Chapter One

SINGAPORE

 

Nicholas Erickson kept his gaze on the butterflies over Peterson’s desk. The chief of staff had a whole case of them, each stabbed through the thorax and pinned to a board. Nick knew exactly how they felt.

He focused on breathing, trying to slow his stuttering heart, only taking in the gist of what Peterson was saying. Nick forced his hands to loosen, fighting the need to wipe them on his trousers. His eyes felt hot; he blinked to make the blurring stop. The last thing he needed was to have a flashback now. He tried his exercises. I’m here. I’m safe. I’m here. I’m safe. I’m—

“And now I know you got this job because Reverend Bob is friends with that prison chaplain of yours. You got in here on a technicality, a damn loophole. None of us dug too deep for a chaplain’s assistant with no clearance. Goddamn it!” He slapped his hand on the desk. “If I had known, I would never have approved it.”

Peterson’s round face was pink with anger. The pink even showed through the white hair on his scalp. His blue eyes, lighter than Nick’s own, were glittering behind his glasses.

His hands were splayed flat on his desk, covering the folder with Nick’s name on it. It was like Peterson was covering the news articles inside, hiding them from view—as if they were too obscene to look at.

He was silhouetted by wide windows, looking down the green hill to Napier Avenue. Singapore’s heat was just starting to crank, the roiling clouds doing nothing to cut it.

“This is the most important post in Asia this week,” he continued. “We have VIPs coming from everywhere for this ceremony. I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with you now.”

“Sir,” Nick tried. “I really hope—”

“Don’t talk to me, Erickson,” Peterson snapped, his voice cracking with anger. “I don’t want to hear a word out of your damn mouth.”

“Yes sir.”

“Transferring you now would raise too many questions. Not right after Reverend Bob leaving. I don’t want anyone to even know you were here. Right now, I’m the only one who knows about this, thank God.” He glanced down at the folder again. His eyes were full of loathing.

“You are going to lay low, do whatever Morris tells you, and then next week we’ll see how far away I can send you. Now get the hell out of here.”

Nick felt numb, his body cold and far away. He gave a stiff nod and walked out. Nick ducked in to the nearest men’s room, glad to see it was empty.

He splashed water onto his face with shaking hands. He gripped the sides of the sink, noted how haggard he looked, closer to fifty than twenty-eight. His red hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his usually pale face flushed red from humiliation.

Well what did you think would happen? Did you think you could just leave it all behind you?

He went back to his office and sat at Reverend Bob’s empty desk. The room was small, practically in the basement. There was one narrow window, vertical against a corner. He could just see the flowerbeds beyond, tropical flowers showing their faces to the broiling sun. Working on autopilot, he took his badge off its lanyard and tucked it into the computer’s card reader so he could turn it on. No new emails—of course not. His calendar was equally empty. That had been on purpose at first. But now it seemed like an indictment. Not like Reverend Bob could give you a real job. He could trust you to sort prayer cards from the Tallahassee Christian Mothers’ Union but not any actual duties.

He pushed that thought away. He knew it wasn’t true. Reverend Bob had given him time. Time to heal, time to reinvent himself. And while the new Nick was less prone to panicked outbursts, he also did very little. He kept a low profile out of habit, avoiding meeting people’s eyes until he realized absolutely no one knew who he was. He could relax a little and nod to people who smiled at him in the halls. He and Lena had lunch in the garden sometimes. It felt like slowly waking from a nightmare.

Until today. Until Peterson found out. And like everyone else who knew the truth, Peterson wanted Nick away from him and everything he cared about. Nick had barely made his mark on the room. There wasn’t much. A plant Lena gave him. A sweatshirt for when the A/C went haywire and they all froze. A picture of Reverend Bob and Nick at Leon’s Bar. The mug Morris had lent him. No pictures of family of course.

Suddenly, Nick couldn’t stand sitting there anymore. He grabbed his badge and left the building, barely nodding to the Marine at the gate. Forcing himself to slow down, he walked along the embassy’s drive, following the line of the fence and turning left toward the botanical gardens. That was a good place to think. A quiet place, shady in the blazing heat, and free. Nick walked with nothing but the white noise in his head and the roar of cars coming down the main road. He didn’t want to think yet.

*

CHIANG RAI, THAILAND

 

When Nelson Graves wanted to put on a show of force, he took the Mercedes. The shining black beast cut through the swirling dust—a state car, snapping flags on the hood. It had dark bulletproof glass, the tires wide and solid to hold its armored weight. Lead and tail vehicles coursed like hounds around the car, open backed, the men at their guns appearing in and out of the haze.

Graves sat alone in the cool interior of the car, idly swirling a drink. The thick crystal tumbler was almost empty. Graves tossed back the last dregs, thinking about betrayal, about his own stupidity, and whether or not he would be able to salvage anything from this fiasco. The tires ate up the uneven gravel of Theroux’s truck yard.

Tony opened the door and Graves stepped into the warehouse. The dust was a tawny, swirling cube in the open doors, smelling of rotting vegetation and burning plastic. It was hot, almost unbearably humid and the sickly sweet smell got into everything. Even under the rumble of the trucks, the buzzing of flies was a steady drone. The warehouse had been a perfect hiding place. Until it wasn’t.

Graves looked around at the stupefied faces of Theroux’s men, blinking and shading their eyes in the glare. He doubted a tenth of them had ever even seen him in person. He was a myth, a story mothers in the Golden Triangle used to frighten their children. Well they should be frightened. They should be shaking in their bloody sandals.

Taller than anyone present with huge shoulders and a clean-shaven scalp, he wore an impeccable three-piece suit, carefully tailored to his chest and shoulders, and to the gun under his arm. He leaned on a cane as he waited, careful of his aching hip. Laurent Theroux appeared out of the dark interior, pulling a mask off his face. The brown ring of dirt and sweat around his nose and mouth smeared back over his cheeks. His eyes were as wide and frightened as his men’s.

“Hello, Laurent,” Graves said. “Would you like to tell me what you and your boys have here in this…facility?” The calm in his voice was deliberate. He sounded only slightly put out, as though they had brought him the wrong drink, not as though this warehouse was full of goods stolen right out from under his fist.

“Lord Graves,” Theroux said, licking his lips like a guilty dog. “Welcome! This is so unexpected! But we don’t have… I mean… This is merely a holding point. We don’t have anything here. Anything of value, anyway.”

“Is that so?” Lord Graves asked mildly. He forced his anger into line, his eyes taking in the crates and boxes in the building—knowing what must be inside. “Yet I can see several cases of shoulder-fired stinger missiles. Not just any shoulder-fired stinger missiles, mind you, but the ones specifically purchased by Daoud Bin Yamin from my organization last month.”

Theroux looked stunned, obviously trying to think of some lie that might save him, save his family.

“It is odd, Monsieur Theroux,” he continued, stepping closer to the cases in question. “Because when Daoud called me and said we were three cases short, I assumed he must be mistaken. When he sent me the manifest—the manifest with your signature on it I might add—I found he was correct. The good rabbi paid for nine cases, and only six made it to Tel Aviv.”

Graves lifted the solid steel lid as if it were nothing, the merest flick of his wrist. Who you showing off for, Major? The ruby in his cufflink winked like a baleful eye. Graves pursed his lips as he counted the contents. The missiles still had a dull sheen of oil on them, right out in the open. Trusting the secrecy of the location to provide coverage. How had he bungled this so badly?

“Boss…” Theroux said, his voice hoarse. “It was…a mistake…”

“I don’t think it was,” Graves said. The bitterness in his voice surprised him. He paused, not wanting to stutter, and drew his gun. “Mistakes can be corrected, you see, disloyalty cannot.”

“Loyalty is earned!” Theroux spat. “It is you who has been disloyal! It is you! You left us! You abandoned—”

The big gun roared out.

*

When they left Chiang Rai, Russel Mazatti rode with Graves in the big Mercedes, sorting through manifests on his tablet.

“Hey. Sonny,” Russ said. The pet name interrupted Graves’s train of thought. “I got something for you.” The quartermaster took a small box out of his bag and handed it over.

“What’s this?” Graves said.

“A little something caught our Charlotte’s eye. She said you would want it.”

Graves perked up, curiosity cutting through his gloom. The box held a pipe, no longer than his hand, made of a solid piece of jade. Tucked beside it, wrapped in heavy wax paper with a gold seal, was a lump of pure opium the size of a child’s fist. Even without the gold stamp in the shape of a rising sun, the smell alone identified it. Graves gave a low whistle.

“From my own fields no less,” he muttered. He breathed in the smell and touched the tacky surface gently. “Just enough to get me through this trip.” Russ shifted uncomfortably, and Graves gave him a wry look.

“It’s just the hip,” he said. “I’m not smoking that much. You and Bishop can stop clucking at me.”

“Says you,” Russ grumbled. “Maybe you should just get laid. Make you less of a bastard.”

“Are you even aware that you are speaking out loud?” Graves asked, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

“So, you presenting that award to Miss Jeanne?” Russ asked with elaborately crafted innocence. Graves sighed. They were not going to give it up apparently.

“I am,” he said. “And she has asked me to stay for a bit. I plan on taking her up on it.” He said it casually but saw Russ’s hand slide toward his phone.

“Do you think the four of you could refrain from gossiping about me for ten minutes?” Graves asked mildly. The hand stilled, and Russ cleared his throat.

“Just trying to take your mind offa things,” he muttered. “You ungrateful bastard.”

Graves rubbed his face, pushing his glasses up his forehead.

“That”—gesturing back the way they had come—“is what comes of taking my mind off things.”

Russ glanced back. The sky was filling with smoke and even the occasional flapping banner of flame. The rain would see to it eventually—but not before the whole quarter caught. He knew if he opened the window he would be able to hear it: the crackle of flames, shouting voices, and scattered gunfire as their men cleaned up.

“That ain’t Ramona’s fault, Boss!” Russ said crossly. “You can’t lay that on her. That ain’t fair, eh.”

His heart spasmed at the sound of that name. Even now.

“Russ,” he said, his voice a clear warning. Russ wasn’t having it.

“You can’t blame yourself like this either,” Russ said. “That isn’t something that happened just because you and Ramona—”

“Stop!” Graves barked. “I don’t want to talk about it! I don’t even want to think about it!”

He struggled to rein in his temper. Russ was one of his oldest friends. He didn’t deserve this. Graves glared out the window a moment before speaking.

“Please, Russ,” he said more quietly. “Please, let’s not talk about this. I want to get our house in order and get back to business. That’s all.”

They reached the airfield in record time. He had time to watch the escort vehicles and trucks peel off to join the teams clearing the warehouse while the pilot prepped the jet.

A steady wind was building, and the palms were swaying against the dark sky. The last rays of the sun caught the tops of the mountains, but night was dropping fast. The dearth of city lights, or lights of any kind, spoke to how isolated they were, and Graves drank in the sound of the wind and jungle as he stood at the top of the stairs. Rain was coming. He could feel it in his hip, a change in pressure. The first rains of the monsoon were sometimes violent, and if the pain in his leg was any indication, this would be a big one.

The engines whined and rumbled to life, quickly becoming too loud to stand out on the step beside them. Graves ducked into the cabin and nodded to the crew closing the doors. He made his way slowly through the main cabin to the private rooms beyond. David Bishop was waiting for him. His eyes darted to Graves’s leg and back again, brow curling in question.

“You can go be with the others, David,” he said, jerking his chin. “Tell them to have the car ready to take me to Jeanne’s straight from the airport. Shore leave for the lads. You and the others can head to the yacht and unpack.”

“You sure you don’t mind being by yourself?” Bishop asked. He had spoken to Russ. “You look a little wobbly.”

“We are not having this conversation, David,” Graves said.

David Bishop and Nelson Graves were closer than brothers; they were two halves of the same person. So unlike Russ, Bishop didn’t argue. He patted his boss on the shoulder and went forward without a word.

The jet made its way along the side access, bumping on the broken tarmac, past Soviet-era hangars, until it reached the top of the runway. He dropped in his seat just as the headlong sprint began, the plane shooting forward to build speed before taking off. He winced from the push, the steep tilt and the familiar ear-popping changes in pressure as the jet climbed. He rolled his shoulders. It was over. Thailand had been worth the trip. Clearly Theroux had been skimming his share for a while, and he would be very interested to find out how far back. If his suspicions about the mole in his China team were correct, then Laurent Theroux had been keeping the cream of the crop for at least two years.

The question is how could he think I wouldn’t find out? Thank God, Joe Stinton was watching those manifests. Someone made Theroux comfortable enough with stealing from me that he thought the risk was worth it.

It was something to consider later. He was too tired now, in too much pain. Which reminded him…

As they reached altitude, he examined the little jade pipe. It was a lovely thing, carved with poppies and rice plants around the stem, hiding any flaws in the jade and taking advantage of the shifting colors. It was the piece of a master carver, imperial jade. He was certainly not going to tarnish it by smoking out of it. It belonged in a museum. He pulled his phone and took a photo, sending it to his accountant. Benitez laundered money for Red Sky, but he was a specialist in gems. Alex would know what to do.

He slipped the jade into his pocket and pulled out his usual pipe. It was bamboo and soapstone—the only decoration a rough G he had scratched in it himself in a moment of boredom. They had six hours or so until Singapore and the pain in his hip was making his hands shake.

He pressed his fingers around the top of the prosthetic that began midthigh on his left leg and sighed. The new prototypes were waiting for him in Singapore; Gomez had messaged him. The pain in his hip was beyond the prosthetics though. He suspected another piece of shrapnel was moving around. He shook his head angrily. That meant surgery. Again.

It’s the bloody gift that keeps on giving. One misstep. One single misstep and my whole life becomes a series of bloody doctors.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose. That was just the pain talking. It wasn’t like him to be maudlin. The landmine that took his legs had also put him on the path he walked now. The private jet, the villa in Shan, the yacht in Singapore, not to mention Scimitar herself, cruising out somewhere beyond the Straits…the cars. Maybe he could get in a race or two in Singapore? He pulled out his phone and made a note to have the Bugatti sent from Macau. As usual, the thought of racing cheered him immeasurably. The plane banked slightly before leveling off. They were well on their way. Below them, just visible through the gathering clouds, he could see the blaze of the warehouse. It would likely take half the neighborhood with it. Chiang Rai was in for a rough night.

He stood, pulled off his suit jacket, and hung it on one of the other chairs. He undid his tie and hung it up as well. Next came the underarm holster and the big gun. Those he placed on another table; he could clean it once he was royally stoned. He dropped back into his seat with a grunt and prepared his pipe. The lighter he cooked the dope with was custom to the process and had his sun crest etched into the steel. He hummed snatches of songs, trying to keep the pain at bay long enough to get his pipe going. His hip was yowling at him and so was his right knee. Luckily, he was an old hand, and soon enough the little ball of opium was smoldering, tucked into its nook in his pipe.

And this from my own fields! Damn it all, Theroux stole from my private stash—can’t fault his courage there.

By the time he took the first long breath he was stretched out in the reclined seat, his body sinking slowly down. The pain slipped away, and he grunted in relief. Soon enough he was floating in a haze, letting his body check out. He was too strict and too canny of opium’s effects to lean heavily on it. But he had to admit—as the pain drained away, replaced by a muted pleasure—it was bloody tempting.

Six hours, he thought muzzily.

Six hours and I’ll be coherent enough to get to Jeanne’s. Do hope she is home. I miss her terribly. The lads are right: I need to get laid. Make me less of a bastard. Damn Russ, I didn’t want to think about Ramona today. I wonder how she is? What time is it in Miami right now?

He tried to look at his watch but couldn’t make heads or tails of it and gave up. Six hours without thinking. Surely he could take that long?