The bloody revenge had come to an end. Viggo was dead, Iosef was dead, and the gang members who had broken into the villa and killed John's beloved dog had paid with their lives.
The villa, now battered beyond recognition, needed a complete renovation.
The bad news was that the DV camera containing the footage Helen had left behind was missing. Fortunately, the planning room Beta had set up in the basement was protected by a coded door, and none of their plans had been exposed.
The two men searched through the wreckage. Beta tossed broken picture frames and a dented table lamp into a trash bag, his shoes crunching over shards of glass with a sharp, grating sound.
Beta picked up a shattered ceramic ornament and threw it into the bag. "Helen's last gift to you, and you just left it in a bedroom drawer? You couldn't even be bothered to put it in the safe?"
His accusation echoed through the empty villa. John's back stiffened, but he continued searching the wreckage for the silver DV camera.
When he lifted a corner of the rug, he froze. Beneath it, the silver DV camera lay undisturbed. Its screen was shattered, but the memory card slot was intact.
John gently pulled out the memory card. The metal card was undamaged in the light. Beta came over and took it, checking it against the light before handing it back. "Put it in the safe in a bit."
John slipped the memory card into his shirt pocket and gently pressed his fingers against it.
Beta surveyed the ruined living room. "I'm flying to France in a few days. I need to get ready for the job there."
He kicked aside the broken glass by his feet. "Contact the Continental Hotel's 'cleaners.' They can make this place look like nothing ever happened."
His pocket suddenly vibrated urgently.
Frowning, Beta pulled out a disposable phone. A message appeared on the screen: Contact awaiting reply. No response in 24 hours. This is a reminder.
Beta snapped the phone in half with both hands. The plastic casing broke with a crack. He removed the SIM card, tossed it into the toilet, and flushed. The tiny chip spun away into the whirlpool.
Beta pushed open the bedroom door. Compared to the living room, it was in decent shape, aside from a torn pillow and a laptop smashed in two. Feathers spilled from the ripped pillowcase like a blizzard. The laptop had been broken clean in half, its screen separated from the keyboard.
He walked to the wall and lightly pressed his fingertips against a square of wallpaper that looked no different from the rest.
With a faint mechanical click, a section of the wall slid open, revealing a built-in safe. He entered a twelve-digit code on the keypad, and the safe popped open. Its contents were plain to see: an encrypted laptop, two Glock 19s, neatly stacked magazines, and more than a dozen bundles of cash in different currencies.
Beta took out the laptop and plugged in the USB Drive. The screen flickered a few times. The original system was overwritten, replaced by a pitch-black chat interface.
"Ding!"
He logged in, and three unread messages appeared.
The cursor blinked on the screen. Beta studied the two unfamiliar accounts. Their prefixes were system-generated IDs; there were no names or chat histories.
Only two accounts were unfamiliar. One belonged to the employer he had killed on his previous job.
Beta rubbed the stubble on his chin with his thumb. The cursor hovered over the familiar account before he finally clicked it.
The message opened on the screen: Someone deliberately delayed your final payment, then used a deposit to get you to eliminate two targets. I'd like to hire you again to kill them. Please reply to my message.
The screen's light fell across Beta's face. He stared at the words for a full ten seconds, his fingers hovering over the keyboard before lowering. The previous job was over. There was no need to dwell on it.
He closed the chat window. Some games were over, and it was time to leave the table.
Beta tapped lightly on the touchpad. That precise shot on Downing Street had surely led MI6 to pursue him. They must be eager to catch the killer and restore the reputation of the United Kingdom's security services and government.
This contact account had received three offers in just one month, an unusually high level of activity. In the past, it had only seen three or four jobs a year. These offers had to include two kinds of clients: genuine employers who had come seeking his services, impressed by his "masterpiece" on Downing Street and desperate for him to solve their problems; and British intelligence, laying carefully prepared traps, with a hook hidden in every message, waiting to reel him in and lock him behind bars.
Beta narrowed his eyes. He knew this game of cat and mouse. Every offer that looked tempting might lead to a closely watched dead end. Like a campfire suddenly appearing in a dark forest, it might be a traveler's welcome—or a hunter's bait.
Beta opened the first message. The amount on the screen made his eyebrows lift: the offer was now $20 million. A $2 million retainer would be paid immediately. The meeting place was up to him. They needed his professional skills.
The offer had doubled since they'd contacted him in France half a month ago.
Beta lightly tapped the laptop's metal casing with his index finger. What kind of target could make an employer so persistent, so willing to pile up a fortune in compensation?
He closed the chat window. The rule of never meeting a client had been carved into his bones from the day he first picked up a gun. No offer, no matter how tempting, was worth a bullet fired from the shadows.
Beta opened the third message: Professionally trained personnel. Fee: $4 million. Reply to accept.
"Professionally trained personnel?" Beta repeated quietly, intrigued by the description. Could the target be a fellow professional, or a defector from some intelligence agency? But now wasn't the time to investigate.
He closed the chat interface and unplugged the USB Drive. The screen returned to the original operating system, reflecting his thoughtful expression. The Paris job was still unfinished, and he had no habit of taking on repeat jobs. Besides, his recent level of activity had already become dangerous.
He believed the British intelligence net was tightening, and every job would add to the risk.
Beta put the USB Drive back in its hidden compartment. Once he finished the Paris job, he decided, he would hit pause. In this line of work, the ones who lived longest were never the most active, but the ones who knew when to lie low.
On a rainy night in London, Doyle sat alone in his dimly lit study.
The cold light of the computer screen made his haggard face look deathly pale. The black chat interface had been silent for 24 hours and 17 minutes. Beta still hadn't replied.
The account logged in on this computer had belonged to Eliot. But this encrypted messaging software was designed not to save any chat history. Every trace of a conversation vanished without a trace once you logged out.
Doyle's thin fingers hovered above the keyboard. He didn't need to check the messages to guess what they contained. Given Eliot's arrogant nature, they must have been full of threats and condescension. And a killer who'd been cheated out of his pay, only to be insulted by his employer—
"Idiot." Doyle cursed at the empty room, though he didn't know whether he meant his son or himself.
The screen remained silent, like a stagnant pool.
Doyle suddenly slammed his fists down on the keyboard. The metallic impact rang through the empty study.
I'm asking all my readers for Monthly Tickets, Recommendation Tickets, and follows. Many thanks!
Before you continue