Butterfly Stomp Waltz

Chapter 18

18

Two people killed before they reached the staging point.

I glance around the room, assessing threats. Eight heavy, intricately carved, and immaculately polished 18th-century oak doors around the penthouse lead to private suites: two open. I glimpse a window through one, blue sky and distant dry Portuguese hills. Rob’s locked the elevator doors, which will keep out casual intruders but the doors won’t stop a grenade. The Atlantic salt air suddenly smells harsh and bitter, and my last bite of salmon has left my mouth greasy.

“How?” Bradley says.

“Sniper fire,” Rob says. “On the highway from Paris.”

I think Paris? Two people?

But before I can speak Jacka says, “Don’t tell me it was Pillock and Daft.”

“The very same.”

Pillock and Daft aren’t—weren’t—their real names, of course, but that’s what everyone called them. I hate these pretentious pseudonyms some of us take, but I hear Pillock’s real name is something like Gentle or Meek. Not the kind of name you want when you’re a gunman. I’d be hard-pressed to name two better gunmen my age.

Or more careful gunmen.

I stand up and go to close the doors.

“That’s it,” Bradley says. “We’re blown.”

“That’s nothing new,” Rob says.

“I’ll get the lights,” Jacka says.

I shut one door and move to the second. The odds of a sniper with a modern rifle planting himself on a hill a mile away and getting a line on one of us through such a narrow gap are pretty minimal, but I know far too many people who specialize in minimal odds. When Jacka kills the ring of ceiling lights, the room’s only illumination is the reflected morning sunlight coming through the slanted skylights. Nothing to be done about those, except get ourselves out of here and make ourselves even more exposed as soon as we can manage.

Bradley’s scanning and rescanning the room, her paranoia on high. She’s fairly new to the field—has she ever even been here before?

“Eat,” Rob says.

“How can you say that?” Bradley says.

Guess she hasn’t.

“Very easy.” Rob bends to take a heavy plate from the pile. “Every calorie you get now is food you won’t need later. We have time.”

“What makes you so sure?” Bradley says.

“If they knew we were here,” I say, “we wouldn’t have woken up.”

“They might be watching us,” Jacka says. “Waiting to see where we go.”

Rob assembles a hasty poached-egg-and-baguette sandwich and shovels salmon onto his plate. He says he’s getting older and slowing down, but his hands flow with a deft economy of motion. Wincing with distaste, he adds dried prunes. “Indeed, Mister Jacka. You have procured transportation for us? And equipment?”

“Too much of both, now,” Jacka says. “I say we take the Caddy and probably… the BMW.”

“You’re my driver, then. Miss Bradley, Beaks, are you prepared to play tourist?”

“Hang on,” Bradley says. “We’re blown. The thing to do is split up and scatter.”

“Many times, yes.” Rob sips his coffee. “Not this time.”

“I know you were set up,” Bradley says, “but—”

“It’s not merely a matter of someone double-dipping my services,” Rob says. “People have died. People you know.”

“That’s what people do,” Bradley says, her face flushed. “I have no intent of joining them.”

Rob is unhurriedly chewing a mouthful of salmon, so Jacka says, “You can’t just walk out now.”

“Watch me.” Bradley’s chin is raised, her eyes bright and hard.

My heart is pounding, and I have to fight to keep my fists unclenched. “Was Deke just people?”

Bradley’s face flashes with sympathy. “Ah, s**t. They got Deke?”

Teeth clenched, I give a single nod. I am not going to cry again.

“I’m sorry, Beaks,” Bradley says, hands open helplessly. “I really am. But us getting killed won’t bring him back.”

Rob swallows. “Miss Bradley. I feel compelled to remind you of your debt to me.”

“Yeah, I owe you,” Bradley says. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll put my head in the crosshairs.”

“That’s part of the risk of the profession.” Rob stabs a prune with his fork and studies it dubiously. “Nevertheless, you are free to leave at any time.”

“Thank you.” Bradley stands. “I’m sorry for your loss, Beaks. Truly.” She nods at Jacka. “Next time.” She takes two steps towards the elevator.

I’m torn. My heart wants to storm after Bradley, grab her and shout that we’re already down two people and that we’re going to need every set of skilled hands we can get if we’re to have any chance of success. My head knows that if we’re blown this early and the opposition has gone straight to snipers, continuing is stupid.

Even if we’re blown, I’ll figure out how to get Noah. To hurt him like he hurt me—Deke. Even if everyone faded. Even if I have to do it solo. A couple small European gigs for a stake, maybe some freelance thievery. Europe’s full of expensive art. I could always steal the Mona Lisa or something to get funding.

Bradley’s halfway across the floor when Rob says, “But if you walk out, I will be forced to tell people that your word is not good.”

Ouch.

Bradley stops.

“You will never work in this field again.” Rob rotates the fork, as if the impaled prune might become more appetizing from another angle. “Additionally, I believe that several people you’ve worked with before would be disappointed to learn that you were unwilling to reciprocate the efforts they expended on your behalf.” He brings the prune closer to his face and gives it a sniff. “I suspect you lack sufficient funds to disappear properly.”

If Rob had told me that about Bradley, I would have been disappointed.

But I’m only owed very small favors.

Bradley whirls. “You son of a bitch.”

“Let her go,” I say. “You can’t do this kind of work unwillingly.”

“She will be willing,” Rob says. “Exactly as I’m willing to eat these brutally tormented plums every morning. It merely requires contemplating… one’s options.” He takes a deep breath, clamps his teeth over the prune, and chews ferociously.

Jacka’s looking back and forth between Bradley and Rob. Bradley looks kind of stunned. I don’t know who she owes what. Rob has an expression of complete concentration, as if chewing and swallowing the prune demands every scrap of his willpower.

“Fine,” Bradley says. She stomps back to the table. “But if we’re going to do this, I want a plan. A clear-cut goal. A mission, other than go in and blow this guy apart.”

“Of course,” Rob says. He works his mouth distastefully, then gulps a mouthful of water. It seems to help. “Our goal is to capture and interrogate Sir Noah. Not to kill him—the dead teach nothing. Secondary goal is exfiltration of his computer data or hard drives. He spends most of his time at his main estate, near Faro, by the southern coast of Portugal.”

“Four people is pretty tight,” I say.

Rob says, “We need faster action and more thorough planning. I would have preferred Pillock, Daft, Beaks, and myself as the intrusion team, while Jacka and Bradley provided operational support. Mister Jacka, you will be with Beaks and myself on intrusion.”

Jacka grimaces but nods. We need at least three people to go in, in case someone gets hurt.

“Bradley, you’ll provide your usual cover.”

Bradley says nothing, but her scowl sours further.

“Mister Jacka,” Rob says, “have you finished breaking your fast? And did you review the documents I sent yesterday?”

Jacka nods. He’s always the first one to finish eating. The guy must stay thin by simply not liking food. I spend a lot of time, and more energy, resisting food.

“Then would you be so kind,” Rob says, “as to work the display while the rest of us finish? And we can discuss how to get into the estate. And out again, with a bag full of Sir Jack Noah.”