Jack had been scrolling through the documents on Whit’s iPad, shocked at what he was finding. Whit had millions of dollars stashed in accounts all around the world! There was no way a government employee could earn that kind of money.
The only answer was one that made Jack physically ill to contemplate. Whit was on the take. Someone was paying him for something. And Jack had a sinking suspicion he knew what.
He was checking deposit dates against agency missions he knew had failed spectacularly. There were matches. He saved the worst for last – Jack’s final mission with Marcus. And there it was. A deposit of three million American dollars had been transferred into an island bank account bearing Whit’s name.
Three million dollars. That’s what Marcus’ life, his country, his honour had been worth to Bob Whitbred.
His concentration was broken by the sound of a key turning, unlocking the front door. When the noise of the security alarm warning was silenced by the code being punched in, Jack’s blood turned to ice.
Jack slid his Glock from the shoulder holster.
Downstairs, Whit put his bottle of bourbon on the hall table, took off his jacket and went into the kitchen. He returned with a Tiffany plaid double old-fashioned glass, checking the rim for chips. It was one of just two remaining from the eight his wife’s brother had given them as a wedding gift over thirty years ago. The others had cracked and broken like the marriage they were meant to celebrate.
Whit double-locked the front door, took the bourbon and headed upstairs to the sanctuary of his study. He had long ago created a ‘back door’, a way out for himself if things went bad. Maybe, he thought, it was time to use it.
He opened the door to his study and turned on the desk lamp. He was about to sit down when he noticed the curtains moving. The damned window must be open, he thought. And why the hell were the curtains closed in the first place? He never closed them unless he was having a meeting. What the hell?
Whit slid open a drawer and took out a silver revolver. He checked to make sure it was loaded.
He hated guns. He’d only fired one twice in his entire career. It was his job to tell others when to shoot.
He took off the safety and moved slowly to the window. In one quick movement he tore back the curtains and raised his gun.
Nothing.
The window was closed but not latched. But that was not unusual. He never locked that window. This room was on the first floor and there was a forty-foot drop from the window to the sloping valley behind the house. It would take a hook and ladder to get up here. Or out of here.
He was just being paranoid, he told himself, because of this business with Jack and Marcus. He went back to his bourbon.
Merry Christmas, he said to the empty house.
Up on the roof Jack lay spread-eagled, hoping the icy glaze that was beginning to form didn’t send him sliding off. He wasn’t too worried about himself. In his line of work he’d spent about as much time moving around rooftops as Father Christmas. It was the iPad stuffed inside his shirt he needed to protect at all costs.