Solomon (Club Sin #6)

18. From The Frying Pan Into The Fire

from the frying pan into the fire

Scarlett

T hey're drawing us out. We advance toward them, and they fall back. If we try to find a route around them, we inevitably find the way blocked by Mercado's men in technicals and ex-military troop transports. The whole thing is happening on the streets of San José, and I can't help but wonder if this is going to hit the news—it's not a minor skirmish. Nina clearly knows some heavy hitters because Mercado's forces are being engaged on our flanks, the only thing preventing us from being surrounded and cut off.

It's only a matter of time, though.

We move from doorway to doorway, firing at black-armored figures. Yet, for every one we drop, another takes his place. Technicals block off side streets, firing fifty cals at us, redirecting us.

Sol is getting increasingly frantic, knowing it's only a matter of time before Inez pulls some sort of stunt that gets her taken by these assholes. And I'm with Sol—I hate the idea of her being tortured, raped, who knows what. But I understand her. I may not have a kid I'm protecting, but I'd let myself get taken to protect Solomon. I'd fight like a tiger to prevent it, but I’d let it happen if his life was in the balance. And in this case, an innocent child's life is at stake—a child who hopefully knows none of this.

Lorenzo leads us street by street away from the safe house. I'm not sure where he's leading us, but at this point, I'm not sure it matters much. We're just buying time. Delaying.

A sudden mad barrage of gunfire is exchanged behind us.

A roiling in my gut tells me that we're about to be cut off.

Huddling behind a cube van with a smoking engine bay, we cluster close, watching two and then three and then four and then six technicals sweep across the road, tires squealing as they brake to a halt in staggered formation across the road. A young woman with a toddler clutched to her chest scurries across the road and vanishes into a shopfront.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Lorenzo snaps. "Not good."

Inez sits with her back to the tire, swaps mags, and looks at Solomon. "It's time. I’ll lead them away.”

Sol glares at her. "I'm not leaving you, Inez. Not fucking happening."

Inez glares at him. "Yes, you are. I can handle Mercado. You have to find Lash."

"Inez, c'mon," Sol says, his voice low. "You've made a point of how nasty this asshole is, the kinds of shit he'll do to get what he wants from you."

Her face blazes with fury. "Doesn't matter what he fucking does to me, Solomon Cabot, I will not give up my son. I will not. And I'm not telling you to leave me, I'm telling you to get out of here and find Lash, and then come fucking get me."

"Inez—" Sol starts.

She lifts the assault rifle and puts the barrel to his chin. "I won't tell you again, Solomon. Trust me. This is the only way."

"Fuck," Sol says, the word bitten off, furious. "He's going to torture you."

"I know. Torture and worse. But I’ll kill him." Her voice is soft, quiet, yet somehow that's worse than yelling and cursing; the soft is razor sharp and colder than the vacuum of space. "I will kill him, and it will be the last person I ever kill. I'll rip his intestines out and strangle him with them before I die."

Sol grabs the back of her neck and taps his forehead to hers, a rough man-to-man gesture. "I'll get Lash. I'll call everyone in on this. You stay the fuck alive, Inez. No matter what it takes, you stay alive. Promise me, or I'll die here with you, orders be damned."

With one harsh exhalation through her nose, she nods. "Agreed. I promise. I will stay alive, no matter what."

"All right. You've always known what you're doing, and I trust you to know now, even if I don't like it."

She nods once and then bolts out from behind the burning hulk and sprints away from us.

A shout echoes in Spanish: “ Get her! Get her or the chief will have our heads!”

A pickup squeals and fishtails around the corner, braking to a stop, several shooters popping up in the bed. Lorenzo drops them all with absent-minded brutality, cratering the engine and painting brain matter across the street.

"This Lash of yours had better be worth it," he snarls, turning back to face Solomon.

Sol shrugs. “He's my brother. Do what you want, but I will follow Inez's orders. It's what she asked of me, and I trust her, and it's Lash. He came for me on his own. Now it's my turn to return the favor."

A bullet buzzes past my ear like an angry wasp, and I drop to a knee while spinning and put two rounds into the shooter's skull; three more enemies topple out of the alley we just emerged from, and Solomon bursts into action, breaking a thigh with a nasty kick, blasting around through another's stomach, and then pistol-whipping the third in the throat.

Lorenzo, from twenty feet away, puts a single round through each brainpan before I can so much as blink.

Inez’s departure drew the rest of Mercado’s men away from us to chase after her, and once we’ve taken out the last few tangos, the thunder of gunfire subsides.

Silence reigns for a moment.

"Fine,” Lorenzo growls. "I have a lead on your friend's whereabouts. I do this for Sophia, however. If anyone can survive what that monster Rafael has planned, it's her. And I know her—she will give him a long, slow, agonizing death."

"From what you've told us," I say, "Even that will be too good for him."

Lorenzo's grin is wicked. "Then you don't know her. She can be very creative."

Sol glances at him. “So, your lead. Where is Lash?"

"My sources tell me he was redirected to the Bahamas and from there taken to Croatia."

Sol frowns. "Croatia? Why the fuck? Do you know anything else?"

He tips his head to one side. “Only a little. Apparently, he was taken on the orders of a man named Stjepan Juric." St-YEHP-ahn YOO-rick .

"Never heard of him," Sol says.

Lorenzo shrugs. "Me either. That is all I know for now. I have my people working on finding out more."

"So we need to get to Croatia," Sol says.

Lorenzo nods. "We do, and I have a plan."

"And that is?" Sol presses.

"Rafael wants Sophia. Now that he has her, or will soon, you should be in the clear. I have a contact here who can get you a passport. We fly there commercial." Lorenzo shrugs. "I think between the three of us, we can find what we need once we're over there."

Sol sighs. "I suppose so. I probably have a few people I can get in touch with."

"Me too," I say.

"But first, I need to call the guys. They need to know what's going on," Sol says.

Lorenzo hands him a phone, and Solomon dials a long string of numbers from memory.

It rings a few times. "Si, hey. Yeah, It's me—nah, I’m good. But look, we have a situation. Get the guys so I only have to say this once." A long pause. "Everyone is there? Alright, good. Listen up, fellas. We have two problems: Lash is missing, and Inez has been taken hostage by a cartel warlord down here in Quito. He's gonna bring her to his compound in Colombia. No, I’m not alone. I have two others with me. The three of us have a lead on Lash's location. We're gonna go get him. You guys need to gear up and get down here and start putting an op together. You don't do anything till we rejoin you. Just do recon and put the op together. Questions?"

For the next few minutes, Solomon talks strategy and logistics, shares coordinates, and all the other pertinent intel we have, with occasional input from Lorenzo and me—mostly Lorenzo.

Finally, they have a basic plan set up, and Sol signs off, returning the phone to Lorenzo.

A few hours later, Sol has a passport under the name James Williams, and we're crammed together in the back of coach on a flight from San José to Zagreb.

Solomon sits against the window, morosely watching the Atlantic slide away far beneath us. "I wonder what he's doing to her,” he mutters.

“You can't go there, Sol," I murmur. "Won't help."

"Can't not."

"Tell me about Lash," I suggest.

He snorts. "Don't know much. He's Romani."

I frown. "Like a gypsy?"

He snickers. "Call him a gypsy to his face when you meet him. That'll be funny." I stare at him until he explains. "They consider the word ‘gypsy’ a slur. Sort of like calling a Black person the N-word."

"What's he like?"

"Most mysterious motherfucker I’ve ever known. No one knows shit about him. Even Inez says she doesn’t know much of his story. All I know is, he's funny as fuck, and he can charm the panties off a nun."

I fake a gag. "Panties." I retch again. "Hate that word."

Sol snorts. "Why?"

I shrug. "I don't know. It's just gross. Almost as gross as 'moist.'"

Sol laughs. "So if I said moist panties..."

I gag, shoving at him. “Don't make me barf in your lap."

Sol sobers. "It just feels wrong flying away from Inez. Just...leaving her."

"She can handle it."

"She shouldn't have to."

"There's nothing you could have done. Either they took her, or we all died."

He shakes his head. "I fucking know. I get it. It just feels wrong. I was just starting to get a bead on who she really is under all that ice queen armor."

"I had an interesting conversation with her on the ride to Costa Rica."

He looks at me. "Oh?"

"She and I are a lot alike." I roll a shoulder. "Like, we're almost the same person in a lot of ways. If anything, she's me but...more extreme."

Sol snorts. “ More extreme? Than you ?"

"She was assassinating her father's enemies as a pre-teen. Ever see Leon the Professional ?"

Sol eyes me. "I thought you didn't watch movies?"

"My crew put it on in the rec room after a training op one day. I watched it while I cleaned my gear. Sick shit, in a lot of ways. But Inez was a killer as a child. She has literally never known anything but violence. It's her whole life."

Sol nods, staring out the window. "And here's me and the rest of the guys taking vows to not kill. Makes you wonder where the connection is. Like, who is our boss? Why us? Why the club? How'd Inez become his right-hand woman?"

"I think she wants to leave everything behind—I think she wants to be part of the Arrows."

"She could be. She's always held herself aloof from the rest of us, though."

"She doesn't know how to relate to people. Think of me, Scar, the operator—shut off, closed off, doesn't trust anyone. Now multiply that by someone literally raised to be a killer. Someone who endured a nightmare you cannot even begin to imagine, Solomon." My voice shakes. "I can imagine it—I don’t have to imagine it, so trust me when I say you should be glad you can’t.”

"Scar..."

I grab his hand and squeeze. "We talked about our old names. Inez and I."

He squeezes back. "You did?"

"I..." A long slow sigh hisses between my clenched teeth as I struggle to put it into words. "Maria. She..."

"You said she's dead."

"And you said you don't think she is, just...dormant."

He nods. "Right. And what'd you and Inez come up with?"

"That maybe we start thinking about that old name as the future. As the person I want to be."

"Meaning?"

I shrug. "Meaning, maybe someday Scarlett will retire. I don't know what I'd do, but...if I'm not an operator, just a regular old civilian living a boring civilian life, Scarlett can retire and I can become someone else. Someone new."

"Maria Rodriguez."

I shake my head. "Not Rodriguez. Maria Rodriguez is dead, that much is true. I'll never be her again. She was a child who crossed the Gap on foot and got trafficked into sexual slavery. I can't be that person and wouldn’t want to. But maybe there can be a new Maria."

He turns our hands palm-to-palm and intertwines our fingers. "Tell me about this new Maria."

"I don't know."

"In a perfect world, who is she? What life does she have?"

I close my eyes and rest my head back, thinking. After a minute or two, I finally find something like an answer. "In a perfect world, Maria lives in a little house with a big backyard."

Saying this is like speaking your deepest, darkest secret out loud, admitting your most shameful, forbidden fantasy. It's terrifying. It's what I’ve secretly fantasized about in the most hidden recesses of my mind.

"A little white house. One story. A ranch, maybe. It would have pretty shutters. Maybe green or blue. It would have a big open kitchen, because in this perfect world, Maria knows how to cook. She makes a big breakfast for her husband."

"Just her husband?" Sol asks, his voice quiet and careful.

"No,” I whisper. "For her daughter. A little girl named after Maria’s mother. Kora—K-O-R-A." I try not to think of my mother because I’ll start crying, and fuck that. "Maria, in this perfect world, doesn't own a gun. Maybe she has a dumb, boring, civilian job somewhere answering phones or...I don't know. She has friends. She watches TV at night, after work. She reads books. She goes for long runs at dawn. Her favorite color is different from one day to the next because her life never had color other than black, white, and red."

Sol frowns at me. "White?"

"Paperwork," I snicker. "After action reports."

He cackles. "Good call. Fuck that shit. I do not miss A-A-Rs at-fucking-all." He squeezes my hand, looking at me softly, lovingly. "What else?"

“Lazy Sunday mornings spent fucking and sleeping in. Barbecues in the backyard with our friends. Kids running around." My throat is tight and hot. "Maybe a swimming pool with a slide."

"That sounds fun as hell."

I feel a smile on my lips. "Maria has painted fingernails." I lift my fingers, showing short, dirty nails. "In a perfect world, Maria could go out for drinks with the girls and no one would ever know who she used to be." I laugh. "I don't know who the girls are, so don’t ask."

Sol grins. "Oh, well, that's simple. The girls are Myka, Anjalee, and Annika...and whoever my brothers brought home."

I frown at that. "What's that mean?"

He sighs, laughs. "Well, it's been kinda weird. First, Rev got pulled into this whole thing with this chick who somehow ended up at the Club by accident. She had no business being at a club like that—she was super innocent. And he just...he was hooked. That led to him leaving the club for her, which led to a bunch of drama from Rev's past, and then Myka moved down into the Club with us. Then Kane took off, triggered by something—who the fuck knows what—and he came back with this Indian princess type. Rich girl, billionaire's daughter who ran away. Kane helped her, and she helped him face his own shit, and then she moved in with us. And then Chance met Annika, and she had her shit and he had his shit, and then there were three women living with us. So then when my brothers and I all left for the funeral, everyone assumed we'd all come back with women. Inez confirmed that both Silas and Saxon did, in fact, come back with women while I was…away."

"And so are you," I say.

"Exactly. So you'll have a built-in posse of girls who know exactly what it's like being part of this group. Nik, Myka, and Ang are all super cool chicks. You'll like them."

I snort. "I don't like most women."

"Well, you'll have that in common with them."

I laugh. "Tell me about them."

Sol thinks for a while. “Admittedly, I was kinda...aloof, myself. So I don't know them very well. But they don't take no for an answer. Myka is a reformed good girl. Grew up super conservative religious, only had one boyfriend, that whole business. Turns out that one boyfriend was a piece of shit, and she left to see more of the world, I guess. She's sorta the human equivalent of sugar and sunshine, which is funny because Rev is...not. He's a guy version of Inez, or at least he was before Myka. He was a Marine Recon.”

"And by reformed good girl, you mean...?"

"We've thoroughly corrupted her in all the best ways."

“Good because I don't have it in me to pretend to be all good and cutesy."

Sol laughs. "They'd see through that shit in a second, babe. Just be you."

"So, Angalee and Annika."

"Angalee is...I guess you'd probably think she's this innocent little mouse without a backbone at first meeting. She comes across that way. Super quiet, super soft-spoken. But she's got a core of steel. She was raised in a literal tower, shut away from the real world, with all the money and luxury you can ask for but no freedom. She was betrothed against her will to an associate of her father’s, one of those arranged marriages that was about her father’s business. So she stole her dad's car and drove away, ran out of gas in the desert outside Vegas. That's where Kane found her."

"What's Kane like?"

"Big burly bear of a guy. A cowboy, like a real-deal cowboy. He got bucked off a horse and broke his back or some shit, got hooked on pills and booze. Got in a car accident that killed his fiancé, who happened to be the daughter of the man who unofficially adopted him."

"Oof," I put in. “That's a rough one."

"Yeah. He took it to heart, and not in a good way. Ran off and joined the army, and ended up in the Rangers...shit went sideways and he wound up with the Arrows. Anj got him to go back home and face his fiancé’s father."

“That can't have been easy."

"Fuck no, but the guilt was eating him alive. The man forgave him, and Kane's a new man. Anj had to basically force him, though. Called his bluff. You know the balls it takes to call the bluff of a man like Kane? Big fuckin' brass ones."

"She sounds fascinating," I say.

"She is. Way more to her than you'd think when you first meet her."

"Next?"

"Chance and Annika. Chance is Rev's best friend—they went into the military together, managed to get through training together and were assigned to the same squads their whole military career. Attached at the hip, those two. Chance got hooked on meth and almost died—it’s how he ended up an Arrow. Annika was an Olympic volleyball athlete who had her career ended when a car took her knee out. Got hooked on drugs and spun out. Met Chance, and they sorta saved each other. She was off drugs at the time, but her life was in the shitter. She's a tough bitch, man. Doesn't take shit from anyone. She's six-three, which works because Chance is six-eight."

I arch an eyebrow at him. "A six-foot-eight Recon?"

"He was six-six at eighteen when he joined and grew another two inches vertically and put on like a hundred pounds."

I shake my head. "Jesus."

"Yeah, Chance is a big fuckin' boy."

"And your brothers?"

"Well, Sax and Si are younger than me—I'm the oldest, and Sax is the baby. Silas is the smooth one. He could sell snow to an Eskimo. He sold product for The Syndicate—drugs and guns, drew the line at people. Sax is…a little rough around the edges."

I cackle at that. "Hello pot, this is kettle."

"You'd think, but wait till you meet him. Rough, tough, aggressive, and not prone to being overly talkative." He shrugs. "He was a triggerman for the Syndicate. I guess they called him the Bloody Viking."

I snort, and the snort turns into a snicker. "Holy shit. Ordinarily, that'd be kinda cringey, but in that world, they don't give out nicknames easily."

Sol shakes his head. "No. I guess he earned that one the hard way. He won't tell us the story."

"No?"

"I caught wind of it through some back-channel sources when I was looking into them. I kept tabs on them both over the years."

"Well, now I'm gonna be on a mission to get the story out of him." I glance at him. "So, what kind of women do you think they each found?"

Sol shakes his head, shrugging. "Fuck, man, I don't even know. To catch the attention of guys like my brothers, they'll have to be pretty damn special. I don't even know how to guess, honestly."

A long silence.

Sol levels a penetrating, searching gaze at me. "What happens with us in a less-than-perfect world?"

I smile. "We take it one day at a time. I give you what I can, and you understand that I'm doing my best." I shrug. "I just...I can't retire Scarlett until I'm sure I don't need her anymore."

"I get it, babe. The only thing I ask is that you're honest with me about where you're at."

"I can do that. And right now, where I'm at is ready to get some rest."

James Williams, April Hernandez, and Carlos Torino land in Zagreb, Croatia, in the small hours of the morning. We are unarmed and have a single, tenuous lead on Lash's last known location. We have a name and Inez's statement that Lash's enemy is someone high up in a government position—chances are good that this Stjepan Juric is an official with the Croatian government, which will make taking him on that much more difficult.

Franjo Tudman International Airport in Zagreb is a massive, airy space dominated by white ceiling trusses so intricate it looks like lace. Voices echo, and the squeak, click, and tromp of shoes bang off the curved, tunnel-like walls taking us from the arrivals concourse to the center of the airport.

That niggling worm of worry in my gut is back.

I nudge Sol as we head for the taxi line. "Something feels off."

He nods. “I know." He glances at Lorenzo. “You feel it?"

Lorenzo nods, looking grim. "Yes."

The exit is a few hundred yards away. A shoe squeaks behind us; a walkie-talkie squawks.

"Shit." Sol's voice is a bitter hiss.

I scan around us and see the reason: six tall, stony-faced men in black suits with earpieces range behind us. Ahead, a line of airport security officers block the exit.

We're unarmed in an airport. There's nowhere to run, and to fight, even if we stand a pretty good chance of winning, will mean innocent bystanders getting hurt.

"Ideas?" Sol mutters, fists clenching.

Lorenzo sighs, bitter and furious. "I should not be here. I should be in Colombia, working on rescuing Sophia."

"But you're not,” I tell him. “Sol's friends and brothers are on it. Sophia can take care of herself. Right now, we need to deal with them."

The suited men approach us, fanning out to surround us while airport security forms a protective perimeter, keeping curious onlookers away.

"They're not from Mercado," Lorenzo says. "We'd be dead if they were. This is something to do with your friend."

"Yeah, I agree," Solomon says. "They look government to me. Stay calm and go along for now. See what they want."

One of the men in the black suits steps forward—he's the oldest, with a military high-and-tight gone to salt-and-pepper, with cold brown eyes. "Solomon Cabot, Scarlett Gutierrez, and Lorenzo Oliveira Araujo. Come with us, please."

We exchange surprised glances—our real names, not the names on our passports?

"What is this regarding?" Solomon asks.

"Come with us, please," the man repeats.

"Are we being officially detained?" Solomon asks.

"I am not at liberty to disclose any information. You are not under arrest, but your cooperation is required." His voice is rough and hard and authoritative, giving nothing away; his Croatian accent is pronounced, but his English is flawless.

"I am a Brazilian citizen," Lorenzo says, "and my friends are American citizens. You can't just detain us without reason."

The man reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and produces a glossy 8x10 photograph, creased horizontally from being folded in half. The photo is grainy, probably from a security camera of some sort. The figure at the center of it is a man of medium height, powerfully built, with impossibly broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and massive arms and chest. Black hair in a long, low ponytail with a long beard trimmed to a point at mid-chest, the mustache is long and thick and curved upward across his cheeks. He's dressed in a plain black T-shirt and black pants, with what looks like a belt or sash of some sort tied around his waist, the end trailing at his right knee. The image is black and white, but I get the impression that the sash around his waist is brightly colored. He has a compact automatic pistol in his hands, and the image catches him in the act of tapping the magazine home with the butt of his palm. There's not much to see in the background other than the glass and metal of a high-rise of some sort and a bit of sidewalk.

"Do you know this man?" the agent asks.

I shake my head. "Nope. Never seen him in my life," I answer truthfully.

"Neither have I," Lorenzo answers.

"He's a friend of mine," Solomon says. "Why?"

“Your friend is a wanted criminal. He is in a lot of trouble."

Sol snorts. "Okay, buddy, tell me another one. Try the truth this time."

The agent frowns. "He is wanted by Interpol, as well as by my government."

"For?"

"Arms dealing, murder, corruption, and espionage, to begin with."

Solomon shakes his head. "Bullshit. I can personally attest to his whereabouts every minute of every day for the last three years—Las fucking Vegas, US of A." Solomon arches an eyebrow. “Let me guess, you work for Stejpan Juric."

The agent's expression gives away nothing. His silence, however, says everything. "I have orders. You will come with us—voluntarily or in handcuffs. Your choice."

"Frying pan into the fire," I mutter. "Not much choice, eh boys?"

Solomon's jaw clicks as he grinds his teeth. "Fuck. This is bullshit."

Lorenzo looks fit to be tied. "I hope your friend is worth it. Because if Sophia dies, I cannot be held accountable for my actions. Be warned."

Solomon claps him on the shoulder. "My guys are on it. They're the best in the world."

"Who cannot take lives. Somewhat of a handicap when dealing with someone like Rafael and his many, many hired killers." Lorenzo shakes off Solomon's hand. "Let's go. Might as well get this over with." He glares at the agent. "You are making a mistake."

The agent shrugs. "Orders are orders. Take it up with Mr. Juric."

"I plan to." Lorenzo marches forward, shoulders tense, gait liquid—he's a man on the edge of snapping.

I look at Sol as we fall in after Lorenzo. "What's going on?"

Sol shakes his head. "Fuck if I know. I guess Lash is gonna have to rescue us now." He laughs. "What a clusterfuck."

"How can you laugh?"

He shrugs, still chuckling. “Because it's funny. None of this has anything to do with me. I have a list of enemies a mile long, but none of them are involved in this shit. I dunno. It just strikes me as funny."

"We don't have a lot of time to cool our heels in some Croatian government lockup, Sol. If Mercado can't get what he wants from Inez, which we both know he won't..."

Sol nods. "I fucking know. But we can't duke it out with government agents and airport security. Not here, not now. We'll make a move. Also, don't count Lash out. I may not know much about his past, but he's my brother. He'll stop at nothing to get us out."

"I sure as hell hope you're right," I mutter.

A line of black SUVs with blacked-out windows waits at the curb, idling. We're all loaded into one, and the agents pile into two more, and then the line of SUVs takes off.

Half an hour later, the caravan pulls into an underground parking garage beneath a nondescript building in Zagreb's Low Town. We're herded through a series of low hallways with doors protected by biometric locks at regular intervals. An elevator with facial recognition takes us down further. More hallways—narrow, white-washed cinderblock walls, drop-tile ceilings, fluorescent lighting, and polished concrete floors.

At the end of a particularly long hallway, a single door. The agent opens it with a thumbprint—it buzzes and a lock disengages with a loud thunk.

On the other side, an interrogation room—dim lighting, a two-way mirror, a metal table. All six agents file in after us. We're seated in three identical chairs at the table, and then...

Nothing.

Silence.

Perhaps another thirty minutes later—although time is hard to track without any indicators—the door opens again, and another man in a suit enters.

This man, however, is not an agent. His suit is expensive, bespoke, charcoal with pinstripes, a red pocket square, and a matching tie. His shoes are expensive, glossy leather. His watch is an Omega. Expensive haircut—dark brown hair, brown eyes.

He exudes authority, wealth, and power.

He sits opposite us. Leans back in the chair and crosses one leg over the other. Plucks a silver case from a suit pocket, flips it open and withdraws a cigarette. One of the agents produces an ashtray and a lighter and lights the cigarette.

The man inhales, holds it, and snorts the smoke from his nostrils. "Hello, friends.” His voice is soft, high, quiet, fluent English, and gently accented. "Do you know me?"

Sol shrugs. "No. Should I?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not. We have someone in common." He smiles pleasantly—the smile, however, does not reach his eyes, which remain glittering, brown, icy chips of dead, flat nothingness.

"And that would be whom?" Solomon asks.

"Nicolae Dragos." A heavy pause. "At least, that's the last known alias he used. You may know him under another alias, however."

Another long pause.

"I believe you call him Lash."

"And what do you want with him?" Sol asks. "And what does it have to do with us?" He gestures at me and Lorenzo. "Them in particular. They’ve never even met him."

Stjepan, for this is surely him, pushes the smoke out of his mouth and inhales it through his nose. "He kidnapped my daughter."

"I find that hard to believe," Sol says. "My intel says you had him kidnapped."

"Kidnapped is such a strong word," Stjepan says, smiling that serpentine smile. "I had his flight redirected. He and I have...unfinished business to attend to. He was avoiding me, so I took some liberties."

"And incurred the wrath of the Syndicate," Sol says.

Stjepan shrugs. "I returned their fancy jet to them when I was done with it."

"I don't know where he is," Sol says. "I came to—"

“Save him from me," Stjepan cuts in. “Yes, I know. Unfortunately for you, that will not be happening. There will be an exchange. Nicolae, or Lash, if you prefer, will turn himself and my daughter, unharmed, over to our custody. You will go free. Very simple."

"Or?"

A shrug. “Or nothing. You will waste away here, forgotten."

Lorenzo laughs. "If you think you can hold me, you have not received correct information regarding my identity."

Sol just sighs. "Stjepan, listen. If something happened between your daughter and my friend, I can assure you, it's not kidnapping. And please trust me when I say we are not people you want to fuck with. Neither is Lash."

Stjepan just snorts a laugh, smoke bubbling out of his nose with each breath. "Oh, I think I know much more about Nicolae than you do, Mr. Cabot."

"How's that?"

"I trained him. I made him who he is."