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“She wasn’t there.”
“Mother fucker!” Luca bursts, pounding his fist against the table. “She ran. She fucking ran!”
“I don’t think so, boss.”
“What do you mean, you don’t think so?” Luca demands.
“There were two pennies left on the sink.”
“Oh my God,” Carina gasps. “He got her. Gideon has Sofia.”
Luca pushes out of his chair so hard, it goes flying behind him. “I don’t care what it takes,” he says to us. “I want the fucking Ferryman dead.”
EPILOGUE
NOAH
Iwalk up to the door of the Louda Underground, a swanky lounge located in one of Philadelphia’s ritziest blocks. This is where the rich and powerful come to hobnob with others of their ilk. Politicians mingle with superstars, models, and even royalty on occasion.
It wasn’t hard to get access to a place like this. Not when I have friends that can put me on lists. More favors owed. I’ll deal with those later.
Tonight, I’m here to make good on the one I swore to Arran Maxton months ago.
“Name,” the man at the entrance says.
“Hugo Sanz.”
He looks over the list and finds the name, gives me a glance, then nods.
I pass through the door without issue, something that was guaranteed by my contact.
It’s a busy night inside the blue-lit club, with patrons filling the dancefloor or sitting around small tables, partaking of their favorite vices—wine, liquor, coke. Many others line the long bar sitting at one end that’s currently being worked by five bartenders.
“Tequila Falcon Añejo,” I say to one of them.
As I wait for my drink to be poured, I scan the room. Across the club, in one of the low tables surrounding the dance area, I spot an older man dressed in a fine black suit with a woman draped over him. She pours wine into his mouth directly from the bottle and laughs when some of it trickles down his cheek.
I tug my phone from my coat pocket and find the file that displays my target. Judge Thomas Cameron. That’s him.
My tequila is placed in front of me and I pay for it, then sip slowly, all the while watching the judge.
When he gets up and heads in the direction of the restroom, I set my glass down and follow.
Adrenaline rushes through my veins and my heart rate picks up as I enter behind him and stand at the farthest urinal, giving the other man in the room time to finish.
When Maxton finally called in the favor I’d dreaded because I had no doubt it would involve taking someone’s life—someone I didn’t know—I asked, “Does he deserve it?”
“That’s not your concern,” he replied. “You owe me the favor.”
Narrowing my gaze, I gritted through my teeth, “Then tell me this at least. Slow or fast.”
I didn’t need to clarify. He knew what I meant. Had Judge Cameron done something to deserve a prolonged death? Or should I make it quick and painless?
Maxton’s eyes darkened, and, in them, I saw a need for revenge I’m all too familiar with. “He deserves to burn in hell for what he did. I want you to send him there.” Then he told me why, and I wished he hadn’t. I wished not to know, not to have that image engraved in my mind forever.
The other man in the restroom washes his hands and leaves only Judge Cameron and myself.
I zip up my pants and go to stand behind him. “Thomas Cameron?”
