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Hilton Rome Airport Hotel
Rome, Italy
Present Day

 

Interpol Agent Hugh Reading yawned for the umpteenth time. He had forgotten his CPAP machine at home, and was kicking his proverbial ass ever since the realization at the airport. There had been no going back for it, nor was there any popping into a store in Italy to buy one.

They were expensive, and needed a prescription.

And his idiocy was killing him.

He was so accustomed to the machine now, that without it, he had difficulty psychologically getting to sleep, then when he did manage it, he’d wake up minutes later gasping for breath.

He couldn’t believe how reliant he had become on the life-saving device. He had been diagnosed with sleep apnea in time, avoiding the potentially deadly consequences, though he could only keep heart damage, stroke, and a myriad of other things at bay with the machine’s constant use.

Next time make a list with it on top.

He yawned again.

Yeah, but you’d have to remember to make the list.

He stared at the hundreds of people surrounding him, a talking head at the front of the conference room prattling on about the importance of international cooperation in the fight against human trafficking, merely rehashing platitudes that everyone in the room was fully aware of.

This was merely an excuse for functionaries to gather and socialize, like so many other junkets governments and NGOs were responsible for.

And he hated every minute of it.

His partner at Interpol, Michelle Humphrey, loved them, convinced they were necessary for her to be upwardly mobile, something he had no interest in. He was at the end of his career, she had yet to peak. But she had the flu, and he had been sent in her stead.

I’d rather have the flu.

He frowned, thinking of the last time he had been erupting from both ends.

Maybe not.

His phone vibrated and he prayed for an alert informing him the world was about to end, instead seeing a number he didn’t recognize, but a message that had his heart racing.

It’s Jim. Don’t reply. Don’t do anything official. Interpol might be compromised. Contact KD. Professor Viggo Karlsson of Stockholm University kidnapped by Saudis at embassy. Forcing us to steal ring he discovered. We think we’re being watched. Hugs and kisses. J.

The last few words confirmed it was his friend that had sent it, and because he knew him so well, he knew it wasn’t a prank. Since he had met them, he had been under more fire than when he served in the military, had seen more of the world than he ever imagined he would, and made two of the dearest friends he ever had.

He would die for those two, and they would do the same for him.

He just tried his damnedest to make sure that was never the only option left on the table.

KD was their code for Dylan Kane—Kraft Dinner. If they needed his help, then they were up shit’s creek, and the fact they were concerned about Interpol meant his hands were tied somewhat. And they were right to be concerned. Saudi Arabia was a member of Interpol, so they had internal access. If the Saudis had indeed kidnapped this professor, then it had to be at the behest of someone in Riyadh.

Nobody bought the BS that Riyadh didn’t order the murder in Istanbul, and he had no doubt that whatever had just happened in Stockholm was fully sanctioned.

That meant his friends’ lives were in danger.

He excused himself to no one in particular, shuffling down the aisle and out of the room, activating the secure app on his phone that Kane had provided for just such occasions. He forwarded the entire message to Kane, with a brief explanation of how he received it, then figured out how to book a plane ticket on his phone, on his own dime, for Stockholm.

He had access to an account that Laura had set up for him several years ago for these situations, though he didn’t want to risk using it as he couldn’t be sure of the level of surveillance they were under. Normally, he would use the account in emergencies to buy tickets when they needed help, or just for a vacation if he wanted one. He always felt guilty using it, and never did for a vacation unless they insisted on him joining them on one of their own. His rationalization was that them buying him a plane ticket was like him buying them a coffee.

They were just so bloody rich.

He was envious of his friend. Not that he wanted Laura for himself, though he’d be a lucky man if he did, but because he would never have to worry about money again. Reading rarely did. In fact, he couldn’t remember worrying about money since he was a new father. Though to know you could leave your situation if you wanted to, and suffer no financial consequences, had to be a liberating feeling.

And to know you could help a friend or family member in need, without a second thought, would be comforting.

Like his friends had helped him enjoy life a little more these past few years, especially since the disappearance then death of his best friend and former partner, Martin Chaney.

Oh, Martin, you bloody fool, I wish you were here!

He stared at his phone, the confirmation for his ticket to Stockholm confirmed, an alert vibrating a moment later about the unbelievable charge to his credit card.

Bloody hell!