Rising Hope by Edie James
20
The man ranhis finger over the last line of the email and smiled, savoring the glow of accomplishment. Walker had done her part. The big meet with the Tambov Roka heads would happen in less than forty-eight hours.
Panetta and Munson would secure the drugs and deliver his last payment from the cartel a few hours later.
Even without this last payment, he was a rich man now. But no way he was walking away from another ten million. He laughed, quickly covering his mouth against the unexpected sound. After paying off his idiot partner and the two agents, he’d still pocket at least thirty million once his European fence sold the jewels.
Thirty. Million. Dollars.
He eyed the lines of text one last time, almost as if he were afraid it couldn’t be this simple.
“Honey?” His wife called from the kitchen. “I was thinking about chicken tonight. Could you start the grill?”
No. No, he could not.
He couldn’t stand one more bite of that tasteless economy-packaged junk.
Rather than answer, he rose from the desk and headed for the kitchen. “I’m taking you out,” he informed her. “Make a reservation at Matteo’s.”
She opened her mouth to protest. “Too expensive,” she’d say, or “We can’t do that on a weeknight.”
He gritted his teeth and waited. He wouldn’t have to endure her boring, conventional ways much longer.
But she surprised him, smiling gently, her cheeks pinking with pleasure. “That sounds lovely.”
Acknowledging her with a nod, he pivoted on his heel. “I need a shower.” And a drink. The Macallan Scotch, he thought. At three thousand dollars a bottle, he rarely indulged, but he deserved it.
It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it.
But first, he detoured back into his study to secure his computer. Jeanine wasn’t the brightest woman, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Not this close to the end of the game.
Besides, he didn’t want to have to kill his own wife.
He tilted the screen back, wanting a last look at the email, but then he noticed the tiny red circle. Another incoming message.
The sender’s address made his pulse quicken.
His partner. Ugh.
With a glance at the empty doorway, he swiped open the email, quickly adding his code to decrypt it.
Unlike his partner’s usual bloated communiques this one was quick and to the point.
MacKenzie is searching for the pilot. Please advise.
Anger radiated down his neck, tensing his shoulders and making his fingers curl into fists. He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to hurl the computer across the room.
The cursor blinked steadily as he wrestled his temper back into place.
The last meet would take place in two days. MacKenzie wouldn’t have a chance to find out anything of use. No one would. Panetta and Munson were hard core operatives. They knew their stuff. Plus, their futures were on the line, too. They were guilty of concealing stolen jewels, and, of course, murder. Not that they had a thing to worry about. As long as they didn’t cross him.
He was confident the Wenmark kid’s body wouldn’t be found. At least not until he had plenty of time to disappear. But one thing was clear. MacKenzie—and Sarah Walker—had to be neutralized. He’d been toying with the idea of letting them disappear back into their old lives, but that wouldn’t be possible now.
He bent over the keyboard and typed.
Understood. No action needed. Subjects are under surveillance.
A lie, but he couldn’t have the man messing things up. Not this close to the finale. He hit send, then unlocked the top desk drawer to pull out the little-used burner phone.
Once you have the delivery, execute the final plan. All of it.
He sent the text, then erased it from the phone before locking the device in his top desk drawer again. A copy would remain on the secure server, but with so many layers between him and the actual account, no one could tie him to it.
Walker and the pilot would be taken care of, but not before they performed one final—highly critical—service.
Whistling softly, he reached for the bottle of scotch and raised it in a silent toast.
To the good life.