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“Yes, he told me. Don’t worry, Domino, I’m on my way.” He should have hired the frigging FBI agent to kidnap Molly Hunt, talk about getting the job done. He said, “I’ve already arranged for two more of Nero’s men. If they’re pissed off about their boss being dead, we’ll point them at the agent. Domino, keep sharp. I’ll be heading to the airport soon.”
Domino sucked in a breath, spit the rest of it out. “Molly Hunt was shot, too, in the side. It doesn’t look that bad, I don’t think she’ll die, but maybe we should send Caruso to get a doctor and bring him out here.”
“What? No, that’s the last thing you’ll do. Talk about very likely bad complications. No, stay completely clear of the locals, don’t draw their attention. Tell Ilic we’ll take him to a hospital when I’m there with two more men. We’ll take him far enough away they won’t be able to connect him to us. Molly Hunt will have to make it on her own.”
Rich hung up, placed his fingertips together, and admitted to himself he’d have to kill the women when he no longer needed them. He’d counted on Nero handling it, but everything was different now. It was all up to him. If Domino hadn’t realized what had to happen, she’d know it soon enough. He hired two more of Nero’s men, ordered them to meet him at his Learjet.
When he hung up, he immediately left his house, and drove to Miami International where his jet was hangared. He could still pull this off. He’d had to think quickly more than once already, and he’d made the right choices. When his people failed to take Emma, he’d sent Nero to take Molly Hunt instead. He couldn’t have predicted she’d have an FBI agent with her, or that the agent would kill Nero. He couldn’t control everything, he wasn’t a god. There was always an element of luck. But the dice seemed to have rolled his way again. He knew what he had to do now.
Rich patted his long-favorite Ontario MK3 Navy Knife with its sawback six-inch blade clipped to his belt, the knife used by the SEALs. It was a gift from his grandfather when he’d graduated from high school. He’d clapped him on the back and told him he was giving Rich his own knife, a knife he’d used many times in his life. On what, Rich had wondered. Maybe he’d have to use it on Eve.
Rich’s knee started bouncing again when he was seated on his jet waiting for takeoff. He popped a Xanax, washed it down with scotch. He pictured the FBI agent firing up at Nero, and blood gushing from his neck. He saw Eve lying on her back and she was smiling up at him as she jammed his Ontario knife into his own neck. He jerked, spilled his scotch with the shock of the image. Where had that come from? He could deal with Eve. He would deal with her. His fingers closed around his knife. He could still make it work. He had to.
