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And I’m also not blind to Casper’s own distractions. He hasn’t asked me to take over yet—is still holding back, but the time will come. The wanker also knows I’ll accept without hesitation. With honor.
“Still taking a small holiday?”
Momentarily, my eyes shift to him, and I arch a brow in question. “I am.”
“Enjoy the time off.”
“You do the same.”
“I will.” Casper squeezes my shoulder, a smirk on his face. “See you in a few days.” He leaves after that, walking over to where Malcolm stands with a neutral expression on his face. No pity. No emotions. It’s why the Jamesons and the bloke have become more than a business transaction over the years: he understands and lives by the same cold code.
They exchange words, not that I pay attention as I meet the eyes of the woman whimpering. She’s afraid. Pale. What did she touch to end up here?
Two bullets dislodge from a gun, and I look toward the man holding this meeting. He’s enraged but keeps the devil within on a tight leash, and yet I see the bloodlust. The desire to slowly kill each one of those he considers traitors.
The men—his guards who had been wearing hoods a minute ago—slumped over, a bullet to the neck and chest respectively. They tip toward the hysterical woman, and she subtly attempts to move closer to me until I remove the light sweatshirt I’m wearing so she can see the two Ruger’s I have underneath in a leather holster around each shoulder.
I smile as the little glimmer of hope in her eyes dies. She wouldn’t be here unless she’s directly involved with our sabotaged wire transfer.
Blood pours from the dead guards’ wounds, the cold concrete soaking up their life’s essence while my cousin and Malcolm face the others on the floor.
The latter tosses something on the ground, and the younger of the two men kneeling gets paler. Shakes harder while Malcolm’s cold eyes stare him down, unwavering, as he crouches to his level.
“If you ever lay a finger on her again…” Casper holds up his hand and motions for us to move. Jeffrey doesn’t hesitate to follow orders while I watch just long enough for the butt of Malcolm’s gun to break the bloke’s hand before winking at the crying woman and exiting myself.
Just beside the loading area, I find the trucks with our men already behind the wheel. Jeffrey takes the one in the middle while I take the front, exiting the warehouse in relative silence while heading toward the port to secure storage before we move the electronics to a cargo ship heading to South America.
It takes a few hours, but we get it done. The hot equipment has already been sold and paid for, and I’m negotiating another shipment through emails with the buyer.
The mobile in my pocket vibrates again, the third message from the man watching Aliana. It’s her location, a picture I requested, and status—I’ll only check once I’m inside my rental while these men head home to London.
“That’s all of it,” Jeffrey says, bringing a small towel to his face to wipe his forehead. “Christ, all this moving around has me feeling like a roast.”
“It’s a pretty warm evening.” Another of the men hands me a bottle of water. I grab it with a nod of thanks and take a sip. “Sweep for anything left undone and head to the airstrip. The plane will be ready when you are.”
“What about you?” Jeffrey’s expression holds confusion. And he’s not being nosy; I’ve known him long enough to see the wheels turning—calculating how he could be of assistance. “Do you need me to stay? You know I’m here for whatever has to be done.”
A smirk spreads across my face, my hand gripping his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Not necessary. This is a solo mission, but there is one thing I’ll need.”
“Personal?”
“Extremely.”
“Done, and please enjoy your time off, Mr. Jameson.”
5
The moment I step outside the elevator and onto the rooftop lounge a few hours later, I’m met with a familiar scene from around the world. No matter the country, it’s all the same. Bodies grinding, pulsing beats, the heated stares of strangers as you walk by, and then come the subtle whispers: Who is that?
Men and women.
They all look at me, not realizing that my hands will forever be stained with blood—a badge I wear proudly. I’m a killer. A criminal. And I’ve hurt many for the personal gain of myself and those who share my last name.
And yet, it’s the over six-foot frame with dirty blond hair up in a small bun and light greenish eyes they focus on. It’s the tattoos and the black designer trousers and long-sleeved vest I changed into along with the accent that lures them in. Because no one believes me to be anything but a businessman upon first impression, they don’t see the devil within until close enough for me to execute without empathy.
A commoner walking down the street or inside a pub having a drink wouldn’t think I’d easily burn them all alive if they crossed me. A costly mistake. If more people were aware of their surroundings, fewer innocents would die.
“Well, aren’t you handsome.” A woman in her mid-twenties with too much lip-gloss and mascara steps into my path. She’s overly done from head to toe, the light pink in her bleached hair a bit nauseating, but it’s the hand on my arm I’m repulsed by. “Where have you been hiding—”
