Chapter Twenty-Two

They spent most of the next day in bed, finally getting up when hunger and the need to shower were too much. But then they settled onto the couch anyway, making out like teenagers and talking. They played cards, Nick winning by cheating, using the tricks he learned in prison.

Bishop came in and laughed to see them. Nick and Graves had been making drinks, increasingly complicated things using all the random ingredients behind the bar. The sun was setting, and it caught Bishop’s face as he ruffled Nick’s hair. Nick pulled back. Something was wrong.

“Sorry to interrupt, Boss, our Nick,” Bishop said. He was his usual steady self, at least—Nick had never seen David Bishop anything but straight-faced when on duty. But now there was something…uneasy about him. Excited. Agitated in a way Nick didn’t like—a way that made him think of prison suddenly, where even slight shifts in mood required close attention.

Graves sensed it too and stood immediately.

“Yes?”

“He’s here, Boss,” Bishop said, and there was that eagerness again. Nick leaned back away from him. Alarm bells were ringing in his mind, making the hair on his neck stand up.

“Get us underway. Now,” Graves barked, his voice deep and commanding.

“Yes, sir,” Bishop said and pulled his radio off his hip. Bishop and Graves were speaking in Malay, apparently relaying orders to the crew. Nick heard the shouting and felt the lurch of the ship pulling away from the dock. He gripped the edge of the bar.

“Get them all below. I don’t care what you tell them,” Graves said.

Before Nick had even quite pieced together what was happening, the ship was sliding out to the Straits, putting on speed.

“Nick, you will have to excuse me a moment,” Graves said with a crooked smile. But when he turned back to Bishop there was some of that same…eagerness. Graves said something in Malay and Bishop laughed. But it wasn’t Bishop’s usual laugh. It was hard and mean. Nick didn’t like it. Graves turned back again. His eyes were shining, pupils wide, and there was a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“I need you to stay up here, Nick,” Graves said. “We’ll be back.” Nick nodded, the little hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up.

Graves smiled at Nick and winked. The smile never reached his eyes, and Nick drew back. Graves gestured Bishop ahead of him. They instantly switched to Malay, a rapid conversation that dwindled as they made their way down the corridor for the stairs and, presumably, their guest.

Nick sat quietly a moment, but no sounds reached the stateroom except the wind and the slap slap of the waves against the side of the boat. They were really moving now, Singapore dropping away behind them. Nick picked up his glass, still half full, and stood. The room spun briefly, and he glanced at his glass. How many of these have I had? He made his way to the rail to watch the city retreating in the distance. He didn’t let himself think that he was now as far from the two men—and whatever business had them behaving so strangely—as he could be and still be onboard.

It was peaceful on the upper deck. A steward brought him another gin and tonic. She looked uneasy, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Keep these coming, please,” Nick said. Suddenly, he wanted to be drunk. Wanted to be very drunk. Something was wrong. Something was happening at the edge of his awareness that he didn’t want to examine or even acknowledge.

“I can’t. Lord Graves has sent all crew to quarters,” the steward said and left. Nick watched the woman’s retreating back, his sense of wrongness growing.

What are you doing? You’ve never run from a fight in your life. Morris says you would fight a traffic sign for a corn chip. What are you scared of? You went to prison! You want to know what he is up to? Go fucking look.

He was already in motion. He followed the direction Graves and Bishop had gone. Down the front stairs used by the stewards to the lower deck. He was turning down the ladder from the prow to the lowest level when he heard the sound of voices. With a cold shock of fear, he realized he was already there. He had not seen the men out on the prow and now he was trapped, his head above the lip of the stairs, his body frozen on the ladder to the lowest deck. He had needed to see them silhouetted against the city lights. As slowly as possible, he lowered himself until only his eyes peeked over the edge. That meant that if any of them cared to look, Nick’s red-blonde hair would be clearly visible.

From where he crouched, Nick could see the silhouettes of four men against the dusk sky. Graves was obvious by size alone. The others were an indistinct clump that suddenly resolved into two men, holding a third between them. As Nick’s eyes adjusted, he realized just how bad a position he was in. Whoever this Stinton was—he was in trouble.

“Please, Boss, no, please! I didn’t know who he was! And I didn’t tell him anything. I never told him! Please!”

“Don’t lie to me!” Graves roared. He was pacing back and forth in short little bursts. Six steps, whirling, six steps again. “You took his money, Stinton! You think I wouldn’t know? You have been selling me to Mac all this time!” The voice was unmistakable. The same voice that purred sweet nothings to him, the same voice that had pulled him back from the brink not once but twice—that voice—was now choked with rage. It was a terrifying snarl, and sounded even more English if that were possible.

Mac? Mac the CIA agent? Lena’s friend, oh my God!

Nick watched the whole thing as if in a dream, unable to even feel his own body. That’s why he asked about Graves, got me to talk about him. The gin was making his head spin. Did Lena and Morris know? Get out of here! You don’t want to see this! But he could no more move than he could sprout wings and fly away.

The shape of Graves spun and then came a sound—a sound that Nick’s brain unhelpfully connected to the butcher shop his uncle frequented. You told the butcher you wanted a couple of chops, and he would slap a chunk of meat down on the cutting board before carving it. Nick’s whole body flinched. The sound came again, a wet, meaty thump that turned Nick’s stomach. He hunched his shoulders around his ears.

“Sophie to the mines!” Graves was saying. “I’m going to kill you, Stinton, and now that can be your last thought—your wife in a miner’s camp in Mogok. How long will she last, do you think?”

“Please, please—” The begging was barely understandable. Stinton’s voice was a slurred, broken thing. He was weeping, coughing up wet sounds. Nick was grateful he couldn’t see clearly. The city lights of Singapore were shining in the liquid of Stinton’s face, making his features blend hideously. Bishop—and was that Tony? How could that be Tony?—were struggling to hold Stinton up each time Graves hit him. They staggered back and forth, dragging Stinton up each time Graves beat him down.

“Don’t hurt them!” Stinton’s voice was barely recognizable. “Boss, please! You have kids too! I’m telling you I didn’t know who he was.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Graves bellowed. “You sold me out to Tang and Mac—you helped Theroux steal from me. You traitorous little shit!”

Graves swung again and again. His raging words were spaced with more blows, each one with that horrible butcher sound, the thick crunch of striking fists.

“I gave you everything! I trusted you! You sold me! You sold me to Mac!”

Nick wasn’t even breathing, couldn’t even blink. It sounds like meat. Just like meat. Oh God. Please be a dream.

It seemed like a dream even when Graves stopped. The shadows were long and wavering on the deck, the city lights making it hard to see. In the silence, there was only Stinton’s bubbling moans and Graves’s harsh breathing. But it was clear when Graves drew the big gun. Tony and Bishop propped Stinton up against the rail and stood by Graves’s side. Nick couldn’t see them against the dark background.

Nothing in the world could hide the sound the gun made. It bellowed out, the muzzle flash illuminating their faces. Graves’s was a strange mask of anger and hatred, Stinton a broken nightmare of blood and gore, one terrified eye bright in the split second of yellow light. Nick dropped down, sitting on the ladder rung, both hands over his mouth in horror.

“Aw, Boss, his brains got on my shoe,” a voice said. A voice. Not Bishop’s voice. And the laughing apology was also just a voice. Not Graves’s voice. No. Definitely not Graves and Bishop. No.

“Have his body dumped on Alessandro Benitez’s doorstep,” Graves growled. “And I want everyone—I mean everyone—in the China team to know what happened here.”

“Will do. You heading back upstairs?” Tony’s voice. No. Not Tony.

“Bit of a wash first, change the shirt at least,” Graves said. “Wouldn’t do to be seen like this.” The men laughed.

The laugh snapped Nick out of his stupor. He dropped below and ran for the back stairs. How close were they to shore? Could he swim? Or could he hide?

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he hissed as he stumbled back up to the main rooms. He was drunk—it didn’t help. He—

Rounded a corner and collided with Graves. He was putting on a clean shirt, tie hanging around his neck. Bishop was standing behind him, holding Graves’s other shirt. The sleeve was red to the elbow, the front splattered with gore. Nick scrambled back.

“Easy there! Careful, Nick darling, you nearly knocked me over!” Graves said, smiling.

“Boss…” Bishop said, eyeing Nicholas with a frown. “I think he’s—”

“You murdered him!” Nick shouted. “You murdered that guy!”

The moment he said it, he wished he hadn’t. The two men glanced at each other and then advanced on him. Nick backed away.

“Now, now, our Nick, whatever you think you saw—” Bishop started.

“Don’t fucking gaslight me, Bishop. I saw the whole thing!” Nick said, pointing at his friend.

“Nick,” Graves said, holding his hands out, palms open.

“Stay back!” Nick backed into the stateroom. Graves’s face was flushed, his eyes pleading.

“Nick, we need to talk about this—”

“No! You fucking murdered that guy! You beat his fucking face in!”

“Nick, what I do—”

“Oh my God,” Nick said, grabbing his hair. “I’m so fucking stupid! Now you’re gonna kill me—”

“Our sweet Nick, we ain’t never—” Bishop started.

“David, leave us,” Graves snapped.

“Yes, Boss.”