What are the odds?

  He promised himself he wouldn’t mention it.

  She said, ‘I still can’t believe we’re doing this.’

  ‘I pulled some strings. My handler was okay with it.’

  Violetta hadn’t been.

  But Slater was stubborn. And eventually, he’d got his way.

  ‘When you told me about what you did, I thought you’d be away for most of the year. But since New York…’

  ‘That’s not what my life is anymore. It was, in the past. Now we’re used sparingly. The last resort, so to speak. This,’ — he waved a hand around the civilian plane — ‘never would have been allowed when I was in Black Force.’

  ‘But now Black Force is gone?’

  He nodded. ‘It was always flawed. When those flaws were exposed, it imploded.’

  ‘So now you’re… what, exactly? I don’t think you’ve ever put a label on it.’

  ‘Independent contractor.’

  ‘Is that what you’re calling it?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s the closest I’ll get to hitting the nail on the head. Truth is…’

  He trailed off.

  She put a hand on his forearm.

  He’d looked away, but now he returned his gaze. ‘I don’t know what I am. And…’

  He looked away again.

  Something had seized in his throat. Hesitation. He knew what he’d been about to say. He didn’t dare let it out.

  But everything had changed since she’d become a permanent part of his life.

  And when she tightened her grip on his forearm, he knew he could never hide the truth from her.

  He said, ‘I don’t know what I want anymore.’

  She hesitated.

  Like her heart had stopped in her chest.

  He looked over. ‘What?’

  ‘You mean… with us?’

  He took her hand. ‘No. You’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.’

  ‘You don’t need to say that if it’s not—’

  ‘It’s true. That’s why I’m questioning everything else.’

  She froze.

  Realising what he meant.

  Realising why he’d been so quiet over the last couple of weeks.

  She said, ‘You want out?’

  He tensed up. He didn’t mean to, but the words hung in the sterile tube of the plane, and he turned them over and over again in his head. His core tightened, and his fingers came into his palms as he balled his fists. He tried his best to hide it, but she was leaning against him, and she felt it.

  He tried to relax.

  It took a few seconds.

  Eventually, he settled.

  But his pulse had sped up. He knew she felt that, too.

  He said, ‘You know me, maybe better than anyone. What do you think I want?’

  She said, ‘I think you know. I think you’re just terrified to admit it.’

  They lapsed into a comfortable silence, and minutes later she dozed off against his shoulder.

  He stewed restlessly.

  Because he knew she was right.

  7

  At the same time, back in Manhattan, King faced off with a perplexed receptionist in an impressive yet anonymous building in the Financial District.

  His voice seemed to echo off the polished floor beneath him as he said, ‘Trust me.’

  The guy behind the desk — dressed in a neatly pressed suit with a name badge that read Francis — furrowed his giant eyebrows. He was early thirties, so King understood the hesitation. Francis had probably worked for Donati Group all his twenties, and now he considered himself something of a guardian for the inner circle of the conglomerate’s head office. He sat in front of a teak-panelled wall, and had a corded phone in a cradle in front of him with an array of buttons ranging from IT to Accounting.

  Francis said, ‘Sir, no one has notified me of your arrival, and I assure you it is quite unlike Mr. Donati to not have an appointment scheduled. If you have a complaint, I can be sure to put you in touch with—’

  King said, ‘Pick up the phone. Call your boss. Tell him I’m here.’

  ‘Sir, I’m afraid—’

  King gave thanks for his giant wingspan as he reached over the desk. He took Francis’ shoulder in one hand and applied the slightest touch of pressure, which against a pencil-necked civilian was more than enough to keep him glued to his chair. Then he lifted the phone off the receiver with his other hand, and used his index finger to stab the button with Donati scrawled next to it in freehand on an otherwise blank sticker.

  Francis shouted, ‘Hey!’

  The line rang twice and was answered.

  ‘What?’ a bombastic deep voice snapped.

  ‘Jason King. I’m here to see you. Jack Coombs sent me. Your assistant is being an uncooperative little shit so I had to take matters into my own hands.’

  A pause.

  Then the booming voice said, ‘Be right out. Wait there.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  King put the phone back on its cradle and took his hand off Francis’ shoulder like nothing had happened at all.

  The kid leapt to his feet and snatched the phone up in trembling hands. His voice was shaky as he said, ‘Security will be here in a minute. I suggest you leave.’

  King sighed, and pressed a finger into each of his closed eyelids.

  ‘Kid,’ King said, and he injected the faintest hint of a threat into his voice for the first time.

  Francis looked up, and froze.

  King said, ‘Just sit down. Carry on with your work. Your boss will be right out.’

  ‘You’ve disrupted his routine,’ Francis said. ‘That is simply not acceptable, and to make things worse—’

  A door flew open down the hall, out of both of their lines of sight.

  Francis froze, his face paling.

  ‘Great,’ the kid said. ‘You probably just got me fired.’

  King didn’t respond.

  Sam Donati materialised in the reception area sixty seconds later. Which meant his office was further away than King had thought, which in turn meant he’d thrown the door open with more verve than normal. King wondered if the man was angry, or if he just approached everything his life with the same rigid intensity.

  It turned out to be the latter.

  The guy was six-five at least, with an aura like thunder. There was something bristling underneath his exterior, something King didn’t often see outside of live combat situations. He guessed that was the intensity needed to survive in the cutthroat world at the top of the corporate hierarchy. This was the realm where men and women worth ten figures searched and probed for any sliver of weakness to be exploited. You had to be uncompromising, but above all you had to be willing to put it all on the line, which had to be approached with the level of focus that existed behind Donati’s big brown eyes.

  In a roundabout way, King respected that.

  Donati sized King up in a single glance, strode forward and offered a huge hand.

  King shook it. The billionaire’s grip was strong. Nothing King hadn’t felt before.

  Donati said, ‘My assistant wasn’t giving you too much hassle, was he?’

  Over Donati’s shoulder, King saw what little blood was left in Francis’ cheeks drain away.

  ‘No,’ King said. ‘He was more than accommodating.’

  That didn’t seem to compute. Francis sat rigid and stunned, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it didn’t. King didn’t have time for petty squabbles. Life was not about one-upping anyone and everyone. The kid was harmless.

  Donati flicked a fat finger in his direction, wheeled around and set off down the hallway. King followed.

  They went all the way to a big oak door, which led through to an office with a view that rivalled King’s penthouse. He took in the sweeping vision of Central Park, and the hundreds of skyscrapers dotting the perimeter of the gargantuan chunk of greenery. It never got old. No matter how many times he soaked it in.

  Donati stared at him, assessing his reaction. He probably found it odd that King didn’t seem awed.

  He said, ‘You like the view?’

  King hid a smirk. I see it every day.

  But there was no justifiable reason to explain that based on the role he was playing, so he said, ‘Yeah. It’s great.’

  The rest of the office was furnished with Scandinavian minimalism. King saw a desk that would have cost six figures, and a chair that would have cost five, and a collection of diverse art pieces that could have cost anywhere from four to nine.

  The world of art would always be a puzzle to him.

  Donati seemed to notice. The man was perceptive. ‘You don’t like the paintings?’

  King shrugged. ‘Art’s not my thing.’

  ‘Nor is it mine,’ Donati said. ‘But there’s advantages to it.’

  ‘Advantages?’

  Donati didn’t seem to care about divulging trade secrets. ‘You know why it’s so good? Because pieces can be worth whatever the hell you want them to be.’

  ‘I’m not following.’

  The big man pointed to a framed piece hanging on the teak-panelled wall next to his desk. It was comprised of a white backdrop with tastefully applied streaks of red. King figured he could have painted the same thing with his eyes closed.

  Donati said, ‘Let’s say I buy that for a million, and then I donate it to a college as an act of charity. A few years later, I can claim it’s worth ten. Because, you know, art. That’s nine million dollars worth of tax deductions. The college isn’t going to say otherwise. I just gave them the painting, after all. What’s the IRS going to do? It’s bulletproof.’

  King didn’t say a word.

  Donati said, ‘You think I’m gross.’

  ‘You’re not paying me to think,’ King said. ‘You’re paying me to keep you alive. Right now, that’s all I care about.’

  Donati smiled. ‘Now you’re speaking my language. Straight to the point. I like it.’

  As the sun set behind them, he pointed to a chair in front of the desk.

  He said, ‘Let’s get down to business.’

  8

  Slater wasn’t used to the civilian world.

  He existed in a different sphere of society. His usual life was a carefully constructed system to maximise his time. He didn’t cook his own meals. He didn’t wait in lines. He didn’t unnecessarily complicate his schedule. He trained as hard as humanly possible, then he recovered as efficiently as humanly possible, and between those moments he rested and fuelled his body and strategised.

  Then, when he was sent out on operations, he was blessed with the satisfaction that there was nothing else he could have done.

  If he failed, it was because the task was insurmountable. Not because he’d slacked off in training. Not because he’d cut corners. He always ensured there were no corners to cut.

  So this was odd. Standing in line at Cancun International Airport, waiting to get his false passport stamped, Alexis’ fingers intertwined around his. There was no place he’d rather be. All that efficiency, all that prioritisation — it was draining. Sometimes he forgot that life didn’t have to be one endless stream of never-ending improvement.

  Sometimes you could rest.

  Sometimes that’s the only place true stillness lay.

  Alexis noticed he had withdrawn. ‘What?’

  He looked over. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’re thinking about something.’

  ‘I’m always thinking about something.’

  ‘Care to share?’

  He looked into her eyes. ‘There’s a lot to it. But I guess, when you break it down… I’m just happy to be here.’

  ‘I don’t want you to say that if you don’t mean it.’

  ‘Have I ever said anything I didn’t mean?’

  She touched his lips with hers. ‘No. You haven’t. That’s what I appreciate more than anything. That’s not an easy thing to do.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you do it, either. And trust me — I can tell.’

  She said, ‘That’s deliberate.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You’re not a regular catch. I’m taking this seriously.’

  He leant closer to her and muttered, ‘I couldn’t tell.’

  He winked.

  They fell silent. That was something else he appreciated about their bond — the fact that they didn’t need to fill the quiet moments with superficial conversation just for the sake of talking. When they said anything, there was a purpose behind every word.

  They made their way past a tired customs officer without incident. Alexis didn’t even blink at the name Ronald Wood on Slater’s passport. She knew it came with the territory. The document had been manufactured by an expert counterfeiter discreetly employed by one of the subdivisions Violetta controlled, who’d doctored the serial number without tainting the hologram.

  The thought of Violetta, and the world she operated within, churned his insides.

  He forced it all aside.

  Enjoy this, he thought. Then figure out your future.

  That thought alone threatened to spiral him into indecision. He’d never even considered getting out. Not when King fled with Klara all those years ago. Not when he found himself excommunicated from the division he’d spent the majority of his adult life working for. Whether he’d been a vigilante or an operative, he’d never wanted to abandon the fight. It was as much a part of him as breathing.

  So is that really what this is? Or are you just confused?

  He didn’t know.

  They hired a small nondescript hatchback from a rental car service outside the airport, and Alexis demanded to drive.

  Slater protested. ‘I’ve been cooped up in a tube all afternoon. I’m not used to this. Let me do something.’

  ‘But when we get there,’ she said, ‘how will you know where our destination is?’

  He shrugged. ‘How many resorts can there be in Tulum?’

  He knew exactly how many resorts there were in Tulum.

  She said, ‘There’s a few. I’ve picked a good one. You won’t know until we get there.’

  I already know, he thought.

  He couldn’t fight down the sensation that fate would lead him there again.

  But he begrudgingly stood down.

  Now wasn’t the time to tell her.

  That he feared they were heading to the exact place he’d reunited with the last woman he loved.

  They took Highway 307 south out of Cancun, and the chasm in Slater’s gut widened. With increasing disbelief, he realised he hadn’t even felt this terrible before his most dangerous operations. He tried to discern why.

  Because, he realised, this means something to you.

  Nothing used to mean anything to you.

  He knew it was true. For fifteen years he’d considered his life forfeit. He’d accepted the warrior state of mind, the understanding that death on the battlefield was infinitely preferable to a life lived without taking risks. In the end it was a simple equation, and he’d always broken things down that way. He had talents, and he’d worked impossibly hard to hone those talents, and if he didn’t use them he was practically committing a sin.

  But when was it enough?

  Would he ever be done?

  Could he choose to be done?

  Those thoughts had slowly crept in over the last couple of months, and now he had someone in his life he knew would be devastated if he died.

  He’d never had that before.

  He shifted in his seat so he could see Alexis. She was fixated on the road ahead, her green eyes quietly determined. There was something fundamentally genuine there. She had planned this trip to the nth degree, all for him. He realised it was a foreign sensation to him. He couldn’t remember the last time, outside of King repeatedly saving his life, that someone had done something kind for him. That had never been his world.

  He turned back and stared out the window.

  Maybe it could be.

  9

  By the time King and Donati’s conversation reached its natural conclusion, it was well and truly dark outside.

  They’d gone round in circles for most of it. Donati pried, and King kept his lips firmly sealed.

  Now, the billionaire gave it one final attempt. ‘I can’t pay you if I can’t trust you.’

  King shrugged. ‘Then don’t pay me. I’m doing a favour for an old friend.’

  ‘I’ve spent an hour trying to get your past out of you,’ Donati said, as if that meant something monumental.

  King didn’t bite.

  Donati followed it up with, ‘Do you know how much an hour of my time is worth?’

  ‘Not as much as mine’s worth,’ King said. ‘Because my time will keep you alive. And that’s something you can’t buy.’

  ‘I need something. Jack gave you his strongest recommendation, but he wasn’t any more cooperative than you’re being now. I can’t make decisions based on murky implications. That sort of impulsiveness isn’t something that carries you to the heights I’ve reached.’

  ‘Okay,’ King said.

  ‘Well?’

  King rubbed a hand through his hair, sat forward and placed it firmly on the table. ‘Are you not following?’

  ‘I mustn’t be.’

  ‘I don’t care what you think about me,’ King said. ‘You need me for Close Personal Protection work. I can tell you I’m probably the most qualified person on the planet for that, but I can’t tell you what those qualifications are. You can draw your own conclusions. Truth is, I don’t need to be here, and I don’t need the money. So either accept me or don’t.’

  ‘You have a lot of money,’ Donati said. ‘You live here in Manhattan, and you weren’t impressed in the slightest by the view from this office. You can’t talk about the work you’ve done in the past. So it was lucrative, and it was off the books. Am I understanding what you’re getting at?’

  ‘I don’t care what you think I’m getting at.’

  Donati stared. ‘I never get treated like this.’

  King said nothing.

  Donati said, ‘I kind of like it.’