The drive lasted nearly an hour. At least, that was what Leia thought as she sat crumpled in the back of the vehicle, nothing but darkness around her, nothing to hear except for the drone of the engine, the tires on tarmac, and her own panicked breaths that filled the sack with thick, moist air each time she exhaled.
Finally, they came to a stop. Doors opened and rough hands dragged her out.
‘No! No!’
But her screams did nothing to help as she was hauled across jagged ground and into an echoey building. Once inside, she half shuffled, was half pulled along, until she was tossed down to the corner of a room she could see nothing of. Cold floor, cold walls. Where was this?
The hood remained over her head, though she could hear the two of them in the room with her. Moving about. Talking.
‘He’s not answering.’ The man.
‘Keep trying.’ The woman, still calm.
‘I’ve called ten fucking times already. He’s not answering. This is bad.’
‘Keep trying.’
‘What’s the point? We should just run.’
‘Leave her here?’
‘Fox is dead. We just killed her mom. Now Remi’s not answering the phone. This wasn’t the plan. We need to drop everything and go.’
‘No. We’ll find a way.’
‘Damn it!’ There was a loud bang. Something hard against metal. The guy thumping something? ‘I need some air.’ Banging, then silence.
Or near silence. Feet shuffled lightly toward her. Leia froze. She could hear breathing, right in front of her. She flinched when she felt pressure on her neck.
Finally, the sack was removed.
It took her eyes several seconds to adjust and to properly see the dank room. Some sort of storage room? In a warehouse? Everything looked and felt industrial.
‘You want something to drink?’
Leia nodded. The woman crouched in front of her was casually dressed, but with a balaclava over her head. Her eyes were blue and intense.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ the woman said. She held a bottle of water out. Leia took it. Drank two mouthfuls. ‘I’m sorry about what happened.’
‘My mom…’
The woman said nothing for a few moments. Leia knew what the silence meant. Her mother was dead.
‘I couldn’t stop him.’
‘That’s why you shot him?’
Leia had seen what had happened. The other man. The one she’d heard them call Fox. He’d shot her mom when she tried to wrestle the gun from him. This woman had seen it. Had pulled Fox and her mom apart then blasted her own accomplice through the chest when he’d been about to turn the gun on her. An inner squabble between this woman and Fox. Whether that was because of the heat of the moment or tension that had already been brewing, Leia had no idea. End result: one dead on both sides.
Before the sack had been pulled over Leia’s head, she’d seen the woman place a gun in her mom’s limp hand. Perhaps for the cops to find, or perhaps so she could lie to her partner about what had gone wrong. Possibly both. Judging by the look of worry in the eyes of this woman now, Leia didn’t believe she’d told her partner exactly what had happened with Fox and perhaps hadn’t realized that Leia had seen everything too.
Did that make Leia even more vulnerable, or was it the opposite?
‘How old are you?’ the woman asked.
‘Fourteen.’
A strange question, under the circumstances, and there was no follow-up, though the woman hovered, as though waiting for Leia to say something else, or thinking through what else she would say herself.
‘Why am I here?’ Leia asked.
The woman shook her head. ‘This will all be over with soon. I promise.’
Then she stood up and walked away across the room, the sack that had been over Leia’s head dangling in her hand.
* * *
Devereaux awoke from her drug-induced sleep inside a helicopter. A civilian helicopter, the back cabin of which was separated from the cockpit by a glass divider. Devereaux was on a cushioned bench. There was room for four in the back, and there were three others with her. A man and a woman – to her left, sitting opposite each other – who were dressed in combat gear and who had semi-automatic weapons in their hands. Plus the man sitting across from her. He was more casually dressed. Nice shoes. Suit trousers. An open-necked shirt. Unarmed, as far as Devereaux could see. With a newly trimmed beard, he had a youthful and not altogether unhandsome face.
Devereaux’s wrists, on her lap, were zip-tied, but she wasn’t otherwise secured or held down. No gag, no hood. Nothing particularly threatening really, all things considered.
Except for the two armed commandos, that was, but Devereaux had certainly been in worse positions before. Even before anyone said a word she was already planning different scenarios for how to attack these people and escape. She could see out of the window that they were currently over water. It wouldn’t be that hard…
The man was smiling at her.
‘You’ve got nothing to say?’ he asked in English. A very neat accent too. More authentic than hers. She wasn’t quite sure if it was his first language or not.
Devereaux shrugged. ‘Where are we going?’
The man chuckled. He glanced at the two grunts who remained stony-faced.
‘That’s your first question? You’re not wondering who we are or why we took you?’
‘Those were my next questions. I thought it rude to ask all at once.’
The man said nothing now, though the amused look remained on his face.
‘So?’ Devereaux prompted.
‘You want me to take those off?’ he said, indicating down to the plastic on her wrists.
‘Do as you please. They don’t bother me too much.’
‘I had wondered whether we needed to make you more secure. I decided not. I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression when you woke up. But others—’ he looked at the two grunts again ‘—were a bit more cautious.’
Devereaux shrugged. ‘Sometimes the impression of control is more important than control itself.’
The man looked like he didn’t get what she meant. She was fluent enough in English but sometimes expressions didn’t quite translate properly.
He pulled a knife from the sheath on the belt of the man next to him, leant forward, and drew the blade effortlessly through the plastic tie.
‘Thanks,’ Devereaux said as he replaced the knife. ‘But you didn’t answer my question. Where are we going?’
‘That wasn’t the question I wanted to answer.’
‘Fine. So why am I here?’
‘Better. You’re getting good at this. You’re here because of what you did in England.’
‘I drank tea and ate fish and chips?’
He chuckled again. ‘I like you. No, not that. You’ve caused, how can I say this, a big fucking headache. For my employer.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘But he’s the forgiving type.’
‘So I can see. And who is your esteemed employer?’
As the words passed her lips there was a notable shift in the helicopter’s trajectory. They were no longer headed straight ahead, they were going down.
The smile on the man’s face widened.
‘You’re about to see. Welcome to Cyprus.’
* * *
The helicopter touched down less than two minutes later on a prominent stretch of land that jutted out from a rocky coastline. Given the sun’s position, Devereaux thought they’d come down somewhere on the south side of the island. There was no sign of a town or even a village within the near distance.
They landed in a field of green grass. The edges of the field fell away into the sea. There were no markings for a helicopter here, nothing to suggest this was anything other than a regular field.
The rotors were still whirring at full speed when the man leant forward and opened the door.
‘Come on,’ he said.
He jumped down to the ground. There was no welcoming party. Devereaux glanced over to the two grunts but they remained in place. Not even looking at her. Disinterested. She was tempted to lunge for them and attack just for the reaction.
She didn’t. Instead, she jumped down onto the grass, and the din from the rotors filled her ears and the blast of air caused by their relentless spin nearly sent her off her feet. She only realized now, as she tried to take a step, just how disconnected her muscles and her limbs remained from the aftereffects of the sedative.
‘Follow me,’ the man said as he kept low and scuttled away.
Devereaux set off with him. She was only a few yards from the helicopter when she sensed it was already pulling up and away. Several more steps and she could barely feel the wind from its rotors at all.
‘Your army pals aren’t coming with us?’
‘Not army.’
‘Then what?’
‘A helping hand. They did their job. You won’t see them again.’
‘Their job being capturing and sedating me?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Interesting.’
With the helicopter vanishing in the sky, Devereaux and the man walked more casually through the short grass. They headed over the top of a small hill and a rocky outcrop was visible below, the cool blue of the Mediterranean beyond it. A villa sat quietly there. Whitewashed, just like back in Andalucia, except this one looked so different. Smaller, understated, it somehow blended with its surroundings like it’d been there as long as the cliffs themselves.
They carried on down the hill, over a fence, until they were onto a manicured lawn with flower borders.
‘This way,’ the man said. He checked his watch. Devereaux got a glimpse. Just after 4 p.m. The winter sun was creeping down toward the horizon. Nightfall would be here before long, and the temperature was already dropping because of it. At least Devereaux still had her jacket.
Her backpack though…
‘You took my things,’ she said.
Her money. Everything she’d gone through today – the last few days, in fact – was all for nothing.
‘I’m sorry,’ the man said. ‘But please, just wait to hear what my employer has to say about that.’
‘Your employer who has no name.’
‘He has a name. I just haven’t told you it yet.’
They headed around the side of the villa. Up close, Devereaux could see that the white walls were cracked in places, paint was peeling, and some of the render was powdery and crumbling. Not in complete disrepair but this building needed some TLC. They rounded a corner and the garden opened out, leading directly to a rocky edge that gave way to the sea. There was a small swimming pool over in the far corner, though it was a classic sunk-in-the-ground affair, not a glass-fronted infinity like Khaled had. The fact this pool was covered over with an aging tarpaulin suggested it was off-limits for the season, perhaps because it wasn’t heated.
Under a striped fabric awning at the back of the property was a dining table. A large rustic wooden table big enough for more than a dozen people.
A man sat there alone. A bottle of red wine and two glasses – one half-filled, one empty – were on the table in front of him, along with a large bowl of olives. The man was middle-aged. Thick gray hair hung over his forehead and his ears, and he had heavily tanned and lined skin. He wore a loose-fitting short-sleeved shirt over what was obviously a portly figure.
He reminded Devereaux of her long-dead granddad.
The man rose to his feet when he realized he had company.
‘Ah, Paulo, you’re back. And you must be Ms Devereaux. It’s a real pleasure.’
Devereaux and Paulo continued up to him. Paulo stepped forward and shook his employer’s hand and whispered something into his ear which caused a raised eyebrow, but he was soon all smiles again as he turned his attention to Devereaux. He held out his hand. She stepped forward and took it, and he held hers gently, clasping his other hand on top.
‘And you are?’ she said.
‘My name’s Kyriakos Anastopoulos,’ he said, before laughing. ‘Just call me Kyri; it’s what most people do.’
He took his seat and a sip of wine.
‘Please,’ he said, indicating the chair adjacent to him.
Devereaux hesitated for a second. She glanced at Paulo who was now standing behind his boss, arms folded. On guard, but hardly threatening. The relaxed nature of this whole setup was making Devereaux all the more unsettled.
She took the seat. And the offer of some wine.
‘Cypriot wine,’ Kyri said. ‘My own grapes.’
She took a sip. Ever so slightly chilled. Probably straight out of an underground cellar. She was no wine connoisseur but she would say it tasted damn good.
‘You like it?’
‘I prefer Italian.’
That knocked a little bit of his friendly facade away. A deliberate attempt on her part.
‘You’re probably wondering why you’re here,’ he said.
‘Something about you having a headache.’
The smile was back. ‘Indeed. That’s right. I do have a headache. And I’m afraid to say, my dear, that you are the cause.’
‘So you invited me to your home for wine.’
‘This isn’t my home.’
She didn’t know how to take that.
‘No. Seriously. It isn’t.’
Devereaux shrugged. She couldn’t care less really.
‘Tell me about this headache,’ she said. ‘And why you drugged me, stole my money, and flew me thousands of miles across the Med.’
‘Your money?’
Devereaux nodded.
Serious now. ‘The way I understood it, you were helping yourself to that money. After torturing a poor, defenseless woman to get it.’
‘Ah, yes. Yasmin,’ Devereaux said. ‘And where exactly is she now?’
‘Not your concern. But she’ll be fine.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘I like your attitude,’ he said. ‘It’s cute. If a little grating. You don’t take murdering and torturing and stealing too seriously. That’s quite unusual.’
Devereaux said nothing.
‘I should probably explain why you’re here. Why you’re still alive. Because you do realize that the fact you are still breathing is through my choice and nothing else?’
Still, she said nothing.
‘There were plenty of places in Spain where we could have left your corpse. Places where your remains would never have been found and your bones would have disintegrated into the earth.’
‘Thank you, I guess.’
He smiled again, but it faltered more quickly this time. ‘Let me tell you a story. Do you like stories?’
‘Depends on the ending.’
‘This one doesn’t have an end yet. But it starts a long time ago. In Russia. With a man named Pavel Grichenko. You know that name?’
‘I think we’re both well aware that I do.’
‘Good. This man, he had a very good friend—’
‘Kyri, by any chance?’
‘That’s right. And the two of them together were very successful. They made a lot of money. Made a lot of people happy. We did good in this world. But success has a habit of breeding contempt in others. Unfortunately for my friend, he came from a country that has far fewer allies than mine. At least in the West. So rather than being celebrated, he was maligned for his success. He became… an enemy.’
He paused for a moment and took a large gulp of wine.
‘Do you want an olive?’ he said, pointing to the bowl in the middle of the table.
‘Let me guess; you grow your own?’
‘How did you know?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Do you know this next part of the story?’ he asked as he chewed.
Devereaux shook her head. Kyri followed suit. ‘I really don’t get it. I understand the need for people like you. After all, you get these dirty jobs done. But do you not even care why?’
‘I only care for the details that are needed.’
‘What if you kill a good person?’
‘Let’s move on.’
‘As you wish. So, my friend, he’s now an enemy of the West. Although I say the West like several hundred million people all think the same. He became an enemy of certain people, is more accurate. A very small number of people, really. But people who could make a difference. They wanted him dead. But my friend found out. He tried to fight back, in his own way. He succeeded, to an extent. I won’t bore you with every detail, but he survived, and he was able to start a new, quieter life. Quieter for his safety, mainly. Now not many people knew that he survived. But I did.’
He stopped talking again and held Devereaux’s gaze, as though expecting her to say something.
She decided to play along. ‘And next?’
‘And next, ten years later, he’s dead. Because a few days ago, in England, you killed him.’
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘I’m not sure you are. But I am sure you’re still asking yourself why are you alive if you’ve hurt me so badly?’
‘That’s true.’
‘You said yourself you didn’t know, or was it didn’t care, why he was a target. But I found who ordered this. And from there I found you.’
Devereaux clenched her fists. ‘You paid Khaled to kill me?’
Kyri nodded.
‘But now you’re inviting me over for wine?’
‘I’m sorry to say I acted on impulse when I made Khaled that offer. I will admit I was driven by revenge. But now I’ve had time to think. I only saw after just how good you are. How useful you could be to me.’
‘You want me to work for you?’
‘There’s something you need to do for me, yes.’
‘That depends on the price. I’m already down because your friend here took my money.’
‘My price, my offer, is your life.’
Devereaux clenched her teeth. Kyri stared at her. In that moment she thought, not for the first time, about getting up and jumping across the table and breaking his neck.
What was stopping her?
‘You owe me,’ he said. ‘You owe me a lot. Yet you can make amends. And you’ll get your dirty money back, the money you stole from Khaled.’ He said the last words with real disgust. ‘But only when I’m satisfied.’
He reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. He held it up then tossed it across the table.
Devereaux picked it up, straightened it out, and looked down at the scribbled words. Names.
‘I still don’t know how Khaled knew of my friend’s new life in England, or why he wanted him dead. It’s going to be harder to get that information now that you’ve killed him. So we’ll come back to that. But the people on that list? They’re all involved, one way or another. They all need to go. That’s your job. As quickly and as cleanly as you can.’
‘And if I say no?’
Kyri huffed and he and Paulo exchanged a look.
‘Would you like another story?’ Kyri said.
‘Not really.’
Kyri got to his feet. Slowly, achingly, like it was a real effort. He downed the rest of his glass of wine.
‘This one is easier to show, rather than tell.’
He turned and moved to the back doors of the house. Devereaux hesitated but was soon following. Paulo moved in behind her. Kyri opened the doors and stepped into the dim interior. Devereaux glanced over her shoulder to check Paulo remained at a safe distance before she headed inside too.
The smell hit her. A copper, iron twang. Unmistakable. Fresh.
Her body tensed. She followed Kyri through the country-style kitchen…
She stopped just past the doorway of the living room. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she looked around, though she tried to remain absolutely calm on the outside. Devereaux looked over her shoulder again. Paulo was casually leaning against the door frame, a sickly smile on his face.
Devereaux’s eyes flicked across the room. There were three bodies in total. One was only a child. Propped up in the far corner of the room. A bullet hole in his forehead from which blood wormed down his lifeless face.
The knot in her stomach tightened.
The other bodies were a man and a woman. At least what was left of them suggested that was the case. They were naked. Hacked apart. Skin peeled back in places. Limbs severed. Blood drenched the walls, the windows, the stone floor. The child’s death had been quick, painless. The man and woman…
‘This one is a short story,’ Kyri said. ‘I can be your friend. Or not. This is what happens when not.’
Devereaux didn’t fully think through what she did next. It was more instinct than anything else. Not just survival instinct, but an instinct for justice. Strange, that such an instinct was still buried somewhere deep inside.
She spun and lunged toward Paulo. Grasped the bloody knife from the sideboard as she moved. She’d gut him. Rip his insides out. Do the same to the old man. See if they liked that story.
Paulo reacted as she moved in for the kill. But not quick enough. Devereaux swooshed the knife through the air.
And made perhaps the biggest mistake of her life.
Paulo hadn’t been slow to react. He’d read her move precisely. Why had she underestimated him so badly?
He whipped into action at the last moment. Deflected the blow. Grabbed her arm and twisted it outwards with force until the knife fell free. He grabbed her, threw her up face first up against the wall, her arm pressed out onto the stony surface.
The knife was in his hands…
Chop.
Devereaux screamed. The top half of her middle finger fell to the floor.
Paulo knocked her feet away and she fell to her knees. He twisted her arm the other way. Held it aloft, at bursting point, as his foot pressed into her back to keep her bent forward. She felt the tip of a blade pushed into the back of her neck.
Devereaux tried to hold the pain in as blood dribbled down her hand and her arm. She breathed heavy breaths.
Kyri sauntered over.
‘It’s just a finger,’ he said, picking the digit up from the floor and inspecting it. ‘You have nine others.’
He threw it across the room then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Devereaux grimaced as he grasped her hand and tightly tied the fabric in place around the stump.
‘You should see a doctor. But you’ll be fine. You’ll be able to complete this job for me still. Won’t you?’
Devereaux didn’t answer. She was too focused on the pain.
Her arm was twisted further.
‘Won’t you?’ Kyri said again.
‘Y-yes!’
‘Good.’
Her arm was freed. Paulo kicked her hard in the back and she smacked down onto the floor.
‘We’ll speak soon.’
And with that they turned and left, leaving Devereaux crumpled and bleeding in the pool of cold blood.