Chapter Text
Tom leaned back in the uncomfortable booth he’d chosen in the rear of the kitschy pub, checking the hands on his watch again to make sure he hadn’t overstayed his welcome. His standing Wednesday night appointment wouldn’t appreciate his tardiness, but his seven o’clock clearly didn’t understand the importance of time in his business. Time was money. And money was one of the only reasons he did what did. If he started missing his appointments, what was the point?
A television hanging from the ceiling to his left switched to a news programme on the Beeb, highlighting the day’s reported laundry list of war, famine, and general grief from every corner of the world. He tried to tune it out, having listened to enough of it from Kingsley earlier in the day, but was unable to do so when the presenter segued into another story.
“London is bracing for an influx of international dignitaries set to converge next week for an unprecedented symposium on world peace…”
Tom focused on the scotch tumbler in front of him, tracing an index finger lazily over the rim of the cheap glass. The action occupied him long enough that he was only treated to the end of the presenter’s discussion of the politics involved in the summit—for which he did not care—with a final message:
“We will keep you informed in the coming days of changes to your daily commute schedules as they change due to the expected high level of security involved during this time—”
He shifted in his seat again and straightened his tie. What was it about the news that made him so ill at ease these days? The little glimmer of hope dressed up as a world-wide movement toward peace did nothing to assuage his discomfort. When MI6 had recruited him right out of Cambridge, he’d looked at the world as an oyster full of promise. A world where he could make a real difference by bringing down the bad people with information—not force. He learned, perhaps too quickly, how misplaced such a youthful optimism was in the face of such evil. No matter how much he imagined he was helping, it was never enough, especially with hands tied by government bureaucracy.
He felt that way about the summit. It almost wasn’t worth the time and effort. Heads of government could talk about peace all they wanted, but the people who did the dirty work—the people like him—knew the reality of the situation. Maintaining peace wasn’t as simple or straightforward as they wanted to imagine; the operatives who worked in the shadows outside of governmental control and walked around with blood on their hands were the people who ran the world, international treaty or no. It didn’t matter what side they were on. It was useless to think things were suddenly going to change because a few politicians said it was so.
He sipped his scotch and swallowed the stringent liquid, hoping it would alleviate his anxiety. His intuition had been pinging like mad since Kingsley had given him the meeting. His Spidey-sense, as Kingsley’s technologist, Nick, had once called it, may have made him feel more wary of the situation. The meeting and client—who was twenty minutes late—made his stomach churn. An American oil tycoon had no business taking a meeting with him for any purpose. In fact, the American had no business being in London in the weeks leading up to a summit that would otherwise hamper business.
As he thought it, the door across the pub finally swung open onto the London night and admitted three men. The first moseyed inside as though he owned the place, a slight bow to his jean-clad legs. A small belly hung over the giant silver belt buckle struck with the outline of the state of Texas. It barely held a pristine white button up into his jeans. A brown suede suit coat and a white Stetson completed his look.
Tom grimaced into his drink and stood up to welcome the man trying his best to look like John Wayne. The two men who flanked each side of the man—both wearing similar dark suits and earpieces—eyed him suspiciously, but did not intercede when Tom addressed the first by name.
“Ah, Mr. Wright! Welcome to London.”
Tom extended his hand, as though he’d set the meeting at the seedy little place. He caught the eye of the man behind the bar and motioned to the table for service. One Jack Daniels on the rocks. Wright’s preferred drink, according to the dossier Kingsley had given to him earlier in the afternoon.
“It’s Bob, son,” Wright corrected. He accepted the handshake with a hearty squeeze of his mallet hands. Tom noted that he wasn’t a small man, and now standing only inches way, he seemed much more fearsome than his initial assessment of the John Wayne caricature.
Tom motioned to the booth. “Shall we?”
They sat across from each other, the dark suited men positioning themselves between their leader and the door. They blocked any access to the back room where they sat, leaving them peace to discuss whatever it was the man wanted. Tom placed his back to the wall and kept his eyes on the door, anyhow. Better to be prepared. He hadn’t thought to arm himself before leaving the office.
Tom cleared his throat as soon as the drink for his companion materialized in front of them, delivered by one of the suited men—not by the waitress. “Kingsley, unfortunately, didn’t give me much information when he asked that I meet you here. What can I help you with? Surely you understand the limits of my profession—is this for your wife or a mistress? I do not personally meet with men…”
Wright threw his head back and laughed. Loudly. “Oh! I’m not one of those sodomites!”
Wright’s words hit Tom like a cinderblock. If he didn’t already detest the meeting, he certainly did after that. Not that he expected much more. The man’s entire bearing screamed “I voted for Donald Trump in the last election.” He bled red, white and blue—and not in a becoming patriotic way.
“Yes, of course,” Tom corrected. “My, um, apologies, I’m simply confused and attempting to work this out.”
Wright leaned back in his seat and set an arm across the back of the booth. “You’re here because I asked Kingsley to send me the best.”
“I am the best, but you’ll excuse me if I—”
Wright snapped his fingers and one of the suited men produced a thick manila envelope. He took it from the guard and set it on the table. Tom eyed the offending office supply and turned his eyes back up to Wright. His instincts never failed him, sadly. He knew exactly what Wright wanted; Tom refused to touch it.
“I don’t do that anymore.”
Wright smirked. “It’s all screwing people for money. I don’t see the problem—or the difference.”
Don’t see the difference? Tom pursed his lips and fought a losing battle to contain his ire.
They were as different as night and day. In fact, a great wall with armed sentries separated fucking women and murdering people. He got out of it a long time ago—at least that aspect of the Company. He knew it still happened, in the dark recesses of the business. Kingsley had his hands in so many pots, Tom had never been able to keep them straight, mainly because his boss was never a hundred percent transparent. He thought, nonetheless, he’d made it clear to Kingsley he never wanted to maliciously lay his hands on another person again, be they the worst of the worst or the best of the best. Fucking for money was an entirely different ballgame… one that at least made it easier to look at himself in the mirror with a minimum amount of disgust.
“Kingsley must have been mistaken by your request, then,” Tom replied. “I’ve made it clear that I will not be taking any more contracts of this nature.”
“I was very clear with him.” Wright stiffened in his seat and straightened his spine. No longer the dopey, trying-to-be-friendly Texan, a shrewd businessman sat in his spot. One, unfortunately, Tom didn’t want to cross without a sidearm on his hip.
Tom pointed to the manila envelope and stood from his seat. “Unless there’s a sexually starved woman in need of pleasure in that envelope, this conversation is done.”
“I don’t know about sexually starved,” Wright added, “but a woman, yes.”
Tom secured the buttons on his coat and pulled at his French cuffs. “Good evening.”
The men sitting at the other end of the room, however, weren’t about to let him pass. Instead they stood up and cracked their knuckles. Tom eyed both of them and their surroundings, making note of the objects he could use in his escape. Chairs and tables, but not much else.
“We can do this the clean way or the dirty way,” Tom said. “I can leave here and find someone else to fill your request, no one gets hurt. Or the other way…”
Wright laughed, showing two rows of teeth so white they were practically neon. “Come, son, hear me out.”
Tom shook his head.
“I didn’t want to discuss money yet,” Wright said, “but—”
“You couldn’t pay me enough.”
Wright shrugged. “I’ll make you a deal. You don’t have to pull the trigger, and I’ll still pay you twenty million.”
Tom hesitated in his next step. That was a lot of money, any which way he put it. Far more than any contract he’d accepted in the past. It was money he could use to retire on. Money, perhaps, that could end the sordid spiral he kept following.
“Pounds sterling?”
“Dollars.”
“Pounds,” Tom said again. “Which, with the current exchange rate, should be about thirty mil American.”
Wright held his gaze, then looked him up and down, assessing him like a poker player trying to find a bluff. Finally, he was all smiles again. “Sit down.”
Tom didn’t take well to being told what to do, but he listened this time. Maybe, if he really admitted it to himself, he just wanted to know who the target was. Or it could have been self-preservation, knowing he wasn’t likely to get by the giant meatheads standing sentry on the other side of the room without at least a few broken ribs. Broken ribs, after all, made fucking dreadfully difficult.
Whatever the reason, he slid back into the booth and stared at the abhorrent man bartering for another person’s life. “I will not kill anyone.”
“No,” Wright said, “but you may be required to help my men do it.”
Tom swallowed around the lump in his throat. Could he do it? Could he allow himself to travel down that road again? Could he do it without losing himself completely to such an addicting mistress?
“I won’t.”
“It’s a lot of money, son. Don’t you want to know the op?”
Wright reached for the manila envelope and carefully peeled back the flap. It was unsealed, held together with two toggles and a string tied around it. He withdrew a stack of information—information necessary to complete the op—but chose one sheet and set it in front of him. Photo paper, regular portrait size. Shot with a long range lens, but clear enough to depict a group of people. Black-suited security guards surrounded an older man and young woman, both of which he knew well.
“Are you intending to throw over the British monarchy or the Margravian monarchy?”
“Both?”
Wright laughed and laughed at his attempt at a joke.
Tom shifted uneasily. Since the beginning of his career with Kingsley, his contracts involved so many heads of state and important decisions-makers, he’d lost count. They, however, were bit players compared to this. This op was on another level. Wright didn’t know what he was getting in to. What this meant.
“My sources tell me Prince Harry and Crown Princess Cecily will be announcing an engagement soon, but that it’s a matter of arrangement, not love,” Wright said.
Tom pursed his lips and reached for the photo. He pulled it forward and stared at the pretty blonde woman who laughed, frozen in time, at something her father had said. They were walking in front of Buckingham Palace, probably just before the Trouping the Colour ceremonies earlier that summer. It was the last time he recalled either royal family visiting their respective kingdoms.
The whole world knew Harry and Cecily weren’t in love with each other. They were being dutiful; Harry’d finally had one too many scandals and the Powers That Be had decided he needed to settle down. The Monarchy needed a publicity boost. King Leopold of Margravia needed to solidify his line of succession—with every remaining monarchy or principality in Europe sitting at least three or four generations deep in direct heirs, he was well behind the curve. Crown Princess Cecily was his only child.
Wright continued after giving him sufficient time to consider. “Which is where you come in. You use your very particular skill set to come between them and do what we need you to do.”
“They’ve done nothing wrong,” Tom replied. “They’re innocents.”
His companion snorted into his drink. “Oh, right, Kingsley did mention The Code. But you, of course, can’t say they’re innocents.”
“Harry dressing up as a Nazi one time long ago doesn’t condemn him to death,” Tom said.
“That’s why I’m prepared to make a deal with you.”
“You’re still planning to go through with an assassination—”
Wright shrugged his shoulders. “I hate unnecessary bloodshed, you know. But sometimes it’s necessary for a desired outcome.”
“What do you want?”
“I suppose you’ve heard about this treaty everyone’s talking about.”
Tom pinched the bridge of his nose then set his hands in front of him on top of the photo, covering Cecily’s smiling face with a palm. He couldn’t look at her. “What about it?”
“It’s bad for business. We need access to the oil fields, and if this treaty goes through—we lose it all,” he said. “We’re in the middle of building a new plant and I’d have to turn it over to the Syrians or follow their rules. I’ll be damned if those fuckers get their hands on my money.”
Tom couldn’t say the CEOs in his country were any better, but this man’s complete disregard for human life all for the sake of his greed made him queasy. He’d disposed of many men like Wright, but they were the ones not protected by the American government and its allies in a sham war. He did not kill innocents who had no say in a war their respective parliaments had all agreed to enter as allies.
“What do Cecily and Harry have to do with that?”
“Ransom,” Wright said. “We don’t have to kill them if we ransom them. The people who care about them will do anything, pay anything—vote against the treaty. Go to war…”
The bile rose in Tom’s throat when he recognized the sheer delight filling Wright’s wild smile. He liked war. Maybe even more than money. Probably had a lot to be earned from it.
Tom sighed. “The fact that you came to me tells me you have no intention of truly ransoming them. That way you get your war. Taking a play from the WWI playbooks, are you?”
“I’m a man who believes in contingency plans,” Wright explained, “so that everything turns in my favor.”
Tom shook his head. “I’m sorry, you’ve come to the wrong man. I’m sure there are others Kingsley keeps on the payroll, but I’m not that person.”
“How can one man be so righteous when he keeps company with criminals and whores—when he is a whore?” Wright asked.
Tom met Wright’s cold, menacing eyes. “When you come off your throne and do your own dirty work, you’ll see. You’ll see how it eats at your soul.”
Of course, Tom was fairly sure Wright didn’t have one of those.
Wright scratched his jaw and leaned over the table, closing in on him. Tom could smell the whisky on his breath and the expensive, but acrid, cologne he must have showered in. “Tell me, son, how are you going to feel knowing I gave you the opportunity to save their lives, but someone more ruthless than you just off and shoots them? You have the opportunity to stop all of this by making a ransom successful.”
“And if I were unsuccessful—”
“Well, you know,” he said. “I have a plan for that, too.”
Tom swallowed. Of course he did.
“My price just went up,” Tom said. “Fifty mil American.”
“Thirty.”
Tom slid out of his side of the booth. “A hundred.”
“Now don’t get carried away.”
“A hundred. In my offshore account before I begin. No refunds,” Tom said. “And I control the op. Everyone does what I say.”
Maybe he could influence, then, who lived and who died. Hopefully Wright did the latter.
“A hundred is a little steep, son.”
Tom glared at the man and leaned over the table, setting his hands flat on the top to support his weight. “I will have to live the rest of my life in hiding whether they live or die. The entire world will be looking for me. The least you could do is furnish me with enough money to enjoy my exile.”
Wright said nothing. In fact, he’d become the most impassive person now that they were reallydiscussing money.
“If you want this done and want it done right, then it’s a hundred.” Tom reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a business card. He set it on the table and picked up the manila envelope, slipping the photo back inside the pocket. “Call after you’ve thought about it.”
Tom stood up and straightened his coat. Neither of the guards made a movement this time, so he considered his time done. He nodded at them as he left, offering a simple, “Gentlemen,” and let himself into the London night.
Now all he had to do was come up with a plan that satisfied everyone—and saved lives.
But first, he had a nine o’clock appointment and he had to stop at his flat to take another shower. He felt dirtier than he’d ever felt before, and that was saying a lot for an escort who was once an assassin who was once a spy for MI6.