Chapter 47
Stockholm, Sweden
Vivian Drake lounged at a corner table in the little café she’d been frequenting since her move, a steaming coffee cup between her hands.
She wasn’t a fan of the cold. It sank into her bones and made her joints feel stiff. And she hated the long, dark nights of a Scandinavian winter.
But Sweden had one thing she craved more than warmth and sunshine.
Privacy.
The Swedes were big on individual rights. They didn’t believe in omnipresent CCTV cameras or government drones tracking the steps of every citizen. Stockholm was a city full of people minding their own goddamned business. And that was exactly what she wanted.
It’d been nearly two months since she landed in the new country she was determined to call home. She’d spent that time renting a flat, learning the back alleys and side roads—just in case—and waiting for the paranoia that had dogged her back in the U.S. to find her here.
It hadn’t.
Thankfully.
Her shoulders were beginning to relax. The hairs on her neck were beginning to stand down. The sense that she was lined up in someone’s crosshairs was beginning to fade.
She took a slow sip of her coffee and smiled in appreciation.
It was stronger than the dishwater the Americans brewed. Thicker. Darker. With an earthy bitterness that clung to her tongue.
Outside the frosted window, the narrow street bustled with pedestrians covered in chic coats and flowing scarves. Bicycles weaved between tiny hatchbacks. A food cart steamed in the cold air. And pastel building fronts leaned into each other across the road like gossiping old friends.
Bishop, I hope whoever you are, wherever you are, you’re feeling the heat of the Black Knights’ breath on your n—
She didn’t finish the thought.
A man slid into the empty chair beside her in one fluid motion. A charcoal overcoat was expertly draped over his shoulders. But it was open to reveal a suit worth more than her rent. His silver hair was barber-perfect, and his face was familiar in a way that had her cocking her head.
It took a heartbeat too long for recognition to hit.
Then it did.
And her blood iced over.
“You.” She set down her coffee with deliberate care. Her right hand slipped into her coat pocket, fingers curling around the butt of the pistol she’d purchased out of the back of a van less than twenty-four hours after stepping off the train at the Stockholm Central Train Station.
“Hello, Vivian.” His voice was deep, smooth, every syllable polished like he’d been born behind a podium. “I’ve been anxious to meet you.”
The Swedes around them continued chatting over their coffees and pastries, oblivious to who sat among them. In fact, she’d be surprised if any of them even knew his first name.
Being half a world away from U.S. politics had its advantages.
“Where’s your security detail?” she asked, aiming for casual.
“Outside.” He winked like they were sharing a private joke.
“I wanted to meet you alone to discuss your failure. You never called.” He tsked.
“You could have at least told me you managed to survive. For too long, I thought you perished alongside your crew. Imagine my surprise when I discovered you in Nowhere, Wisconsin.”
“I knew you had eyes on me.” A muscle twitched in her cheek. “How did you find me there?”
“Oh, Vivian.” He chuckled. “As careful as you were, you weren’t careful enough. Surely you realize someone with my resources would know about your cache of safe deposit boxes. And surely you realize I would put eyes on them after your death. Just in case.”
She swallowed thickly.
Stupid, stupid, STUPID!
She should’ve left her cash behind and fled the country immediately after the Black Knights cut her loose. But she was used to a particular kind of lifestyle. And the thought of being on the run without a red cent to her name hadn’t interested her.
“You evaded me in the States.” His expression was slightly puzzled. “What happened after you left that Airbnb in Sheboygan?”
“What does it matter? You found me anyway.”
“Not without some effort.” He frowned like he was annoyed she’d had the audacity to run from him. Then he cocked his head. “How did you survive the Black Knights, by the way? They don’t tend to leave loose ends.”
The Black Knights…
Why hadn’t they found this fucker? Identified him? Splashed his name and his backdoor dealings all over the front page of every newspaper?
“They’re not as ruthless as we are.” She gave a breezy flick of her fingers despite her thundering heart. “They let me go.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. But no lines appeared beside them.
Botox?
That made her snort. She’d always thought he was a bit of a peacock. Smiling for the cameras. Wearing bespoke suits. But the Botox meant he was even more vain than she imagined.
“Why would you hire me to expose them?” She ensured her tone was conversational, even though her lizard brain told her to fight or fly. Or maybe fight and then fly. “I thought your—”
“What did you tell them?” he cut her off. And his eyes looked as sharp as his words sounded.
“What could I tell them? I didn’t know anything,” she was quick to point out.
“You knew some things,” he countered, and her mind raced with her options.
Lie? Or tell the truth?
In the end, she settled on the truth. It was more satisfying.
“I told them you’re connected. I told them your position had to be somewhere near the top.”
His smile looked carnivorous. He licked his teeth before whispering, “Bad, bad girl.”
Despite her pounding heart, she arched an eyebrow and let her lips curve into a smile she’d used to disarm more powerful men than him.
She traced one fingertip along his gloved hand where it lay open atop the table. “And what did you have in mind for my punishment, sir?”
She’d always used her sexuality as a tool, a weapon. She used it now even as she curled her finger around the trigger on the real weapon in her pocket.
His stare was flat. His tone even more so when he said, “Your death.”
Her heart stopped for half a beat, then slammed into motion. She began to draw the gun, but he clicked his tongue and gave a small shake of his head.
“Don’t bother. It’s already done.”
“What is?” Why did she suddenly sound so breathless?
“You’re already dead.”
The words crawled up her spine like a cluster of spiders.
He flicked a gaze to the fork beside her plate. The tines glinted in the soft, gray light filtering in through the window. On her plate, only crumbs from her cinnamon bun remained.
“Poison?” she rasped, though she wasn’t sure if the tightness in her throat was fear or something much more sinister.
“Curare,” he said casually, like he was ordering a coffee. “New formula. More potent than the previous incarnations. No injection required. Just ingestion. I sprayed it on your fork.”
Curare.
She knew of it, of course. Had used it herself once. It started with muscle paralysis and ended with suffocation.
She yanked out the gun, determined to take him with her. But her arm refused to move. And that’s when she realized her heart was stuttering, its beat erratic.
She tried to suck in a breath, but her lungs refused to work.
Bishop smiled again. Not happily. Not smugly. Just…satisfied.
Her watering eyes locked onto his. She poured every ounce of venom she had inside her into that one final glare.
“BKI’s…coming…” She forced the words past a tongue that felt carved from stone.
Then, her head fell forward on a neck that no longer supported it. Her heart struggled to beat once…twice. It forgot what came next.
“Sweet dreams, Vivian.” Bishop’s politician’s voice reached her ears, and she remembered saying those exact words to Hummer. Had he heard her on the other end of the call? Was he mocking her now?
It was the last thought she ever had.