They walked by a newspaper stand. The headline on the front page read in German, Billionaire Stefan Martens Dies in Boating Accident.
There was a photo of the Belgian accompanying the headline. The body, according to the article, was yet to be found.
Adriana couldn’t help but laugh inside. If the body hadn’t been found, how did they know it was an accident? The media always made assumptions and then looked for facts to back them up later. At least it seemed that way.
Diego interrupted her thoughts. “So no new adventures for you for a while?”
She shook her head. “I hope not. I think I’ve had enough to last me for a few months.”
He stopped walking and turned to face her. There was admiration in his eyes. Diego’s obvious pride in Adriana radiated from his smile. “I’d say you have earned it, Daughter.”
“I have to wonder, though, about the Syndicate. I can’t shake it from my head. Who are the other members?”
He kept grinning and patted her on the shoulder. “With those types of secret groups, you never know who might be involved. My advice? Let it go. I doubt they’ll bother you anymore.”
She nodded. “I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I am. Those kinds of people are everywhere. The world is full of wicked men and women who only want to hurt people or will do anything for personal gain. What’s important is that when we encounter them, we are always ready.”
Bonus Chapter
Frank Shaw sat in his plush office, surrounded by dozens of first editions he’d never read and smoking a fat cigar. He pinched the stogie with his thumb and index finger and let a long slow puff of bluish smoke escape his lips, blowing it into the hazy air around him. A snifter of warm brandy sat next to his black square ashtray.
It had been a little over two weeks since he’d heard from any of his assets. Evan’s fate was unfortunate and no doubt, painful. Word from Paris was that he’d been burned alive outside the home of a man who was later found shot dead in his car along with one other person. It was unclear what exactly happened.
The man called the Eraser had been found shot to death in a church in Amsterdam. Based on the reports, it had been a gruesome scene. Frank was disappointed. The Eraser was someone he called in to finish things. He was Frank’s closer, a highly trained, cold-blooded killer who never failed. He’d failed this time, and in a huge way.
The last report from the Dutch city was that a blonde woman, name unknown, was also found dead at the scene. Just another woman of the night caught in a deadly crossfire was how the authorities described it. She was at the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. It was unclear who the killer was, but police claimed the manhunt was ongoing despite lacking any leads.
Frank doubted they would find the person responsible. He knew the Belgian's thief would disappear like a ghost in the mist, never to reappear. Shame, he thought. He could use a good person like that. Deadly. Precise. Frank had lost a few of those during the debacle. It would take some time to find more.
He reached over to the desk and picked up the snifter, drew a short sip of the warm golden brown liquid, and swallowed. He let the soft burn ease its way down his throat before placing the glass back on the desk.
Martens could have been difficult to fend off. If he’d suspected Frank used another asset to intervene during their friendly competition, it would have been disastrous. The Syndicate didn’t take kindly to such dishonorable action. Cheating in a high stakes game such as that would have meant removal from the club and quite likely, significant loss of assets. Fortunately, Frank had a little nest egg he always kept safe.
Ever the watcher of trends, Frank had spent tens of millions over the years to acquire gold bullion. No one knew it, but behind the bookcase over his right shoulder, a fortune worth over seventy million in gold bars was hidden in a vault. Only he knew the combination. And only he knew it was there. If things ever went south, he would get by. Sure, seventy million would be a step down in the grand scheme of things, but he’d be okay. He’d survive. He always did.
A slow, methodic tap of footsteps echoed from the adjacent hallway, rousing him from his thoughts. His brow creased in his confusion. Terry, his butler, should have retired for the evening more than an hour ago. It was unlike him to work so late. The man was as methodical as a Swiss train station. He was always on time and always worked the same number of hours every day. Perhaps he’d forgotten something during his duties and returned to get it.
“Terry? Is that you? Did you forget something?” Frank stood up from his plush chair, still holding the cigar. The hot orange ash trickled a thin stream of smoke into the air.
He stared into the darkness of the hallway beyond his study. The single desk lamp that burned cast a dim corona of light just a foot beyond the doorframe before evaporating into shadow. The footsteps kept clicking, one after the other, like the rhythm of a heartbeat tapping on the wooden floor.
Concern began to well inside his gut. Terry wasn’t a young man. He’d been serving Frank for nearly thirty years. It was entirely possible that the butler had a stroke or was getting dementia. Come to think of it, he had been acting a little strange lately. Hadn’t he?
“Is everything all right, Terry?” Frank asked, stepping around the corner of his desk.
A pair of black high heels appeared in the lamp’s searching glow. They were attached to a lightly tanned pair of smooth, toned legs.
Frank frowned. He hadn’t ordered an escort this evening. Or had he and just forgotten about it? The lamplight reflected in the woman’s eyes, but her face remained in the shadows. He could barely see the outline of her curly hair.
Not one to ever turn down a good time with a pretty woman, Frank relaxed a little. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember ordering a lady for the evening. Not to worry, my dear, I’ll pour you a drink, and you can make yourself comfortable. I suppose Terry must have let you in. Is he still here?”
“Yes. He’s still here, Frank. And I’ll take a whiskey. Straight up.”
Frank froze. His face drained of color, turning a sickly shade of pale. He frowned again and leaned forward to see better. The woman’s right foot moved toward him and then to the left. Inch by inch, her legs were revealed in the light, then her black dress, pearl necklace and shoulders, and then her face.
“Allyson?”
“What’s the matter Frank? You never seen a dead person before?”
“Allyson, I… you’re alive!” He fumbled his words to recover. “I’m so glad you’re okay! I thought you were dead!”
She stepped fully into the light and crossed her bare arms. Allyson was dressed as if she was about to attend a banquet. Or a funeral.
“Now why would you think that, Frank?” She cocked her head to the side.
He swallowed. He’d already noticed the pistol in her hand, a subcompact with a suppressor attached. “Because…” He stumbled trying to find the right thing to say. “I thought the other thief had killed you. I hadn’t heard from you in two weeks. I was worried sick.”
“Is that what this is?” She motioned to the cigar and the brandy. “Mourning my death?”
He half nodded. “Yes. Yes, I’ve not been myself the last two weeks, knowing it was my fault. I heard the news out of Amsterdam and… well, I wasn’t sure how I was going to forgive myself. Let… let me make you that whiskey. We should celebrate! You’re back!”
Frank spun around and made his way over to the bar in the corner. He tripped over the floor rug and almost fell to the floor but managed to keep his balance. Allyson sidestepped toward the desk, finding a chair directly across from the bar where he hurriedly opened a decanter and emptied a significant portion of the contents into a short glass. She eased into the seat, crossing one leg over the other and letting the pistol level with her employer.