He had the pearls in his pocket. All he had to do was get that friggin’ painting, hand both over to the Boss, receive his payment plus bonus, and get the fuck out of there. For a few moments he allowed himself the luxury of contemplating where he might go, with all his money safely banked in that Swiss account. No small town where he would be noticed as being different, that was for sure. Something like a cruise maybe, on one of those big ships they had nowadays, thousands of people all eating and drinking and dancing and busy meeting and greeting. Easy to get lost in a crowd like that, especially with a new identity, and no hint of the Russian in him. He could speak English with the best, nobody could ever tell.
It took him seconds to enter Mirabella’s room. A few more seconds and he’d wrenched the painting off the wall. The tack came out with it. Plaster fluttered in little white flakes onto his black sweater. He brushed them off, and shoved the painting underneath the sweater, careful to keep the paint side away from his sweat-damp skin. Which gave him thought that maybe he was getting too old for this game; he never used to sweat. Now, he could feel it trickling down his back. What the fuck? Enough was enough. He wanted his money and to get out of here. Killing old women and cat-burglaring were not his game. He was a street fighter, a man who killed other street fighters, men like himself who were working for what he’d always called, “the other side.”
He left the villa, letting his eyes adjust. Of course he knew the terrain, knew the easiest and darkest route to the bunker where the Boss awaited him. His boots crunched on the gravel path and he hesitated again, wondering if he should take the longer way, across the grass. But no, there were dogs around and cops; the night’s affairs were not finished. They would still be there at dawn, with the stragglers from the party, maybe even one or two they might have arrested, or detained on suspicion. Suspicion of what? Was that girl, Verity, dead? He smiled, thinking of her. If she was not, then she soon would be. The Boss would take no chances on her regaining her senses and her memory. He was quite certain of that.
He had no idea how to get into the bunker. There was no door where you might knock, no bell to be pressed. But there were tiny cameras and they were all pointing at him so he had no need to knock. A wall slid back, revealing a steel slab of a door. There was no handle, it simply opened as he stepped up to it. He glanced nervously behind him. He wasn’t used to this high-tech shit, he needed a door he could open and close himself, he needed his escape route and he realized the Boss was not allowing him one. Too late to go back.
“Come in,” the Boss said.
The Russian could see him, or at least the back of his head. He was sitting facing a giant bank of television screens that showed the entire property. The Russian realized that nobody could make a move in this place without being caught on one of those cameras. And no doubt those images would be kept in perpetuity for the Boss’s use. With those cameras, those images, and with technology, the Boss could put any person anywhere on his property he wanted. Their image, that is. If he wanted, for instance, someone on the beach, throwing Verity into the sea, he had it.
The Russian’s throat went dry just thinking about it. He had never had any compunction about killing, well, only the once with the old woman, Aunt Jolly, but that was because murdering old ladies was not his business and he had regretted it ever since. Especially as he had yet to receive payment. Fuck it, he was getting his money and he was out of here. Gone. The thought gave him sudden courage and he walked boldly up to the Boss and put the painting on the desk in front of him, awaiting the words of praise, or even thanks.
The Boss got up. He looked coolly at him, one brow raised. “So?”
Cocky fucker, the Russian thought. Believes he has it all, that he owns the world. Well, he doesn’t own me. He said, “I got everything you want.”
“You screwed up royally. One young woman is in the hospital, only half-drowned. The other is still walking around very much alive.”
“Fuck them.” The Russian was impatient, confident. He pulled the string of pearls from his pocket. They slid through his fingers and fell to the floor with a surprisingly noisy crash. Pearls were heavier than he’d thought. He bent to pick them up.
“Leave them.”
The Boss’s voice was ice. The Russian glanced up, surprised.
“And where is the ring?”
The Russian frowned. All the Boss had asked for were the pearls and the painting. No, wait a minute, there was also the big sapphire Mirabella wore, that’s what he’d wanted too. Greedy bastard, as if enough wasn’t enough for a billionaire like him who could easily go out and buy bigger and better. Why did he need all this shit, anyway? Especially that dreary little painting.
“It’s on her fuckin’ finger,” he snarled. And then his head snapped back with such sudden force he thought his neck would break, and he was on the floor, with the Boss standing over him, dark eyes burning into his.
“Get up,” the Boss said.
The Russian knew he’d better, though it was difficult to get his feet back under him.
“Now, get out.”
The Russian had not lost all of his senses, though he was afraid. “I want my money.”