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EIGHTEEN
The flightto Thailand was about four and a half hours. Asher slept most of the way, though Harry was happy to keep an eye on the flight path to avoid a repeat of the Yemen incident.
Though this plane wasn’t just a paid contact via Four, or Yunho, or whatever his name was. This plane and its pilot were hisownprivate plane and pilot. Personally vouched for, personally sent, no expense spared.
Harry was more than curious to meet this man.
Four, or Yunho, had promised Harry that Asher would have a safe place to recover and proper medical care, so Harry agreed. Asher needed time, and peace and quiet, and no stress. His face was healing okay, though the deep black and purples were beginning to turn shades of green at the edges, and his ribs weren’t good, but his cognitive recovery was going to need some time.
That was how hard and repeatedly those fuckers had hit him.
A concussion so bad even four or five days later, he still had bad headaches, brain-fog, light-sensitivity, and hestillneeded to sleep and rest most of the day.
Knowing those assholes had done this to him made Harry so mad he almost wanted to go back to Oman, find Gibson’s corpse and head-stomp that fucker some more.
Harry knew enough about concussions that he didn’t doubt Asher would be okay. He just needed time. Having multiple broken ribs on both sides of his body didn’t help either.
Even thinking about Asher’s injuries made Harry rage. He couldn’t hurt Gibson or Hull anymore, but he sure could hurt Parrish. The man who told Gibson and Hull to do “whatever it takes.”
Harry was going to make Parrish suffer.
But first, his only concern was Asher. Harry would make sure he was well cared for, then he’d work on his revenge on Parrish.
He would deliver the USB to Yunho, and whatever Yunho was going to do with that information, Harry didn’t know or care. He just wanted to take Parrish down.
“What are you thinking about?” Asher asked him.
Harry hadn’t even realised he’d woken up. “Oh, hey,” Harry said. “Nothing much. Just Parrish, and how this is all going to end.”
Asher gave him half a smile. “You know there’s a saying about digging two graves on your journey for revenge.”
Harry kinda shrugged. “It’s how it was always going to end, wasn’t it?”
“I’d rather if it didn’t.” Asher’s gaze was soft. “I know you want him to pay for what he did to you.”
“To me?” Harry shook his head. “No. I want him to pay for what he had done to you.”
Asher smiled again. “That’s sweet, Harry.”
“But?” There definitely sounded like there was a but coming.
“But I don’t want you to die for me. How can we stick together if you’re dead? And you did say you’d stick with me.” Then he made a face. “Unless I dreamed that. Did I dream that? Shit.”
Harry laughed. “No, you didn’t dream that. I said it. And you said it back to me.”
“Thank fuck.” Asher put his hand to his heart, but he was smiling. “And anyway, there are better ways to take him down than a bullet between his eyes.”
“How?”
“You said he was a man of reputation, of rank. A family man with political ties. Men like that don’t fear death. They fear losing. Take everything from him and you will watch him crumble. Ruin him, Harry.”
Take away his reputation, his rank, his family and political ties... Hmm, that could work, but Harry really was more of a bullet-between-the-eyes kind of guy.
“Yunho will know how,” Asher said. “He is a scalpel, surgically precise and clean. You, my sweet Harry, are a cleaver.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Actually, I may be more of a cleaver. You’re more of an axe and blunt force trauma.”
