The Offshore Vendetta

Chapter4

Later That Afternoon

Sam spent the rest of the day in his office, trying to focus on the usual numbers flashing across his screen, but his mind was elsewhere. The weight of Villefort’s words pressed down on him, the reality of his situation sinking in deeper with each passing minute.

He tried to think back—retrace the steps that had led him here. It had all seemed so ordinary at first. Miles, always a little too eager, a little too hungry for the big score, had come to him with a few investment opportunities. Nothing that had seemed off at the time—just the usual high-risk, high-reward plays. Sam had listened, but he hadn’t bitten. He’d stuck to his own strategies, keeping things clean, at least on the surface.

But now? Now it was clear that Miles had been playing a different game entirely. And by the time Sam had realized it, he was already in too deep.

His phone buzzed, snapping him out of his thoughts. It was a message from Sophie.

Dinner tonight? Let’s unwind.

Sam stared at the message for a long moment. Normally, a night with Sophie would be exactly what he needed. But right now, unwinding was the last thing on his mind.

Rain check? Swamped at work.

He hit send, then tossed the phone onto his desk, letting out a long breath. He needed to figure this out, fast. If Rykov and his people were watching him, waiting for him to make a move, he couldn’t afford to sit still.

That Night - Tracking Miles

By the time the sun had set, Sam was already on the move. He wasn’t about to let Miles disappear without a trace. He knew the man too well—knew his habits, his patterns. And if he was right, Miles would be lying low at one of his usual haunts.

He drove through the city, the streets blurring past in the dim glow of streetlights. His mind was focused, cold, calculating. If he could find Miles, he could get answers. And if he got answers, maybe—just maybe—he could figure out a way out of this mess.

The bar was a small, nondescript place on the outskirts of the City, the kind of place where nobody asked questions, and nobody cared who you were. Sam had been there a few times with Miles, back when things were easier, back when they were still on the same side of the game.

As he walked in, his eyes scanned the room, looking for any sign of his former friend. The place was half-empty, a few tired-looking men nursing their drinks at the bar, a couple of young traders laughing too loudly at a table in the corner. But no Miles.

Sam’s jaw tightened. He walked to the bar, sliding onto a stool and catching the bartender’s eye.

“Seen Miles?” he asked, his voice casual, but with an edge.

The bartender raised an eyebrow, wiping down a glass. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Sam Aldridge,” he said flatly. “He owes me money.”

The bartender smirked, setting the glass down. “You and half of London. He was here yesterday, looked like hell. Haven’t seen him since. But if I were you? I’d check that rat hole he calls an apartment. He’s probably hiding under the bed.”

Sam nodded, tossing a note on the bar before heading out. Miles was running, but not fast enough. Sam knew exactly where he’d be.

Miles’ Apartment

When Sam arrived at the apartment, it was just as dingy as he remembered. Miles had never been much for luxury—he liked his money in his accounts, not on his walls. The place was dark, the street outside quiet except for the distant hum of traffic. Sam stood at the door for a moment, listening.

No sound.

He knocked, hard. No answer

He knocked again, his patience wearing thin. “Miles, I know you’re in there. Open the damn door.”

Silence.

Sam felt his pulse quicken, his instincts screaming that something was wrong. He reached for the handle, twisting it.

Unlocked.

He pushed the door open, stepping inside. The place was a mess—papers strewn across the floor, empty bottles on the counter, the faint smell of stale cigarettes hanging in the air. But no Miles.

“Damn it,” Sam muttered, walking through the apartment, his eyes scanning for any sign of where Miles might have gone.

And then he saw it.

A bloodstain.

Small, barely noticeable, but there, on the edge of the coffee table. Fresh.

Sam’s heart pounded in his chest. This wasn’t good. Not good at all.

The door swung open without a creak. Sam liked that. It made things feel less like he was walking into a disaster and more like he was strolling into an expensive hotel room where the only trouble was a minibar bill.

But this wasn’t a hotel room. And the bill Miles had run up wasn’t getting paid with pocket change.

Sam stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowing as they scanned the place. Miles’ apartment was a masterclass in self-pity—half-empty whiskey bottles, papers scattered like confetti at a funeral, and a faint smell of desperation. But what caught Sam’s attention wasn’t the mess—it was the stillness. The kind that clung to the air like a bad hangover.

“Miles,” Sam muttered under his breath. “You always did know how to throw a party.”

He stepped inside, the faintest sense of dread curling in his gut. It wasn’t the first time he’d walked into a situation that smelled of bad decisions, but this one? This one reeked of something worse.

He moved through the apartment, his shoes tapping lightly against the worn floorboards. A quick glance told him what he already knew—Miles wasn’t here. At least, not in any condition to answer the door. What Sam didn’t expect, though, was the blood. Tiny, almost unnoticeable, but there it was—on the edge of the coffee table. Like a warning left behind, just in case Sam thought this was going to end neatly.

“Well, that’s just perfect,” Sam muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You couldn’t just run, could you, Miles? You had to leave breadcrumbs.”

He crouched down, inspecting the blood. Fresh enough. Whoever had been here didn’t make a clean exit, which meant things had gone sideways. Worse, it meant someone might still be watching. Sam straightened, his instincts kicking in. If Miles wasn’t dead yet, he was about to wish he was.

“Alright, old friend,” Sam said quietly, more to himself than the empty room. “Let’s see what you’ve left me.”

Sam moved through the apartment with the precision of a man who didn’t trust his surroundings. Years in finance had taught him to look for the smallest tells—a flicker in someone’s eyes, the hesitation before a handshake. This place was no different. The mess wasn’t random, and the blood on the table wasn’t an accident.

His eyes landed on a stack of papers half-buried under a pizza box. Sam nudged it aside, careful not to touch anything that might leave a trace. Miles had been sloppy—sloppy enough to get himself killed, if Sam’s hunch was right—but he wasn’t stupid. Not entirely, anyway.

The papers were a mix of bank statements, transaction records, and what looked like contracts. Sam scanned them quickly, his brow furrowing. Offshore accounts, fake companies, and a few signatures that didn’t belong anywhere near legitimate deals.

“Ah, Miles,” Sam sighed, flipping through the mess. “You really went all in, didn’t you?”

He found what he was looking for halfway through the pile—a transfer from one of the shell companies linked to the energy fund. The numbers were big enough to make Sam’s stomach turn, but it wasn’t the amount that bothered him. It was the name attached to it: Anatoly Rykov.

“Well, well,” Sam muttered, his lips curling into a humorless smile. “Looks like you weren’t just playing with fire, you decided to douse yourself in gasoline first.”

Rykov’s name wasn’t one you wanted on your financial statements unless you had a death wish. The man was a legend in all the wrong ways—arms dealer, oil tycoon, and rumor had it, the kind of guy who could make people disappear with a phone call. Miles must have thought he could dance around Rykov’s money without getting burned.

Sam shook his head, tossing the papers back onto the coffee table. If Rykov’s people had been here, they wouldn’t have been looking for answers. They’d have been looking for a body. And if they hadn’t found Miles yet, it meant he was still running.

The problem with running, though, was that it always ended the same way. Sooner or later, you got tired. And Rykov’s people? They didn’t.

Sam pulled out his phone, dialing quickly. If anyone knew where Miles had holed up, it would be Villefort. The man had a talent for knowing things he wasn’t supposed to know, and right now, Sam needed that talent.

Villefort picked up after the second ring, his voice crisp. “Sam. You find anything?”

“I found a mess,” Sam replied, glancing at the blood again. “A few papers, some blood, and Rykov’s name all over it. Care to explain how our mutual friend ended up in bed with one of the most dangerous men on the planet?”

Villefort sighed on the other end of the line. “It’s worse than you think. Miles didn’t just take money from Rykov—he lost it. Millions. And now Rykov’s looking for someone to pay the bill.”

Sam rubbed his temples, his jaw tightening. “And they think I’m that someone.”

“Exactly,” Villefort said. “Rykov’s people don’t care about the details. They just want their money, and they don’t care where it comes from. If Miles can’t give it to them, they’ll take it from you.”

Sam let out a bitter laugh. “Well, isn’t that just peachy? I’m paying for someone else’s sins, and I didn’t even get a chance to enjoy the ride.”

“There’s more,” Villefort said, his voice dropping lower. “Rykov’s sending a fixer. Someone named Alexei. They’re already in London. If you don’t clear this up fast, you’ll have more than just Miles’ mess on your hands.”

Sam’s stomach tightened, but his voice remained cool. “Alexei? The Alexei?”

“The one and only,” Villefort confirmed. “Rykov’s personal enforcer. The kind of guy who makes people disappear, and they never get found. You need to find Miles, Sam. Fast.”

Sam’s mind was racing, calculating options, but none of them looked good. He could run, but that wasn’t his style. He could try to negotiate, but with someone like Rykov? Negotiation was a waste of breath. That left only one option—find Miles, and find him before Alexei did.

“Any idea where Miles might be hiding?” Sam asked, his voice steady despite the storm brewing inside him.

“There’s one place he might’ve gone,” Villefort said. “An old safe house he used to use when things got too hot. It’s not much, but it’s off the grid. He might be lying low there.”

“Send me the address,” Sam said, already moving toward the door. “And Villefort?”

“Yeah?”

“If this goes sideways, tell Rykov I was never part of this. And make sure you stay out of the blast radius.”

Villefort chuckled darkly. “Already planning on it, Sam. Good luck.”

Sam hung up, slipping his phone into his pocket. He glanced back at the apartment one last time, taking in the chaos. If things didn’t go his way, this could very well be his future—a mess of blood and regrets, left for someone else to clean up.

But not today.

Sam pushed the door open, stepping into the crisp night air. The city hummed around him, oblivious to the ticking clock that now hung over his head.

Finding Miles wasn’t about saving a friend; Sam wasn’t naive enough to think like that. Miles had put them both in this situation, and he was too deep in his own mess to pull anyone else out of it. But Miles had something Sam needed—answers. Leverage. If Miles had screwed up this badly, then somewhere in all the chaos, there had to be something Sam could use to untangle himself from the noose that was tightening around his neck.

The blood in the apartment told Sam one thing: Miles was running out of time. But he wasn’t dead yet, which meant he still had value. Sam just had to find him before someone else did.

He slipped behind the wheel of his car, glancing at his phone as Villefort’s message buzzed in. An address—one of the many boltholes Miles had tucked away for moments like this. The thing about Miles was, he always thought he was one step ahead. He always thought he could slither out of trouble and hide just long enough for things to blow over.

But Rykov’s men weren’t the type to blow over. They were the type to blow your brains out.

Sam started the car, his thoughts racing alongside the city lights as they blurred past his window. Finding Miles wasn’t just about avoiding Rykov’s hammer. Sam needed to know what cards were still in play. What had Miles promised? How much money had he lost? And—most importantly—did he still have access to any of it? If Sam could find that out, he might have something to offer Rykov.

Because right now Sam didn’t have a damn thing.