The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(63)

She grinned at the irony.

As an ambassador, Dean had enjoyed the protection of the Vienna Convention. Even if his wrongdoing was brought to light, he’d have been exempt from capital punishment. Well, she’d got around that. But then, she never had been a slave to convention.

She’d waited until they’d left the crowds behind before giving the nod. The grunt had taken out his weapon and pressed it against the diplomat’s ribs. He’d thrown an arm round Dean’s shoulder, making out they were old friends larking around, as he guided him up a side street to the kill site. Dean’s gob had been going the whole time, trying to talk his way out of trouble.

Didn’t do him any good, mind. The street was empty, only her and her cohort around to hear him.

Dean had fallen silent when they stopped walking, a look of terror on his face as she gestured to the abandoned building.

Inside, the stench of piss was nauseating.

He’d backed away from her, pleading with the two of them to let him go. Stumbling in the dark interior, he’d fallen on the concrete floor, the breath forced from his lungs as he hit the deck hard. When he’d scrambled to his feet, she’d been expecting him to turn and run, a futile attempt to get away, but instead he stood his ground. He was scared, not stupid. There was only one exit and it was behind her.

After a split-second’s hesitation, the grunt moved in, an upward thrust finding its target with devastating effect, causing a deep puncture wound to the gut. Looking on from her ringside seat, she felt neither pity nor remorse.

The diplomat’s knees buckled. He fell to the filthy floor clutching his stomach, thick dark liquid oozing through his fingers as he tried to stem the blood, blind panic on his face.

A feeling of euphoria swept through her, then as now. This was how she’d imagined Dean would end his days, a world away from the privileged life he’d led. After twenty years of being indulged at the British taxpayers’ expense, wined and dined by royalty, earning the kind of salary she could only dream of, he’d finally got what was coming to him.

With his left hand pressed against the stab wound, he’d reached back with his right hand and tugged his wallet from his pocket, offering it to her, a final plea to let him live.

She’d kicked it away.

‘No amount of money will save you,’ she’d told him. ‘You’re going to have to pay with your life for the wrong you have done. You took it upon yourself to condemn someone else to an early grave. Now it’s your turn.’

She’d never forget his expression. He’d looked incredulous, as if to say: if not robbery, then what? Why me? A moment later, the light left his eyes, massive blood loss causing him to fade in and out of consciousness. He was fighting hypovolemic shock, his condition already life-threatening. She asked him what it felt like. A sick joke – literal and metaphorical – seemed appropriate, a hint of why he’d been selected.

When she explained her reasoning, he made out that he didn’t know what she was talking about. Liar. His breath was ragged by then, his voice almost inaudible. A cough squeezed more blood through slimy fingers.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘Well, understand this. Every action has a reaction. It’s like a game of consequences.’

A nod was all it took. The grunt went in hard, delivering a fatal blow to the heart.

She smiled now at the memory. Dean was her first and therefore most special achievement, with many more planned, which made 28 July a date to cherish and to celebrate. Her premiere had gone like clockwork. A wrap. No retakes required. Red carpet coming right up.

She’d left him lying there, secure in the knowledge that no one was likely to find him until they had made good their escape. Just to make sure that he was found, she’d popped the DVD into the post before boarding the flight to London.

Oh yes, Sundays were special. And by next Sunday she’d be ready to rain down retribution on Boy Wonder.





37


O’Neil made coffee as usual, showing no signs of lingering bad feeling, making no mention of the events of last night. Ryan, on the other hand, felt utterly drained by the altercation. Unable to trust himself to bring the matter up without upsetting her, he remained silent.

Grace and Newman arrived early, sheepish both of them. It was a show of solidarity that Ryan appreciated wholeheartedly.

O’Neil invited them to sit.

‘I want to clear the air,’ she said. ‘In future, I expect openness and transparency from all of you. If you have anything to say about this unit, the way it is run and by whom, you come to me. You do not discuss it with each other. Is that clear?’

‘Crystal,’ Ryan said.

Grace and Newman nodded agreement.

‘Good. The other thing we talked about in the early hours concerning me is over. I won’t discuss it again with anyone.’ She stressed the word anyone, leaving Ryan in no doubt that the subject was closed even to him – especially to him. ‘I trust you to keep it to yourselves. Now, has anyone got anything to say vis-à-vis their future in this unit?’

She scanned Grace, Newman and Ryan in turn.

Ryan spoke first: ‘I’m in if you are, guv.’

‘Me too,’ Grace said. ‘If you’re thinking of resigning, forget it.’

Newman said nothing, though it was clear he was going nowhere.