43. NICO
43
NICO
D rizzling rain strikes the windscreen of Elliot’s car as we drive through the dark streets of London. It smells like wet dog and the window wipers let out an irritating squeak with each sweep over the glass.
“You got it all?” I check.
“Everything.” Elliot jerks his thumb over his shoulder to a folder sitting on the empty backseat of the car. He spins the steering wheel with one hand as we take a sharp turn. Bloody scabs cover his knuckles, but I’m sure Curtis’ face looks worse. “You could put Martin Brooks away for years,” he reassures me. “If that’s how you want to play it.”
“It’s not.” I tap the dashboard, running my fingertips against it again and again. Elliot side-eyes them. Fuck. I look twitchy as hell. I force my hand into stillness. “He’ll be home alone?”
“He will. I checked. No wife. No girlfriend. No family. No cameras. Nothing. It’s all clear.”
I should be elated, but a black sense of doom pools in my gut. Is it already too late? I wanted to do this before the presentation to save Kate the pain of losing the project. To save her from suffering another humiliation at the hands of Martin Brooks. But we didn’t have everything we needed in time. We didn’t know which way David Webster was going to swing… didn’t know what Martin had on him and the other members of the Argentum board. Elliot only rang me to confirm after the presentation finished. He worked fast, all things considered, but not fast enough.
Sod’s law, but it is what it is. I’ll work with it.
“Mr. Hawkston?” Elliot’s voice hauls me back to the musty car as he parks up outside Martin Brooks’ house.
“You don’t have to come inside,” Elliot says. “I can do this without you.”
“I want to be there.” I sound deathly calm.
He nods and grabs the folder from the backseat, handing it to me before we both get out of the car.
Martin’s house looks neat and well-kept from the outside: perfect paintwork, trimmed front lawn, highly polished brass knocker on the gleaming front door. But it’s no surprise, given I gave the man a veritable fortune eight years ago.
I ring the bell, Elliot’s enormous bulk behind me offering protection I’m not used to needing.
A shadowy figure appears on the other side of the glass and moments later, Martin’s wrinkled face appears. He’s wearing a tartan dressing gown and sheepskin slippers, like he was planning a cosy evening in. The chance of that happening just slid to zero.
When he glimpses me, he tries to force the door closed again and blurts, “Oh, fuck, no.”
I thrust a palm against the edge of the door, forcing it wide. “We just want to chat, Mr. Brooks.”
He continues to push from the other side, but Elliot thrusts the door with such force that Martin slams against the interior wall, and Elliot and I walk inside.
Martin’s face creases with pain as he sucks in a breath. Pressing a hand to his lower back, he drags his gaze up and down Elliot’s vast frame. “Who’s the dog, Nico?”
Elliot growls, deliberately snarling and exposing teeth. I half expect him to bark.
Martin shrinks, eyes cagey as he watches me click the door closed behind us and lock it.
“Elliot’s a friend of mine,” I answer. “A very good friend.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to pay for what you’ve done.”
Martin wheezes like an asthmatic. “It’s too late to save your little girlfriend’s spa project.” He watches me for a reaction, but I betray nothing. “I assume that’s why you’re here. Little Kate Lansen took your fancy, did she?”
I flinch ever so slightly, and Martin knows he’s caught me out.
“You thought you’d hid it so well, eh? I saw you out on that balcony at Jack’s drinks party. Couldn’t take your eyes off her. Terribly inappropriate, Mr. Hawkston. Taking advantage of your employee. Keeping her as your dirty little secret. But I do understand. So pretty. Great tits.” Martin cups his hands like he’s holding Kate’s breasts. Heat fills my chest. I want to hit the prick, but Elliot’s hand gripping my arm stalls me.
“And those legs. She’s the whole package. She grew up really nicely. Such a shame about her project.” Martin pouts his bottom lip and shakes his head. “Really was a tough decision. And telling her about her father…” He laughs that thick, choked laugh. “The way she fell apart. She wept like Gerard had died all over again. It was—” My fist cracks his jaw, making his head snap to the side and blood fly from his mouth.
Dark laughter leaks from Elliot, who shifts from foot to foot, enthused by the ruckus and eager to get involved.
Martin doubles over and spits more blood on the carpet. Before he can straighten, I hit him again with an uppercut to the jaw that makes his teeth rattle.
This time he stumbles, nearly collapsing. He grabs a side table to steady himself and drags the back of his hand over his mouth, smearing blood across his cheek. Energy pulses through me. I’m not done, not nearly satisfied, but I hold back. I need him conscious for this.
“You like knowing secrets, don’t you?” I question. “Hanging them over people’s heads. Like David Webster.”
Martin’s eyes widen and I hold out my hand for the folder Elliot brought. He hands it to me and I pull out photos of David with a much younger woman. The fool has been cheating on his wife for years, raising a second family on the other side of London. There are photos of him with a young boy of about ten, who looks so like David that a paternity test would be redundant.
“You blackmailed him, didn’t you?” I challenge, flashing photo after photo in front of Martin. “That’s how you got him to push the decision across the Argentum board. Threatened to tell his wife and kids about this other family?”
“I did no such thing.”
“We’ve spoken to him and he confirmed it.”
Martin curses under his breath. “So what if I did? He’s a cheat and a liar.”
“Blackmail is a crime, Mr. Brooks. As is theft and conspiracy to steal.”
Martin is silent for a moment, and I relish the stunned look on his face.
I stroke my jaw slowly, milking Martin’s shock for a few more seconds before I speak again. “There’s an important lesson I’ve learned after all these years in business, and it’s that you’re only as good as the people you employ.” I tilt my head, feigning sympathy. “It’s especially true if you’re going to do anything illegal. I had a background check run on Daniel Hunter. Not the sharpest tool in the shed. Several previous convictions. Did you know that?”
Martin winces as I flick through the documents and images Elliot has compiled, pausing to show Martin several images taken of him with Curtis, AKA Daniel Hunter, at the storage unit in South London where they stashed Gerard’s art and the Lansens’ belongings.
“I don’t know what you think that shows.” Martin points at the picture. “I don’t know that man. He stopped me in the street…”
“Stopped you in the street multiple times, on different occasions?” I let out a deep chuckle. “Perhaps. But that man , Daniel Hunter, has agreed to testify against you for a reduced sentence. There are witnesses who saw the two of you in South London, going in and out of that unit at night.” I shrug. “Could be nothing. Could be something else entirely. But it doesn’t look above board, does it? Creeping about at night with a convicted felon?”
“This is the stupidest array of bullshit. You’re wasting my time.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket. “I have the head of the Metropolitan police on speed dial, Mr. Brooks. I’ll call this in if that’s what you want.” I glance at the ceiling, pretending to think. “That might be the kinder option than anything else I have in mind if you don’t comply with my demands.”
Martin stuffs his hands deep in his dressing gown pockets, fear crossing his face.
Beside me, Elliot puffs out his chest.
“You know the maximum sentence for blackmail? Fourteen years,” I say. “And conspiracy to steal and defraud? Ten years. Theft itself? Seven. And Daniel Hunter… You exerted coercive control over him, forcing him to sleep with Debbie Lansen as well as a long list of other things he’s told us about. I’m no lawyer, Mr. Brooks, but I’d say it’s likely you’re looking at a long run in jail. It’s like a fucking wedding buffet of potential charges.”
Martin blinks rapidly, and as his chin begins to quiver, I feel a surge of delight.
“You could have left the Lansens alone,” I continue. “If you had, maybe we wouldn’t be here now. But you got greedy, didn’t you? Had to take the artwork, Debbie Lansen’s jewellery, the spa project. You wanted to humiliate them all because you were bitter about what happened with Gerard and the company. If you couldn’t have the kudos of selling a thriving company and leading the spa project, you didn’t want the Lansens to have it either. But you didn’t deserve those things, did you? If you’d cared about your business back then, you’d have seen what Gerard was doing. You would have known before it was too late. But you never paid attention, did you?”
“What do you want, Nico?” Martin drags a hand down his face.
“I want it all returned, with compensation. I’ll get the details to you of the sums I expect you to repay. I want you to return the spa project to the Hawkston-Lansen team. You’ll make an announcement to that effect, then you’ll step down from the Argentum board. You’ll retire, for good this time, and you’ll fuck off out of London. Sell the house, turning over eighty-five percent of the sale money to me. Then you’ll move to a quiet village in the north of England. Somewhere wet and windy and fucking cold. Elliot here will be watching you very closely. If you come back to London, we’ll know about it.”
“And if I say no?”
I raise my phone. “Let’s find out, shall we?” I hover my thumb over the call button, letting it edge closer and closer until Martin breaks.
“Fuck you, Nico Hawkston. You’re a crooked fucking bastard. I always knew it.”
“Is that a yes? I don’t want to misinterpret what you’re saying,” I say, and Elliot flips back one side of his jacket to hook a thumb in his belt loop, revealing the butt of his gun poking from the holster. Martin’s eyes slide to it, then pop wide. “Because as much as I admire the Metropolitan Police Force, Elliot here could sort you out much faster. But the cleanup is a bitch. I want to be prepared.”
Martin’s face blanches, and there’s a pleasing tremor to Martin’s voice when he says, “There were no weapons last time we negotiated.”
“Last time, I thought you were a reasonable man. But now I know you’re not, more unreasonable measures are called for.”
I put a hand in my pocket, gripping the penknife Gerard Lansen gifted me all those years ago, and the inscription on the handle comes to mind.
Don’t kill anyone .
I’ve no intention of killing Martin, but I’ve never wanted to hurt someone more than I do now. He came after Kate. He took her project. He set out to tear her down, to humiliate her, to steal from her family. He fucking hurt her…I can’t let that go unpunished.
Elliot takes the Glock from the holster.
Martin’s eyes open wider still, until they seem like the only features on his face. He shrivels, his shoulders sinking into his robe. The sight makes a wicked laugh spill from my mouth.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Martin says, but his voice is weak.
Elliot takes a silencer from his pocket and screws it onto the barrel of the Glock. “Mr. Hawkston won’t have to do anything.” He snarls, upper lip curling away from his teeth. “In fact, he wasn’t even here.” A grin replaces Elliot’s snarl, and he winks, as if Martin is in on the joke. The shift in Elliot’s persona is so fast, he looks insane. Psychotic, even. Exactly the type of man who could blow your brains out on a whim.
Martin shudders and a guttural groan comes from his lips. “Fuck you, Nico. Take your luxury spas. And the Lansens can have their shit. Nothing decent but that Stephen Condar piece and the diamonds, anyway.”
A slow sense of satisfaction spreads through me. I always knew Martin Brooks was a gutless coward.
“And you’ll have to make it right with David Webster,” I add. “I don’t condone what he’s done, but that’s his shit to deal with. Really, you should have taken the cash I gave you all those years ago and made a run for it.”
Elliot raises the Glock casually, not even pointing it at Martin, but the old man’s hands shoot in the air. “Fine, fine. Just put the gun away.”
Elliot gives a slow nod, and Martin blows out a breath, lowering his hands. “It’s done. All of it. Everything you want. You have my word.”
“Your word better be good. Because I won’t let this rest if you don’t make everything right within the week. You have until Friday. If you fail to comply…” I shrug as if this is all terribly unimportant. “I’ll delegate your fate to Elliot, and he can choose what to do with you.”
Martin nods furiously.
I clear my throat. “One last thing…”
Elliot stalks towards Martin with the gun in hand, pointing it this time at his head.
Martin drops to his knees, hands wavering in the air, eyes bulging like ripe plums. “Anything. Anything at all,” he says, nodding furiously.
“Stay the fuck away from Kate Lansen.”
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” Martin blubbers.
I flip the folder closed and signal to Elliot that it’s time to leave. He gives me a glance that begs permission, and I nod my consent, at which he fires a muffled bullet into the wooden floor at Martin’s knees.
Martin whimpers and curls into a ball, cradling the back of his skull in his hands.
“I mean it, Martin,” I state, taking no pity on the man. “Next time that bullet goes in your head.”
Elliot removes the silencer and shoves his gun back in the holster, leaving a terrified Mr. Brooks sweating in a puddle on the floor. He’s quivering so violently that he can’t speak.
We exit the house and once we’re back on the street, rain strikes my skin like it can erase everything. I could fucking drink it in.
Elliot eats up the distance to the car in seconds, moving like a muscled panther in the dark, yanking the door open and folding himself in.
I’m about to get in myself when my phone rings.
Erica Lefroy. What a moment to get a call from her. We haven’t spoken since that night at Martini Gems. Feels like a fucking lifetime ago.
I answer. “Erica?”
“Nico, hi sweetie. How’s things?”
I pull the car door open and get in. My hand throbs from where I hit Martin, but it’s a satisfying pain.
“Good. How can I help?”
She laughs. “Always assume people want things from you when they call?”
“Yes.”
There’s a slight pause. “You’re coming to New York for the charity gala next week, right?” She sounds mildly chastened, but not in the least deterred.
Shit . I’d forgotten about it. I’m making the welcome speech and I haven’t even started writing it. The last time it crossed my mind was when I mentioned it to Kate. It was the date I’d mentally put in place for taking our relationship public.
I’m yours if you want me… I’ve got to go back to New York in a couple of weeks. After that we can reassess. If you still want to, we can take it public then .
A sharp pain, worse than the sting in my knuckles, lances through my chest.
“I am,” I reply, no hint of the pain in my voice.
“Then I have a favour to ask you. It’s not a big one, but it would really, really help me out.”
“Sure. Whatever you need.”
And just like that, I’m back to normal life.