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“No, please,” he yells, squirming.
“Oh, it speaks,” I muse. And it’s Irish. “Keep the fuck still,” I bark, delivering a nose-breaking right hook.
“Ouch.” Leon winces, standing back when we’re done. “Are you going to do what I think you’re going to do?”
“Depends what you think I’m going to do.” I nod to Brad to take his other side, and we hoist him to his feet. “There.” I give the dribbling, bloodied piece of shit a dazzling smile. “All ready for a morning cruise across the beautiful sparkling water.” We start walking him out of the container toward my ski on the water. “Something tells me today is going to be a scorcher.”
“No, please. I can’t tell you who sent me because I don’t know!”
“That’s a crying shame.”
He goes weightless between Brad and me, lifting his feet from the ground in an attempt to hinder us. Of course, it doesn’t. “Please, I beg you.”
“So the bomb’s on the ski,” Brad says as we load him onto my Sea-Doo, his protests coming thick and fast.
I pull more cable ties from my pocket and strap his wrists there, while Leon—God love that kid’s initiative—takes care of his legs, weaving rope around his feet and feeding it around the ski. When I’m done, I smile and tap the side of my machine. “Loaded,” I chirp. Poor shit’s crying now, mumbling nonsensical words to the handlebars. “Did you take care of the steering?” I ask Leon.
“Sure did.” He smiles, too fucking proud of himself, pulling out his phone and showing me the screen. “All controlled from here.”
“Jesus,” Brad says on a light, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head at Leon. “You fix the bomb up too?”
He shrugs, looking unimpressed. “A few wires and a timer. All standard stuff.”
“And where’s the detonator?”
I slip the key cord into place and start the motor. “I expect someone out there has it.” I step back and nod for Leon to gag him, which he does quickly and efficiently. “Bon Voyage.”
Leon takes control of the ski, and it chugs slowly out on the water as all three of us stand on the shore, watching. “Take it out as far as you can,” I order, glancing around the cove before checking the time.
“Now what?” Brad asks.
“Now Leon gets to have a bit of fun before someone out there presses the button on the detonator.” I give the hobo a slap on the back and pull out the twenty-grand wedge from my back pocket, pushing it into his chest. “Good work, kid.”
“No problem, D-boss. What about the dude in the other container?”
“Just keep feeding him and watering him.” I walk away, Brad on my heels.
“Still nothing on Spittle’s son’s phone?”
“Not yet.” I slip into my Merc, keen to get home and get on with giving my wife the day of her dreams.
I take the stairs slowly, fastening my tie as I do, the sound of my dress shoes hitting the marble echoing around the foyer. The house is quiet. It’s a fucking miracle. The women are all upstairs getting ready, the men too, and the garden is packed with people putting the finishing touches in place.
When I make it to my office, I close the door and pour myself a drink, settling in the big chair behind the big desk. My throne. I sink into the leather, close my eyes, and see Pops. He looks proud. He fucking should be.
You got any family, kid?
No, Mister.
Get in the car.
I smile into my darkness and swig back my drink as there’s a knock on the wood.
“What?” I call, and a moment later, Daniel’s head is poking around the door. He grins, glancing around, hovering on the threshold. “You can come in, kid.” With my blessing, he ventures into a room I’m well aware has been a source of fascination to him since he arrived. He quickly looks unimpressed. I don’t know what he was expecting to find. A rug drenched in blood? Thank fuck for Goldie, who apparently is always on top of the minor things others forget.
I take him in as he wanders to the chair on the other side of my desk, his suit looking like it was made for him. It was. But the kid needs to learn how to dress. I rise and round the desk. “Stand up,” I order, motioning impatiently with my hands. He lifts, looking down as I unfasten his tie and pull at the lengths. “You start here,” I say, holding up the ends. “The narrow side shorter than the fat side.”
He shrugs. “Beau’s unc . . . aunt tied it.”
I smile as I cross one end over the other. “How’s your mum?”
“Panicking.”
“Why?”
“She’s worried the ice sculpture will melt.” He jerks, slapping a palm onto his forehead.
“We have an ice sculpture?”
“No. No ice sculpture.”
I laugh lightly and push the knot up, wriggling it. “See? That’s how you fasten a tie.” I brush off his shoulders and fix the lapels of his jacket. “Better.”
