminds her of figs. Breagha says it tastes like Christmas, which makes her laugh because it’s the middle of June.
Standing in the foyer, I kiss their cheeks and wish them both a good night. Granny puts the back of her hand against my forehead and holds it there for a moment, shaking her head.
“What?” I ask.
“You look a bit peaked.”
“I’m fine,” I promise.
She purses her lips. “Well if you aren’t, you will be.”
Cole walks them across the road. I use the time to retreat to our bedroom. I study my face in the mirror. Granny’s right. My color is high. My breath is coming faster than it should, and my heart feels like it’s missing one beat in ten.
I collect a leather case from my nightstand, one I swore I’d never use again. When I meet Cole in the foyer, his gaze immediately latches onto the zipped pouch.
I don’t say a word as he follows me into the kitchen. Anna has left every surface spotless, and the air smells faintly of lemons.
I open the junk drawer to the left of the fridge. Every kitchen has one, even a billionaire’s. There’s a jumble of pens and a ragged-edged notepad, twist-ties from plastic bags and a pair of cheap, paper-wrapped chopsticks. At the back, where I spied it weeks back, is a spool of black thread, pierced by a silver needle.
Palming the thread, I say, “One more thing.” We stop in Cole’s office for his 44 Magnum.
Downstairs, the dead bodyguard smells disgusting and looks worse. Cole is right. It’s time to end this game.
“The cameras are on?” I ask him.
“They’re on,” he confirms.
Tarasov is still trapped in his spreader bar, doubled over, his hands beside his feet. He’s twisted onto his side, face pressed against the floor, fouled wedding dress crushed beneath him. He fights to get to his knees as I stand near his head.
But he still hasn’t learned his lesson, because he makes another appeal to Cole. “Wolf.” His lips are cracked. “You have to get me out of here.”
Cole appears to have gone deaf.
Tarasov cranes his neck to look up at us. “What day is it?”
“Monday,” I answer.
“No,” he says. “The date.”
“June 15.”
I never thought I’d hear Tarasov’s high giggle again. “The fifteenth,” he wheezes. “Get me out of here, Wolf. You need me free.”
I dig a toe into Tarasov’s naked flank. “He’s not the one in charge here.”
Another giggle, wilder than the last, then Tarasov chants, “He’s the one who loses.”
“Loses what?” I hate that he makes me ask the question. I hate that I need to know.
“His reputation. His clients. All of Lone Wolf.”
Before I can scoff, I check Cole’s reaction. His fingers have folded into tight fists. His eyes are so narrow I can’t see their gold flecks. His lips tighten over one word: “You.”
