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“But the BBC says no one was shot at the Mandarin – ”
“‘Cause I missed him at the Mandarin, but I got ‘im at a hotel down the road. Another little hidey-hole he went to as backup. Had to use a thermal scope ‘cause of the curtains.”
“You’re absolutely sure you got him?”
“Well, the fucker didn’t get back up after I shot him in the head, so, yeah, I’d say I got him.”
My heart leapt with joy.
The Swedish asshole was dead.
Four years ago – right after he’d been arrested in Lake Como – I’d had an agent break into his London hotel room, crack the safe, and take everything. His original ID, his personal phone… everything.
Then I’d destroyed it all.
The agent hadn’t known what he was stealing –
And nothing remained that tied me to Lars.
Now that he was dead, it was over.
“What about the girl?” I asked cautiously.
“She’s fine. She ran over to the body and crouched over him for a minute, then she left the room – but by that point I was packed up and ready to go. Now I’m gettin’ the fuck outta town.”
I felt that familiar stabbing pain in my heart.
Did you cry over him, Rachel?
Did you shed tears for Lars that you SHOULD have shed for us?
I composed myself and said, “Good job. I’ll wire you the rest of the money by tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks. Any other jobs in the pipeline?”
“I’ll call if I need you.”
“Sounds good.”
When I hung up, I felt the strangest mix of giddiness, anger, and relief.
The hardest part was taken care of.
All I had to do now was convince Rachel that it was the mafia who had killed Lars –
And that she was to blame for it.
Suddenly, my regular cell phone rang.
I looked at the number and felt my stomach twist.
Rachel.
Had she somehow figured out I had hired the shooter?
If so, I might have another job for Callum before he returned to Glasgow.
I steeled myself for the worst-case scenario before I answered.
