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Chapter 2
Kate finally settles down, blankly staring at the ceiling. She idly plays with her chains. It keeps her hands busy. She misses sex, understandably. I haven’t told her she couldn’t relieve herself, but she knows we’re watching and refuses to give us a show. That’ll change. It’s been months, but she can’t hold out forever. One day she’ll need it so badly she won’t care who sees; once that line is crossed, she won’t care about crossing it again.
No matter how much I’ve taken from her, there’s always something more. As long as she still clings to some shred of dignity, I can rip it away. In this case, she’ll hold onto it until she can’t bear depriving herself a moment longer; I don’t even have to intervene.
Sadly, it’s not as satisfying as it would have been to see Ingram suffer — to force him to watch as Kate slowly loses her sanity. He died far too soon. He was supposed to endure many, many years of pain. But at least the Wilsons can rest peacefully. Mom, Dad… and Simon.
Everything I’ve done in my life has been for them — to bring the man who killed them to justice. Now, I can live for myself.
Though I’ll keep tormenting Kate, of course. That job’s not done. She may not have been responsible for what happened to my family, but she stood by Ingram. She knew what he did and she supported him anyway. I can’t let that go unpunished. I may not enjoy her suffering as much as Ingram’s, but she still has to pay for serving him.
Are you sure that’s the only reason?
Goddamnit.
No matter how many times I tell myself Ingram’s dead, a hint of doubt still lingers: we never found his body. The irony isn’t lost on me that the world believed Simon Wilson was dead despite never recovering a corpse. The authorities presumed him drowned in the Passaic River, even though he’d never even been in that car with the other bodies.
Ingram, however, most definitely went into the water. He never resurfaced, and he was bleeding from a gunshot wound. Patrol boats and the helicopter searched a grid around the coast for miles. The guards searched every square inch of the island several times over. His body never washed up on the shore like it should have, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s alive. If he didn’t drown or die of blood loss, the sharks definitely got him.
More importantly, if Ingram lived, how has he not made a move to rescue Kate from me? I’ve subjugated her to abject misery for months; if he’s alive, he’s either in a coma, he’s an amnesiac or he doesn’t care about her enough to intervene — but none of those are plausible. He loved her; if he was alive, he would have come for her by now. So there’s only one explanation: Ingram is dead.
I’ve told myself this a hundred times, so why do I still worry?
Because Kate hasn’t lost hope. She may not even be aware of it, but she holds onto the insane idea that he survived. She talks to him in her sleep. Even when she’s awake, lying in bed with her eyes closed, her lips move. On an intellectual level, she knows the truth, the same as me. Maybe if she stopped believing, I could too. It could be my next project, though Kate barely copes now — without any hope at all, she’ll be truly pathetic. She wouldn’t be as much fun.
“It’s time,” says Nick. “Let’s do this.”
He’s younger than Edward Lonergan was — stronger, smarter and a better marksman. He’s also more annoying. Too enthusiastic. Still, he gets the job done.
Barrett grunts. One of Garth Lipinski’s men, he’s no genius but he’s tough and well-trained. Perfect for keeping watch and moving cases full of weaponry.
I take one last look at Kate, then leave my phone on the seat. Stepping out into the blistering Riyadh heat, I look into the cloudless sky, trying to spot our surveillance drone. We’ve watched the dormant construction site west of the city for days; no one’s been here. We have perfect visibility for miles in every direction; our radar scans for any incoming aircraft. Hamza Bin Khaled has undoubtedly taken similar precautions.
If everything goes according to plan, we’ll be out of here in thirty minutes, back on my jet and headed for the Enclave — ready to destroy anyone who stands in my way at any time from anywhere.
Sweat beads on my forehead as we wait for Hamza’s vehicle convoy to reach us. Desert heat may be dry, but it’s still hot as fuck, especially after riding in an air-conditioned Hummer. With any luck, in the future my associates can come in my stead. For a first meeting, I had to show up.
Three massive, black SUVs kick up clouds of dust in their wake. They stop several car lengths away, and they wait for the sand to settle before getting out. A dozen men as broad and built as Nick and Barrett escort Hamza toward us. We hold out our arms so that Hamza’s men can frisk us for weapons and scan us for recording devices. When they’re done, they nod.
“Welcome,” says Hamza, his accent hardly detectable. His dossier says he grew up with family in Miami and studied engineering at Stanford before returning to his native Saudi Arabia. Handsome and only a few years older than me, he wears a sharp blue suit rather than a thawb or kaftan. “It’s good to finally meet.”
I bow.
“The honor is mine,” I say. If intelligence about him is to be believed, Hamza Bin Khaled doesn’t give two shits about scripture or customs — just making money. Considering how well he’s done for himself selling advanced weaponry, I’d say he’s got the right priorities.
“Are you enjoying your stay?” he asks, smiling.
I’d rather get straight to business, but if he wants to make small talk, it’s his dance. He’s no doubt studying my body language and tone, making sure he’s dealing with a professional and not an undercover INTERPOL agent. Luckily, I’m famous. The owner of Innovative AF doesn’t work for any law enforcement agency or government. I work for no one. Whether they know it or not, the world now works for me.
“Riyadh is a beautiful city,” I say. It’s not a lie, though I’ve only seen it from inside my jet; from ten-thousand feet, it was beautiful. On the ground, there’s no way I’d step foot out of my bullet-proof Hummer.
Hamza laughs.
“It’s nice to visit,” he says. “I’d rather be in Miami, but business is too good here.”
“That’s how I feel about New York,” I reply. “But Riyadh is much nicer.”
“I agree.”
