Well ... that turned to shit fast.
The sirens were growing louder by the second. The cops were getting close. It was time for him to cut his losses and get out of there.
Verena couldn’t breathe. Every inhalation sent a bolt of agony through her chest. It was like someone was carving her open from the inside. The pavement beneath her felt slick. She was bleeding out; she knew that. She needed help. She tried to sit up, but the pain was instant and overwhelming. Her vision blurred, and she collapsed again.
Fuck.
She curled into herself, seeking relief from the flame inside her, but it only made things worse. The pain didn’t ease; it multiplied.
She coughed, and something wet bubbled up from her throat.
Mia shot me.
Verena had known it the moment the second round had hit. She’d seen Mia do it. Cold and unflinching. Verena let her head fall to the side, her cheek pressing against the warm concrete as her already laboredbreathing drew even shallower. She’d had a choice; she knew that now. That man, whoever he was, had given her a way out. He had shielded her. Protected her. He’d put himself in Mia’s crosshairs, and all she had to do was to stay down and shut up.
But she hadn’t. She’d made a play. She’d gambled her leverage. And lost.
Just a few days ago, she’d been on the deck of a luxury yacht under the Mediterranean sun, running what she’d believed to be a simple operation. Now she was lying in an alley, blood pooling beneath her, lungs filling with liquid, and questions screamed in her head.
How did this happen? What did I miss?
She should have killed Mia when she had the opportunity. But then she would have had to run for her life. No, it wasn’t this specific operation. It wasn’t anything she’d done this week. None of it was the root of her current predicament.
No. The reason she was bleeding out in an alley was Everett Westcott. That’s where she’d made the mistake. Saying yes to him. Believing his promises. Buying into the illusion that she could help him achieve his vision. She’d taken his offer because she thought it was a ladder to better things. But now, it was apparent to her the offer had been a noose. A noose she’d willingly put around her own neck.
A coldness started to creep inward from her extremities, and with it, the sickening understanding that she was about to die. She wanted to close her eyes, hoping to find peace, but she couldn’t even do that. Her gaze was trapped on the ground beside her. Three uneven pools of her blood spread across dirty stones, each one misshapen and irregular. The number punched through her like a sharp blade.
Three.
Please . . . not three.
The number three always left her uneasy, a wrongness she could never quite ignore. Even now, with her heart slowing, a desperate, absurd wish flared deep inside her. Couldn’t there have been two or even four pools of blood? Anything but three?
And then there was nothing.
Chapter Forty-Five
Thirty-Eighth Floor, Secretariat Building
United Nations Headquarters
New York City, New York
Everett Westcott stood motionless by the massive window, one hand in his pocket, the other resting on the frame as he surveyed the city. From this height, he had a panoramic view of the East River and the boroughs of Queens and Brooklyn. It was an impressive view, even to him. Views like this had a way of elevating a man’s sense of self, of positioning him above everyone else, of making him feel ... untouchable. And Westcott had no doubt that this very illusion had played a role in Julius Zuma’s decision to seek a second term as secretary-general of the United Nations. Apart from the view, the office was sleek and modern and clearly designed to project dignity, resolve, and power.
And Westcott was all too aware that power did strange things to men.
Three men occupied the office now. Zuma sat behind his desk, his hands folded tightly together, while President Leonard Mutombo of the Democratic Republic of the Congo occupied one of the two leather chairs across from him.
Westcott hadn’t said a word in almost two minutes. In that very moment, he was close to throwing Mutombo through the glass and letting him fall thirty-eight stories. Another minute passed before he turned from the view and faced the room. He stared at Mutombo andnoticed for the first time that the man’s suit collar was at least a size too tight.
Mutombo cleared his throat.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but as I just explained to you, the proposition brought to me by Ambassador Nyambe won’t make it through the National Assembly. Again, the proposition is more than satisfactory for me and my party, but—”
“Have you really come all this way to tell me you’re too weak to lead? That you aren’t willing to move forward?” Westcott asked, cutting him off. “After everything Hearts United has done for your country?”
Mutombo shifted in his seat, his palms pressing against his knees. “Please understand, Mr. Westcott. It’s ... it’s not that I’m unwilling. It’s just that ... I can’t.”
