CHAPTER 31
Gemma
There is a very specific weight to Callum’s hand.
It is heavy, calloused, and marked by a network of pale, faded scars that tell a violent history I will probably never fully know.
For the last six weeks, those hands have been entirely gentle with me.
They have checked my stitches, cooked my meals, and held me in the dark when the nightmares of the shipping yard crept back into my sleep.
Right now, his fingers are laced loosely through mine across the small, scratched wooden table of the cafe.
I take a sip of my coffee, watching him over the rim of the ceramic mug.
He is looking out the window at the quiet, freezing street of Vík, but the rigid, military tension in his shoulders has finally dropped. He isn't tracking the pedestrians. He isn't cataloging the exits. He is just sitting here, breathing the same air as the rest of the normal, oblivious world.
I did it. I actually got him to put the armor down.
I smile, setting my mug on the table. I trace my thumb over the thickest scar on his index finger.
Callum turns his head, his dark eyes meeting mine. The faint, incredibly rare curve of a genuine smile touches the corner of his mouth. He is about to say something.
Then, the small brass bell above the cafe door chimes.
It is a completely ordinary sound. A dozen people have walked in and out of the shop since we sat down. Tourists, locals, fishermen escaping the wind.
But the moment the bell rings, Callum’s hand turns to stone beneath mine.
It happens so fast it defies biology. One millisecond he is relaxed, and the next, his pulse spikes violently against my palm. His breathing halts. The faint smile vanishes, replaced by a cold, absolute blankness that I haven't seen since the basement in New Jersey.
He doesn't turn his head toward the door. He doesn't reach for the weapon he left in the car. He just goes perfectly, terrifyingly still.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
I don't look at the door either. I keep my eyes on Callum, my heart suddenly kicking into a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"Callum?" I whisper, my voice barely carrying over the low hum of the cafe chatter.
He doesn't answer. His eyes are fixed on the reflection in the dark glass of the window beside our table.
I hear the heavy, measured tread of footsteps approaching. They aren't the shuffling, hurried steps of a tourist trying to get out of the cold. They are deliberate. They are perfectly spaced. It is the walk of a predator.
A shadow falls over our small table, blocking the ambient light from the overhead fixtures.
I slowly look up.
The man standing next to our table is in his late fifties. He is impeccably dressed in a tailored, charcoal-gray wool overcoat and a dark scarf. His hair is silver, neatly combed back from a sharp, aristocratic face. He looks like a wealthy European banker on holiday.
But his eyes are dead. They are the exact same shade of empty, calculating void that Callum used to wear.
"Hello, Callum," the man says. His voice is smooth, carrying a refined British accent that sounds eerily similar to Callum’s.
Callum slowly withdraws his hand from mine. He places both of his hands flat on the wooden table, palms down, completely visible.
"Silas," Callum replies. His voice is a low, mechanical rasp.
The man—Silas—smiles. It is a thin, polite expression that doesn't reach his eyes. He pulls out the empty wooden chair adjacent to our table and sits down without asking for permission. He unbuttons his overcoat, settling comfortably into the seat.
"It is freezing out there," Silas notes, glancing out the window. "I never understood your fascination with the cold. I prefer the Mediterranean, myself. Rome is lovely this time of year."
The breath leaves my lungs in a violent rush.
Rome.
Ben and Pippa are in Rome.
Callum’s jaw tightens, a single muscle jumping beneath the skin near his ear. "If you touch them, Silas, I will dismantle you."
"Please, let us not resort to vulgar threats in a public place," Silas murmurs, waving a dismissive, gloved hand.
He turns his attention to me, his cold eyes sweeping over my face, cataloging the faded bruise on my jaw and the oversized sweater I am wearing.
"You must be Gemma Hayes. I have heard a great deal about you.
You caused quite a headache for my employers. "
I don't shrink back. I don't break eye contact. I press my hands flat against my thighs under the table to hide the tremor in my fingers.
"I don't know who your employers are," I say, keeping my voice as flat as possible.
"Of course you do," Silas replies smoothly.
"Arthur Vance was an arrogant, spoiled child playing at being a king. His death was, frankly, a favor to the board. But the four point two billion dollars you relocated? That belongs to the syndicate’s shareholders.
And they are very eager to have it returned. "
I look at Callum. He is staring at Silas, his mind rapidly running the tactical variables. We are in a crowded cafe. There are at least fifteen civilians within the line of fire. Callum is unarmed.
Silas knows this. Silas engineered this exact scenario.
"You taught me never to approach a target in a crowded room without a clear exit strategy," Callum says quietly.
"I also taught you never to leave your primary weapon in the glove compartment of your vehicle," Silas counters, his smile widening slightly.
"You are slipping, Callum. Domesticity has made you soft.
You walked into this cafe without sweeping the alleyway.
You didn't notice the two men sitting in the black sedan across the street. "
I glance out the window. Parked directly across the narrow street from the cafe is a dark Volvo. The windows are heavily tinted.
"I am unarmed," Callum says, leaning forward a fraction of an inch. "You are within arm’s reach. Who is slipping, Silas?"
The threat is subtle, but the sheer, localized violence in Callum’s tone makes the air pressure at our table drop. He is telling Silas that he could crush his windpipe before the men in the Volvo could even open their doors.
Silas doesn't flinch. He just chuckles, a dry, humorless sound.
"You always were my best student," Silas says, leaning back in his chair. "But I am not here to fight you, Callum. I am here to conduct a business transaction."
"I am retired," Callum states.
"Nobody retires from the board. You know that." Silas reaches into the inside pocket of his wool coat.
Callum’s shoulders tense, preparing to move, but Silas only pulls out a sleek, black smartphone. He places it face up on the wooden table and slides it toward me.
The screen is lit up. It displays a live video feed.
I look down at the screen, and my heart completely stops.
It is a security camera feed from a street in Rome.
I can see the cobblestones, the edge of a gelateria, and a small outdoor cafe table.
Sitting at the table, laughing and holding a small paper cup of gelato, is Pippa.
Ben is sitting across from her, leaning in to say something that makes her smile.
They look completely happy. They look safe.
Hovering in the foreground of the video feed, partially obscuring the camera lens, is the unmistakable black, cylindrical shape of a suppressed sniper rifle barrel, aimed directly at the back of Ben’s head.
"No," I whisper, the word tearing out of my throat. I reach for the phone, but Silas slides it smoothly back across the table, out of my reach.
"The sniper is currently waiting for my call," Silas says, looking at Callum. "If I do not check in every fifteen minutes, he has orders to execute the logistics broker and the girl. If you kill me here, they die. If you try to run, they die."
Callum stares at the phone, his face a mask of absolute, terrifying rage.
"What do you want?" Callum asks.
"I want the decryption keys to the ghost accounts," Silas says, turning his cold eyes back to me.
"I want the four billion dollars returned to the primary ledger.
Once the transfer is verified, I will call off the sniper in Rome.
You and Miss Hayes will be allowed to return to your glass house on the cliff, and the board will consider the matter settled. "
"You’re lying," I say, my voice shaking with a mixture of terror and fury. "If I give you the money, you have no reason to leave us alive. You’ll kill Ben and Pippa anyway."
"Miss Hayes, I am a professional," Silas says, sounding genuinely offended. "I deal in contracts, not senseless violence. The board wants their capital. They do not care about revenge. Return the funds, and you buy your friends their lives."
I look at Callum.
He is staring at Silas, his mind working through the impossible math of the situation. There is no tactical out. We are boxed in. If we fight, Pippa dies. If we run, Pippa dies.
"Where?" Callum asks, his voice dead.
"There is an abandoned United States Navy DC-3 plane wreck on the black sand beach at Sólheimasandur," Silas says, checking his expensive wristwatch.
"It is isolated. No civilians. No cameras.
You have exactly one hour to retrieve your laptop from your house and meet me there. Bring the girl. Bring the codes."
Silas stands up, buttoning his wool overcoat.
He looks down at Callum one last time. "Do not try to be clever, Callum. If I see local police, or if you are late, the sniper fires. One hour."
Silas turns and walks away.
He moves through the crowded cafe, slipping past a group of laughing tourists, and pushes the front door open. The bell chimes merrily. He steps out into the freezing wind, crosses the street, and gets into the back of the dark Volvo. The car pulls away, disappearing down the road.
The cafe around us continues to buzz with life. The espresso machine hisses. A woman at the next table laughs at a joke.
They have absolutely no idea that a death sentence was just delivered in the middle of their Tuesday morning.
I look at Callum.