Killing Well is the Best Revenge

A Marah Chase and Joanna Mason date

Jay Stringer

Copyright

A SWAG TALES EBOOK

Originally published in 2020. This edition updated 2023. Copyright renewed.

This edition published by Swag Tales, Glasgow, G40 4TR.

All works copyright Jay Stringer 2022.

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author. Reviewers may quote the text for reviews, students may quote the text for educational purposes, but cannot be used for profit.

Cover design by Jay Stringer.

Contents

1. Note

2. “A Spy and a thief hit the town…”

3. 1. The Date

4. About The Author

ALSO BY JAY STRINGER

The Eoin Miller Trilogy

Old Gold

Runaway Town

Lost City

The Sam Ireland Mysteries

Ways to Die in Glasgow

How to Kill Friend and Implicate People

The Marah Chase Thrillers

World War Zero

End of Eden

Stand-Alone Novels

Don’t Tell a Soul

Roll With It

Note

This story is set between WORLD WAR ZERO and THE END OF EDEN.

“A Spy and a thief hit the town…”

“A Spy and a thief hit the town…”

The Date

The Notting Hill carnival was louder, and prouder, than ever before. The country had been through a tough time, and everyone shared the feeling that the carnival had come along to lift the gloom, and serve as a reminder all dark times pass.

As evening set in, and the sky took on the faded light that would hold until around ten p.m., the pubs and clubs now joined the chorus, mingling with the street performers and house parties.

Joanna Mason and Marah Chase were sitting in a small Ethiopian restaurant on Westbourne Grove. They’d spent the afternoon enjoying the carnival, and then taken a tired stroll a few streets away to eat here. Chase knew the owner, and insisted it was the best meal they’d get in the area. Mason was amused at the idea that Chase, an American, would know Mason’s hometown better than she did.

But so far, it seemed she was right.

“You’re thinking about me being right,” Chase said, between two mouthfuls of food. “It’s okay to admit it.”

Mason smiled but stayed silent. The date was playing out exactly as they would have both predicted. The same comfortable games. Teasing each other. Flirting.

Was that really the right word? Date?

Mason didn’t know what to call their relationship. Partners was too formal. Too far along. It implied something more than they could ever really be. But girlfriends? That sounded too young. Too innocent. There wasn’t really an easy term for an international criminal and a spy who liked each other’s company and screwed each other’s brains out whenever they were in the same town.

They’d worked together to stop a terrorist attack earlier in the year. Mason still carried the injuries, though they were fading now. Healing in all but memory. Her right shoulder still hurt first thing in the morning, feeling like it was going to lock up if she moved too fast. She never mentioned it to her employers, or any of the medical teams who had assessed her since the trauma of the London attack. They had kept her off the active roster for too long already.

The security services were in the middle of a large reorganisation, and she suspected they were using her lack of medical clearance as an excuse to delay any decisions on her future. They’d offered her several cushy office jobs. One even came with a huge promotion, heading up a new division created in the wake of the attack. But Mason’s heart was in the field, and she kept insisting they put her back there.

Chase used the silence to check her phone.

“Hey,” Mason pointed an accusatorial finger, turning it into a wag. “You promised, no working tonight.”

Chase had been in demand. Most of the truth about the attack was deeply classified. The level of secret that basically amounted to for god’s eyes only. Seven people in the whole world knew the full extent of what had happened, and it needed to stay that way. But as reward for Chase’s involvement in foiling it, she’d had her criminal record wiped, as well as certain strategic leaks being made about the level of her help. An international treasure hunter? A rogue archaeologist? Explosions? Excitement? Hollywood was coming calling. Producers wanting to buy film rights to her life and career.

Chase had promised Mason she was only in town for meetings with the BBC. They both knew it was a lie, of course. Chase was still involved in the black market, and working an angle. But they had at least agreed that neither of them would work today.

Chase held up both hands, palms up in surrender. “You got me.”

Mason leaned forward. “Do I?”

Chase waited, stretching the moment for effect. “You need to clear your plate if you want dessert.”

“I’ve been craving dessert all afternoon.”

They both fell silent for a few moments after that, happy to leave the game there for now. They sat out front, under the green awning. They both liked to be near exits and to be able to see trouble coming. And they trusted each other to watch over the other’s back.

Mason had picked this seat. It gave her a great view of Chase, her auburn hair catching the last rays of sun, and to anyone who would be approaching from behind Chase. But it also gave her a clear sight of the building two doors down. A black storefront, with frosted glass window displaying a sign promising Cryo Wellness Therapy. It was the door next to the business she was interested in, though, and what lay on the floors above….

“Where did you go to?” Chase said.

Mason shook her head slightly, “What?”

“You went somewhere, just then.”

“I was thinking about dessert.”

Chase ginned, leaned back in her seat. “Whatever.”

Chase’s phone started to buzz. She looked down at it, and the way her shoulders slumped, Mason already knew what Chase was about to say. “I’m sorry. I do have to take this.”

Mason sat bolt upright, pretending to be angry as Chase answered the call and started talking into the phone.

Mason shook her head slowly, mouthing “You. Are. Unbelievable.”

Chase shrugged, smiling at how little she cared. Mason pushed her seat back to make a noise and, when she had Chase’s attention again, whispered she was going to the toilet. Chase nodded, continuing her phone conversation, “Uh huh…when?...Okay.”

Mason didn’t go inside. She timed standing up to coincide with a small group of worn-out looking carnival goers walking by, pausing to look at the menu. As they hesitated in the doorway, Mason stepped past them, but then looped around, stepping back out of the doorway on the other side of the group. She walked quickly away down the street, to the corner a couple buildings down, and turned onto the next road. She slipped off her lightweight linen jacket. It was tailored to be reversible. She’d been wearing it white, but turned it inside-out and put it back on as black. She pulled an elastic bracelet off her wrist and used it to tie her hair back, and put on two vinyl gloves from her pocket. They matched her skin tone and wouldn’t be noticeable at a casual glance.

She wasn’t running exactly, but would out-pace most casual joggers at her current speed. One of the first things an agent learned in the field was the art of moving at pace without drawing attention.

Down the block for a quarter of a mile, past white residential houses that opened out onto the street, brown apartment building, she turned left, heading back parallel to Westbourne Grove, near more expensive residential buildings. Then left again, back up towards the street she’d left, as if all she was doing was taking a brisk walk around the block. She came to a small lane. More of an alley. Brown brick walls on either side, and moss-lived cobbles on the ground. This led her behind the row of buildings fronting out onto Westbourne Grove.

Mason counted along, coming to a stop at the back door to the Cryo Wellness place. Theirs was just a typical push-bar door, propped open to let the warm evening air in. Mason found that funny, all things considered. Beside the door was a simple black metal exit. It had no handle, no keyhole visible from the outside, nothing to grab hold of or use. There was a camera mounted above it.

This was her target. The floors above were taken up with the Embassy for the Republic of Bolanmar.

Bolanmar was a Central American country whose whole economy had been fuelled by the drug trade. That in itself wasn’t unusual, Mason knew. For most of the ‘advanced’ western countries, the only reason they weren’t regarded the same way was the passage of time. London and Glasgow had been built on the trade of opiates, sugars, tobacco, and people. The largest banks in Britain and Europe had been funded by the drug trade, at a time when it was national policy.

But Bolanmar was doing it now, not then, which meant they tended to be seen as an enemy. A rogue player in the international game who hadn’t made their money at the right time. Mason could forgive all of that. It wasn’t any of her business unless her government decided to make it so.

What she couldn’t forgive was that Bolanmar was offering shelter in their embassy to Douglas Buchan. Buchan had, until a few months ago, been a rising politician. An MP at the heart of government, working his way up to Prime Minister. He’d also betrayed his country. One of the key figures behind the terrorist attack. If it had been successful, he’d be living in 10 Downing Street by now. That address held a magic attraction to idiots, cowards, and wannabe-tyrants. Instead, Buchan’s reward for his troubles was a mattress in an embassy toilet.

Bolanmar was rumoured to be sheltering other members of the attempted coup, including the billionaire who had funded the whole thing. One way or another, the political wheels would grind them eventually. The billionaire would be forced to move on. A deal would be struck to remove Buchan from the embassy. Mason knew her organisation was in the queue, and at some point she would get the order to go after the people who’d hurt the city. But for now they were protected by diplomacy.

For Mason, that was unacceptable.

The international game was her day job. She was used to putting feelings to one side for the greater good. But Buchan’s people killed two of Mason’s friends. Her closest ally in the field, Tan Bashir, and her mentor in the trade, Guy Lonnen.

Each lungful of air Buchan took in their place was an insult.

She checked the time on her phone. It had been two minutes since she’d left Chase at the table.

Time to get moving.

Marah Chase was having fun. In herself. As herself.

This was a new experience. For the past decade she’d been living in reactions. A permanent state of change. Losing her academic career, learning how to survive in the dark trades. She was good at it. A natural. But for ten years she’d felt none of it was by choice.

Now, thanks to her actions in this very city a few months earlier, she had options. She could relax, live in the moment a little. She could go on a date with a spy.

A date.

That felt like something reserved for people in their teens and twenties. But she was rolling with it. And if you couldn’t have a little bit of fun while getting to fool around with someone like Joanna Mason, what was the point? Chase had her very own James Bond on speed dial.

Of course, that part wasn’t new.

One of the benefits of life in the dark trades—if you could call it a benefit—was that your address book was full of contact details for spies, smugglers, mercenaries, relic runners. It was more of a rarity to hang out with normal people. Civvies.

But still, Mason had something about her. Chase was beginning to think they saw the same thing in each other. She was born with the natural skills for a life she wouldn’t have chosen.

And Chase was beginning to realise her own story was the same.

Presented with a way out of relic running, with options to reclaim her academic life and become ‘decent’ again, she couldn’t seem to step fully out into the light.

Chase and Mason were both the best at what they did.

And they were both trying to pretend they wanted to be something else.

These thoughts weren’t new. She’d been having them for months. What was new was the amount of time she was spending dwelling on them. Chase wasn’t a thinker. She didn’t like to sit in her head and stew on thoughts. She liked to move. Act. Do.

And the main problem with thinking was it invited planning.

Chase hated planning.

But Mason seemed to be rubbing off on her. In more ways than one.

(And also frequently rubbing on her, but that was a thought for later.)

Mason always had three or four different options lined up. Plans. Backup plans. Escape routes. Fallbacks. Contingencies. They both liked to sit by the emergency exit in a restaurant, but for different reasons. Mason would have planned ahead, scoped the place out, and worked out six different ways to get away, factoring in the fore exit, front door, kitchen, windows, whatever else. Chase walked into a place fresh, saw the exit, and sat near it just in case she needed to react to anything in the moment.

But now….

Now Chase could see Mason looking up the street. Mason’s eyes were just about visible through her sunglasses, and Chase not only knew she hadn’t had her girlfriend’s full attention, she’d planned for it. She’d picked this restaurant because it was near the Bolanmar Embassy.

This was her gift to Mason. And Mason’s influence on her.

Most of all, it was cover for the work Chase was about to do.

Her cell rang. It was time.

“I’m sorry, I do have to take this.”

Mason’s pretence at being angry was kinda cute. “You. Are. Unbelievable.”

The voice in Chase’s ear was laid back, an American accent with a hint of long-forgotten Louisiana roots. “Is that her?”

“Uh huh.”

“You got good taste, Chase. But your girlfriend needs to go powder her nose.”

Powder her nose? Who even says that?

“When.”

“I’m walking to you now.”

Mason, as if she had heard the message, pushed back her chair and signalled she was going to the bathroom. It was a lie, naturally. But one Chase had been expecting. She pretended not to notice as Mason slipped around the small crowd in the doorway, and down the street to the corner.

Perfect.

Mason eased backward slowly. The drainpipe was taking her weight, but she could feel it really didn’t want to. The second-floor window was beside her. It was alarmed. She could see the small slip of silver running along where the window would normally open. A small box on the inside, bolted to the recess, flashed red.

She squeezed the drainpipe with one hand, braced her knees and feet against the wall, and let go with her other hand, so she could fetch the cell phone from her pocket. An app had blocked the signal on the CCTV camera down below. Now that she was two floors above, the camera was out of range, but it freed the app up for an attempt at interfering with the alarm. She swiped through the controls with her thumb, found the setting she wanted, and pressed. The red light inside the window stopped flashing for a few seconds, then resumed.

Damn it.

Not long enough for Mason to open the window.

She was still going in, but this meant she needed to brace for action from the second she touched the glass. She pulled gently on the skirt of her black dress. The one she’d chosen as the perfect balance between pretending to make no effort at all for Chase, and making total effort. The joke had been that they’d both done the same thing. Mason wearing the white linen jacket over a black dress, and Chase wearing the linen suit with a black top. They’d laughed it off as them failing to co-ordinate, but deep down, Mason knew, it was because they’d both made the same decisions in the mirror that morning.

She shuffled in the air, working the skirt a little further up her thighs. She’d already done this once, to get at the latex knee pads she’d been wearing around her lower thighs, hidden directly beneath the bottom of the skirt. Now she needed to reach a little farther up, to where she had a slim black knife strapped to the inside of each leg. She pulled one free and slipped the edge of the blade under the crack where the window would open. The blades were designed as multi tools. The man who gave them to her had also claimed she could also use them to change a bicycle tyre. She pressed a button hidden on the hilt of the knife, and the handle extended out three feet, making it more of a baton tipped with a blade. She eased her hand along to the end, and now used the extra length to lever the window open.

Something cracked on the inside as a lock gave way. She also saw that the light was no longer flashing: The red LED now glowed without interruption. There was no sound. This was a silent alarm. But she knew somebody, either in the building or elsewhere, would now know they were being broken into.

She eased across from the drainpipe onto the window ledge, collapsed the baton back down to a hand-held knife, and climbed inside.

The laid-back voice on the phone belonged to August Nash. He took the empty seat across from Chase only seconds after Mason had left. He leaned back, turned to the side to cross his long legs, and grinned at Chase.

“Good to see you.”

Nash had been in the game longer than Chase. He’d once been a well-regarded CIA agent, before going freelance as a mercenary and then, eventually, settling into life as a relic runner. The small, rarefied group of archaeologists and treasure hunters who travelled the world, looting tombs and raiding artefacts, selling them to the highest bidder.

Nash traced a finger across the menu for a few seconds, then picked up a fork and helped himself to food off Mason’s plate. “This is good.”

“I chose it.”

“You’re good.”

Chase shook her head, dismissing the flirt. It was an old game between them, one she never had much patience for. When Chase had first stumbled into the trade she’d been young and green. She’d grown up on a farm in rural Washington, so she was no stranger to physical activity, and knew how to throw a punch. But she’d been an academic at heart, and she wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in the field if August Nash hadn’t taken her under his wing, guided her through the first few jobs.

He was no saint, though. Chase had always known.

He was a man. There would come a point when he expected a reward. And when the first subtle advances had come, in spite of Nash knowing which way Chase’s interests lay, things had become frayed between them.

Now, ten years on, they were two legends of the trade.

The pretence of small talk slipped away. Nash’s face was all business now. “Do you have it?”

Chase didn’t move, keeping her eyes on him, and on both of his hands. “Do you have the money?”

Nash’s hands moved slowly beneath the table. Chase hoped he didn’t notice her tensing. This was the moment it could all go wrong, if he pulled a trigger before she was ready, he could walk away without anybody knowing what had happened. He grinned again, just enough to say relax. When his hands came back up above the table they were each holding dollar bills, held together in small brick-like bundles. He must have carried one in each pocket. Which, Chase thought, also ruled out the possibility of guns in those pockets.

Still plenty of places he could have concealed them, though.

He placed the money in the centre of the table.

Chase turned to look in through the restaurant window and nodded, to where she knew the owner, a retired Ethiopian gun runner called Shimeleis, would be watching. A few seconds later one of the waitstaff carried out a metal platter and placed it on an empty table beside the one Chase and Nash were sitting at. It had been held vacant with a small reserved sign. If Mason had noticed, she hadn’t commented on it.

On the platter was a large silver cross, with a long, wrapped metal chain. It didn’t look like anything special, but it carried an interesting place in history, and a ten-year story between Nash and Chase.

“It’s still pretty,” Nash said. “Can you believe how long it’s been?”

“I can believe every minute.”

The Seal of Saint Nicholas—so-called because it had a small stamp carved into the base, it was believed the saint had used it during his lifetime—had been the very first relic they had found together. It had been in a secret chamber, buried beneath a field in Turkey, once the basement of a long-forgotten church. The cross was said to bring good luck to sailors and fishermen, that any ship carrying the cross couldn’t be sunk, and that any fisherman who possessed it would never fail to catch a large haul.

Chase couldn’t vouch for any of the superstitions, but she did know it was an item that had come in and out of her life several times over the years. No sooner had she and Nash found it, they’d had it stolen away by a rival. On the black market it had traded hands a number of times, sometimes ethically, sometimes less so. From collector to owner to museum to thief and back again.

Both Chase and Nash had managed to possess it a couple of times each. It had become a small obsession between them, part of their unspoken rivalry. Who could hold it the longest? Or, in a darker version, who will be holding it when the game stops?

This time, Chase was happy to sell it to him. She had come by it the previous month, finding it almost by chance on a different job. And she told herself that selling it to Nash, letting him take the win, might end the rivalry between them, and help her retire from the circuit.

Any such thoughts faded the moment Nash’s hand closed around the cross, and Chase noticed the two small red dots of rifle laser-sights appear on the floor at her feet, before travelling up her side to rest on her chest. She couldn’t see the potential shooters. But then, that was the point.

Nash touched two fingers to his temple in mock salute. “Always a pleasure doing business.”

The man with the gun was not happy to see Mason. He was standing in the doorway, and had her caught point blank in his sights. One squeeze would end any fears she had about where the relationship with Chase was going. On the other hand, from the way he was holding the weapon, he was just as likely to break his own wrist: one-handed, with no support, and posed in the doorway like an action star. He looked to have around seventy pounds on her, but clearly had no idea how to use it. He yelled at her in Spanish to put her hands up. The accent was thick with Bolanmar. Their security services were known to be aggressive and short tempered, but not always well trained.

Of course, you don’t always need good training if you have a gun.

Mason moved fast to the left, knowing he would try and follow her with his gun hand, putting his stance further off balance. She pushed forward on the balls of her feet, going airborne for a second before slamming all of her weight into the wrist holding the gun.

The big man yelped and dropped the weapon.

Mason’s momentum took her down fast, she squatted, a knife in each hand, and sunk one blade each into his right leg. The first went in at the front, slicing his quadricep tendon, the second angled into the side of the knee, cutting his lateral collateral ligament. He screamed and crumpled back into the wall, screaming a second time as he slid to the floor, putting pressure on the wounded knee.

“Stay down,” Mason whispered in Spanish. “It can be repaired if you do the right thing.”

He was already out of Mason’s mind as she moved out into the stairwell. She figured this would be off to the side of the building, in line with the black door she’d seen from the restaurant. There were staircases on either side of a thin dividing wall. The one on the left led down to the floor below. The one on the right climbed up to the next level. The lights were out. She could see the bulbs, one directly above her head, one at the top of the stairs, on the next floor. She assumed there was one at the bottom of the other staircase, too. She paused, tuning out the whimpering coming from behind her to focus on sounds coming from elsewhere in the building. She could sense, more than hear, the noises from the clinic below. There was the background hum of electricity. On the floor above she heard the floor creak under someone’s weight. As she took a step up, she realised her mistake. A shape sprang up from the staircase below her, the one leading down. Someone had flattened themselves to the steps and remained hidden in the shadows. Now the same person was rushing her. The new guy slammed into her and drove her backward into the wall. All the breath left her body. She dropped both knives. Large hands gripped her shoulders and lifted her up a few inches, pushing her into the wall a second time. Mason felt her right shoulder, the one still carrying the lingering injury, go numb. As the grip released she sagged forward and sucked in air.

He was moving his weight, another blow was coming.

Mason stalled for time by saying, “No, please.”

The big man grunted. But the hesitation was all she needed, because in the seconds it took him to decide, he telegraphed a large kick. It gave Mason time to roll out of the way. His foot crashed into, and through, the wall. He yelped in pain.

As Mason turned to continue her attack, she saw a third man, a small thin guy in a suit, standing at the top of the stairs above them, watching. This distraction handed a slight advantage back to her attacker, who grabbed her by the throat. But now Mason had a plan of attack. She stamped her heel into the toe of the foot that had gone through the wall. The sound that came out of his mouth was more like a frustrated toddler than a wounded adult. Mason pressed home and ground her heel from side to side, then used his foot as a launch pad to jump up, striking his nose, this time with the heel of her hand. He staggered back, teetering on the edge of the top step. He made a grab for her, but his fingers closed on air, and he fell backwards into the shadows. She heard his weight hitting the bannister about hallway down, and then the pained sounds of him sliding the rest of the way.

Mason took a second to adjust herself. Smoothing out her dress, setting her jacket right on her shoulders, pulling the cuffs down, and then picking up her knives. She started up the steps toward the third floor, and the man in the suit, who was waiting for her.

“Would it kill you, just once, to be worth trusting?”

Chase kept her tone even, controlled. Showing Nash she wasn’t fazed.

He cocked his head to one side, taking his time scratching his chin. Inviting Chase to try and guess which of his movements was the signal for the two hidden guns to fire.

“I would have thought,” he said, “you would be more worried whether trusting was going to get you killed.”

A third dot appeared on the table, beside Nash’s elbow. It looped around in a small, lazy circle, drawing Nash’s attention before climbing his arm, over his shoulder, and settling on his temple, where he wouldn’t be able to see it.

Chase laughed as Nash shifted in his seat, trying to see where the shooter was without wanting to betray his calm for even a second, to make sure not to seem like he was worried.

“Smooth,” she said.

“Is this the place Shimeleis owns?”

“Uh huh.”

“He wouldn’t happen to still have some of his old merchandise, would he?”

Chase raised her eyebrow. “I think we can count on it.”

Nash turned his head slightly, and Chase knew he was looking through the window, trying to spot the source of the dot. It was a waste of time. Even Chase didn’t know who Shimeleis was using, or where they were stationed. She just knew the shooter was poised and ready the minute she clicked her fingers.

“Maybe we should just talk,” Nash said.

“Maybe.”

The man in the suit didn’t move as Mason climbed the stairs toward him. He stood there, with his hands crossed in front of him, waiting with a patient smile. When Mason was within two steps, he nodded a greeting, tossing a look over her shoulder at the damage she’d left behind.

“I’m Ambassador Podence.” His accent was mild, from central Bolanmar, maybe the capital city. “I assume you do not wish to give your name.”

“I assume you’ve already got an idea who I am.”

He ran his tongue across his lower lip in thought. “We have a front door.”

Mason bowed slightly. “I didn’t want to cause a scene.”

Podence laughed. “I wonder what that would be like.”

“Not pretty.”

He moved back a step, looking off to the side for a moment before focusing on Mason again. “This is not official business?”

“I’m a private citizen.”

“I see.”

Mason moved up a step. “We both know it will be official business at some point. After many hours of negotiation. Your side will be forced into concessions, there could be political damage.”

“Perhaps.”

“This business could bring a lot of unwanted attention to the way your country operates. It could cause the need to…suspend certain trades you have going on. Maybe even the deals being carried on downstairs, behind the Cryo therapy front.”

“I would have preferred to reserve our energies for a different battle.”

“One with more of an upside for your country.”

“Indeed.”

“That could still happen.”

Podence looked off to the side again, for a little longer this time. Mason realised he was sending her a silent message, giving directions.

“Of course, for that to be the case, the problem would have to move elsewhere.”

“Of course.”

“It was a pleasure not meeting you,” he bowed, and offered his hand for a shake.

Mason took his soft grip, then stood to one side, letting him walk by.

On his way down the stairs he said, “Perhaps we could be introduced next time.”

Mason opened her hand, seeing the key he’d slipped her. She climbed the last step and turned to see where he’d been directing her gaze. A white door, with a lock beneath the handle. Mason stood in silence listening to Podence’s receding footfalls. Then moved across to the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside.

Contrary to everything she’d heard, this wasn’t a toilet, or a bathroom. It looked to have once been a storeroom. Wooden shelves lined the walls. There was a small window, up high, with black paper taped across the panes. There was a mattress on the floor, and the stale smell of a room that had seen way too much of one man, and way too little fresh air.

Douglas Buchan was huddled on the mattress, staring up at her.

He no longer looked like the poster boy for future government. The Kennedy hair had been shaved off, with close-cropped stubble growing back in its place. He had a full beard, which climbed up his cheeks like Virginia Creeper. He was wearing a tracksuit, and his bare feet showed nails that hadn’t been clipped in at least a month.

Mason almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

“I know you,” he said.

“Yes, you do.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m not.” She let him see the knives. “And neither are you.”

“Wait. I can…I can give you names.”

“Only two I’m interested in right now,” Mason took a step forward, “are Tan Bashir. Guy Lonnen.”

“I can help you get to the people behind this.”

“You’re going to help me send a message to them.”

“We never really talk anymore, you know?” Nash sipped from Mason’s wine.

“Did we ever really talk?”

“Remember the night in Greece?”

Chase half smiled. Yes. That one, at least, was a good memory. “Waiting to see if the explosions went off.”

“We got pretty deep that night, you remember?”

“I remember you getting drunk accidentally on Marco’s house wine, thinking it was water, and then spending the night talking about how you’d had to make your own relationship with god in the CIA, and why couldn’t millennials just knuckle down and work, like you had when you went freelance.”

“Killing people is an honest trade,” he pointed a finger at her. “There’s not enough of those left.”

“I’m a millennial, you know.”

He squinted. “No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, I am. By every measure.”

“Huh.” He appeared to sit with that thought for a while. He took another sip of the wine. “Okay. So, how do you want to play this, kid?”

“How about the way we agreed?”

He sighed. Almost theatrically. “Fine. If that’s the way you want it.” He rose slowly from the seat, wielded the cross in the air to reclaim a sense of victory, turned on his heels to walk down the street.

Chase watched him go. The red dots were still on her. Once he was across the road at the end of the block, and walking on, she saw him typing something on his cell. Hers rang, and she answered it, watching him put his to his ear.

She said, “You going to call your boys off?”

“Just did.”

The red dots disappeared.

“You know,” he stretched the words out, building up to something. “You and me. Someday, one of is isn’t going to walk away.”

Chase smiled. “I look forward to it.”

Mason paused inside the Embassy’s front door. There was a mirror on the wall, beside a coatrack and a table piled high with mail. She took a few moments to touch up her makeup and straighten her clothes again. She slipped off the latex knee pads and wrapped them in a bundle with the gloves. She blew herself a kiss in the mirror, then used the bundle of latex to open the front door.

She pulled it shut behind her, feeling the click as the lock engaged.

Chase was still sitting at the table a few doors down. Her back was to Mason. She was still on the phone. Mason dropped the latex in a waste bin mounted to a streetlight and walked back to their table.

In the distance, she could already hear the police sirens. An anonymous call had been placed, reporting a dead body in the alleyway behind the building. Douglas Buchan would be found a convenient distance from the embassy’s back door.

Mason bent over Chase and took the phone.

“She’ll call you back,” she said into the cell, killing the call.

Chase looked up at her with an expression that was more amused than angry. “Hey.”

“You promised,” Mason said. “No work.”

Chase’s eyes fell to something on Mason’s neck. She picked up a napkin off the table and wiped Mason’s skin, then showed her the drops of blood she’s just cleaned off.

“No work?”

Mason ran her finger up Chase’s neck, and along the underside of her jaw, to her chin. Then she gently pulled Chase forward into a kiss.

As they eased apart Chase whispered, “Just deserts?”

Mason raised her eyebrow suggestively, “Just dessert.”

About The Author

Jay Stringer was born in 1980, and he’s not dead yet.

His crime fiction has been nominated for both Anthony and Derringer awards, and shortlisted for the McIlvanney Prize.

His stand-up comedy has been laughed at by at least three people. Jay is English by birth and Scottish by legend; born in the Black Country and claiming Glasgow as his hometown for the last 17 years.

Jay is dyslexic, and came to the written word as a second language, via comic books, music, and comedy. Jay won a gold medal in the Antwerp Olympics of 1920. He did not compete in the Helsinki Olympics of 1952, that was some other guy.

DID YOU LIKE THE COVER DESIGN AND TYPESETTING OF THIS BOOK?

Jay is a freelance artist available for hire to do either or both. Check out www.jaystringerbooks.com for more details, or email Jay at jay@jaystringerbooks.com