Daniel ran the entire length of Green Park, stopping once to reach under a park bench and retrieve a bag. Exiting at the northern corner, he entered a busy pub called Henry’s Cafe Bar. He kept his head down, as if he were reading something on his phone, and pushed through the jovial holiday crowd to the men’s room.
Removing his black cashmere jacket, he folded it and set it to one side. He pulled several items out of the bag he’d retrieved and put them on: blond wig, glasses, and a rain jacket. The mirror showed a scholarly-looking man with slightly disheveled hair. I look like my brother, he thought. Stuffing the jacket in the bag, he thrust it into the trash and headed back into the bar.
Daniel had dropped the gun in a park sewer after wiping it quickly on his coat. The swarms of Metro police and SIS combing the area would find it soon enough. The Serbian who’d sold it to him swore a semiautomatic would be perfect for his needs, even though Daniel hadn’t told him how he intended to use it. Perhaps semiautomatic Glocks were the go-to weapon of choice for criminals. Daniel took the gun without mentioning he’d never used a firearm, never even seen one up close. It wouldn’t do to look weak. He figured he paid ten times the value of the weapon. He hadn’t been in a position to object. Weapons were scarce and Daniel’s timeframe exceedingly compressed.
The night his father all but disowned him because of the incident with the pedophile, Daniel concentrated his anger on Suzanne Foster, aka Susan Smith, the former assassin. The woman had brought so much havoc into their lives. Kemp had tried and failed to kill her, but she had turned the tables. Paulo had died and his father had been critically injured. Daniel intended to finish the job once and for all. Then he would return, triumphant, to bask in his father’s gratitude and respect. The only question was how.
The answer appeared serendipitously that very night. At an after-hours club party, Daniel overheard a platinum-haired woman complain about finding an escort for a posh little engagement party she wanted to attend. The girl was both too plain and too old for Daniel’s taste. She looked to be a hard-living twenty-five. It was obvious she came from money, which she was willing to throw around.
The name Kate Edgerton meant little to him. Apparently, she was the privileged daughter of a British lord. Her fiancé, he noted, had an interesting résumé that included time spent abroad in Africa and Wales, of all places, before he came back to London and asked lucky Kate to marry her.
“What did you say his name was?” Daniel decided to chat up the girl, see what she knew. “I wonder if we might have run into each other once or twice.”
“Michael Foster. I doubt you would have met. He's a good-looking sort, but serious. Not usually the kind to show up at a party, if you know what I mean.”
Daniel did. After taking her home and causing her endless amounts of pleasure, aided by copious amounts of alcohol and Ecstasy, he proposed he serve as her escort. She eagerly accepted.
Getting hold of the gun meant he had to return to the docks with a wad of cash. That proved much easier than trying to figure out how to smuggle a gun into the home of a sitting member of Parliament. He considered bribing one of the catering crew and rejected the idea. They were more likely to be searched than the guests. Daniel couldn’t imagine a pat-down, but visitors might be wanded or passed through a security system on their way in.
Once again, fortune smiled on him. Daniel had a piece of metal in his left knee, the result of an old soccer injury. He often carried a medical card to help him move more quickly through airport security. It didn’t always work, but he guessed entry into a private party might be easier. He decided to strap the gun high up his inner thigh as he’d seen it done in movies and pray to a god he didn’t believe in.
He scanned the house as they approached. Everyone entered through the front door and handed their coats to some obsequious fool. He saw no obvious security precautions, although he presumed a couple of hidden cameras must be trained on the property. He ducked his head, pretending to listen to his date’s inane prattle. They slid into the Edgerton home along with half a dozen other young people he didn’t know. He grabbed a glass of Chardonnay from a passing tray and favored the young server with a dazzling smile. She blushed. His date didn’t notice. Daniel felt powerful and in control. Being good-looking made life so much easier.
Excusing himself, Daniel made his way to the powder room. He locked the door, unstrapped the gun from his leg, and transferred it to the pocket of his jacket. Then he leaned over the toilet and threw up.
He was about to kill someone in a crowd that no doubt included ex-military and security types. He’d never seen his target before, although he’d found a blurred photo online from a recent event. The picture accompanied an article about some charity that helped victims of human trafficking. Oh, the irony.
Daniel brushed at his jacket, adjusted his tie, and smoothed his hair. Nerves were to be expected. His plan was either bold or disastrous. He was either insane or incredibly brave. He took a moment to study his reflection in the mirror. Brave, he decided. He popped a breath mint, brushed at an imaginary bit of lint, and nodded at his reflection. What did his college roommate used to say?
“Let’s get this show on the road.”
~
It had not gone as intended. Daniel had no familiarity with a gun’s recoil. He had no idea how difficult it was to shoot under pressure and in close quarters. The Serb said the Glock’s accuracy made it impossible to miss the target. Then again, the man didn’t realize Daniel would come face to face not only with his adversary but also with his father’s daughter.
He knew it instantly: same lowered brow, frosty eyes, and full lips. The female version of Victor Kemp was much younger and well dressed, but the resemblance was obvious. Not a good look for a woman, Daniel decided. He imagined she had an impressive set of teeth, though she wasn’t smiling. Rather, she appeared puzzled. Why was she standing with her hand on the arm of the woman she should have hated? How could those two know each other? Were they friends?
The possibility that Victor Kemp’s beloved legitimate child was in league with the woman his father hated enraged Daniel. He pulled the gun, briefly lost control as he tried to move his arm into position, and fired. He could have sworn he aimed at Suzanne Foster, but the bullet hit his half-sister. He barely had time to register his mistake before some idiot next to him tried to disarm him. The gun went off a second time, directly into the man’s gut.
The mayhem that followed helped. He dropped to the floor as if he’d taken the bullet himself and rolled outward, knocking a few people off their feet. Crawling through the tangle of arms and legs, he jumped up and got as far as the hallway before a security man appeared from outside.
“Help!” he cried. “In here! Someone’s been shot!” He waved the man to the back of the house and tore out the front door.
Outside the bar in his disguise, Daniel took a moment to check the news on his phone. Reports of a shooting at the home of Lord and Lady Edgerton identified two victims. A guest, Lady Annabel Westcott had only been grazed, but the second victim, Michael Foster, was rushed to the hospital in grave condition.
Holy shit, he’d shot the son! He could still turn this to his advantage, couldn’t he? Okay, the first bullet hit his father’s daughter. That might anger the older man temporarily, but he would soon realize she hadn’t been seriously hurt. Daniel would point out the obvious: she’d been associating with the enemy. If he’d mortally wounded Suzanne Foster’s only son, his father would have to be pleased, wouldn't he?
He made his way to the building in Wapping, working out the story. It was just after 9:00 p.m. He suspected his father would still be downstairs working. Daniel pulled off his wig and glasses and leaned on the buzzer before easing off. It wouldn’t do to seem frantic. He looked directly at the security camera and shivered with relief when he heard the door click. At least his father was willing to see him.
He heard the sound of animated chatter coming from the lower level. His father was watching the news. That wasn’t good. Daniel wanted a chance to explain before Kemp jumped to conclusions based on sensationalized outside reporting. Although an enormous flat-screen television adorned the back wall, the old man sat in front of his laptop. Arkady Dyukov stood just behind him as usual, leaning over his shoulder. Sure enough, some reporter was going on about the shooting. She even played an interview with one of the guests. Everyone sounded terribly excited. Daniel wondered if the blonde he’d abandoned had taken her turn in front of the cameras.
“Papà.”
“You have something to report.” Kemp closed the computer.
“I do.” Though not invited to sit, Daniel pulled out the chair opposite his father and plopped down. He could hear his teeth chatter in the sudden stillness
“Get the boy a whiskey.”
Dyukov went to fetch a bottle. Kemp turned back to Daniel.
“Talk to me.”
Encouraged by his father’s interest and attention, Daniel succinctly recounted the evening’s events, taking care not to embellish or exaggerate. He omitted only two points: he didn’t reveal he recognized his half-sister, or that he actually intended to kill Suzanne Foster.
“I wanted to hurt that woman as she has hurt us. Surely you understand that. She stole my brother. She stole your son.” He saw Kemp grimace. “She’s the one who caused your suffering. I decided killing her son would be the best possible punishment.” Daniel didn’t actually know whether Michael had died, but saying it out loud added legitimacy to his presentation. He paused, waiting for the other man to speak.
“Go on.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t let you in on my plans. I believed this was the safer course of action. I hope you will forgive me. You must know how much the honor of our family means to me.” He looked at his lap, feigning a modesty he didn’t feel.
Dyukov came back with the whiskey. He set it down in front of the younger man and resumed his post. Daniel emptied the glass, squared his shoulders, and looked directly at his father, man to man. When Kemp spoke, his voice was low so that Daniel had to strain to hear him.
“Let me get this straight. You obtained an illegal handgun and somehow managed to smuggle it into a party at the home of a high-profile member of the House of Lords. The lord in question has a daughter who is engaged to the son of a man who used to spy on me and a woman who used to work for me. You planned to murder my former employee’s son in as public a setting and in as noisy a manner as possible and then escape undetected.
“Instead, you wounded the young man—no, he’s not dead, at least not yet—which will guarantee that his mother will now dedicate her life to finding the person who shot her son. The police will also search for the shooter, aided by the finest intelligence agency in the world and likely the royal family itself. The gunman's compulsion to brag will lead them to a Portuguese businessman named Francesco Guzman, if they can find him. Even if they can’t, even if it ends there, the woman, one of the most cunning people I have ever known, will have made the connection to her sworn enemy. She will determine he is alive and behind the plot to kill her and wound the assassin’s son.”
“But you weren’t the shooter.”
“Shut up.” Kemp’s voice had gained strength and fury. He leaned across the desk as if to strike Daniel. Blood suffused his ghastly injury. “My God, how stupid can one man be? I cannot believe you share my DNA. Come to think of it, maybe you don’t.”
“Papà, how could you say such a thing?”
“You haven’t just risked everything, Daniel; you’ve ruined it. You told people that we were connected. You hurt and perhaps killed her child, never mind he is engaged to the daughter of a prominent public figure. You did so in as public a manner as is possible. You left my enemy alive to hunt me. Most unforgiveable, YOU SHOT MY DAUGHTER!”
“I—that was my half-sister?” Daniel could barely get the words out.
“You knew that, you son of a bitch, just as I know you intended to kill the woman, not her son. You missed. You fucking missed.”
Kemp stood. “You’ve pushed me to the breaking point, Daniel,” he said. “I will not tolerate you anymore. Not personally and certainly not professionally. This will break your mother’s heart, but it has to be done.”
He drew a small pistol from his desk and trained it on his son.
“Please, no. You can’t do this. You won’t.”
Kemp kept the gun pointed at Daniel for several seconds. With a sigh, he lowered his arm.
“You are right about one thing. I won’t kill you. It would require me to lie to your mother, and I don’t want to do that.”
He turned to Dyukov, who had been standing quietly off to one side. Arkady Dyukov, the man he had trusted for years, the one man since Paulo’s passing who had truly behaved like a loyal son.
“Take care of this, please.”
He lay the weapon on the desk and walked away.
“Papà!” In that moment, Daniel sounded like a little boy pleading for his father’s affection instead of his own life.
“With pleasure, boss.” Dyukov gave a tight smile, picked up the pistol, and put a bullet between Daniel Guzman’s eyes.