“And what does that have to do with tonight?”

  “You’re going to deal with that.” Chamberlain nodded in the direction of the body on the floor. “Then you’re going to deal with my bastard son-in-law. And then you’re going to take care of me, just like you said you would.”

  Damian couldn’t choke back the laugh. “Are you arranging your murder, old man?”

  He didn’t quite mean to let the derogatory phrase slip out, but there was something he respected in this man that made it... seem right.

  “Rich,” Chamberlain said. “And no. I’m arranging my suicide.”

  19

  It was a handful of minutes later, and Damian was alternating between splashing Alex’s face with cold water and slapping his cheek to bring him back to his senses. After a moment, Alex was staring up at him blearily. It took a moment for the fear to sink back in.

  “Hey,” he said, trying to sit up more, and finding himself entirely restrained by his bonds. “Hey. I can explain all of this. Hey.” His eyes were rolling around the room, and he found Chamberlain. “Let me go, please, Rich. Come on.”

  Chamberlain—Rich—laughed, setting off another coughing fit, although this one wasn’t so bad. “You fucking idiot. You tried to have me killed.”

  “No,” Alex said, shaking his head as hard as he could. He strained against the ropes but didn’t get anywhere. “No, I wouldn’t ever—this guy isn’t mine—”

  “I know that. He’s an actual professional, and you couldn’t afford him. But that bastard…” He nodded towards the body on the carpet, which Damian really had to deal with soon. Getting the blood out of the floor was going to be a complete pain in the ass already. “What did you do, hire him in the fucking classifieds?”

  “Craigslist,” Damian informed him, out of the side of his mouth.

  He had stepped back, and his weapon was ready, but he was confident about Alex’s restraints, and Rich had the sense to stay safely out of range.

  Alex glared at Damian in a way that made it incredibly obvious that Damian was correct.

  “Look,” Alex said. “I didn’t mean for him to—I just wanted to make sure that—”

  There wasn’t any explanation, and eventually, Alex sagged. Maybe he thought the truth would save him, or maybe he knew what was coming and didn’t want the weight on his soul.

  “I hired him, yeah. I knew what was coming for you.” He nodded at Damian. “And if someone was going to take you out, I wanted it to be me, not the Santiagos. I wanted to show them that I was a threat so they wouldn’t challenge the business, once it was mine.”

  Rich shook his head. “You didn’t even read the prenup. It’s not yours. It’ll never be yours. It all belongs to Fiona.”

  Alex started to curse, but before he could build up a real head of steam, he started to cry.

  “The thing is, you stupid prick, I had him researched before I let him on my ship. I found out that you met him in a bar just a month ago. He told you he was a contract killer, didn’t he?”

  Alex nodded in such a pathetic way that Damian had to cover his mouth to keep from smiling where the stupid jackass would see.

  “He was a dog walker, you idiot. Sometimes a food delivery guy. He told you he could kill me because he thought, huh, how hard could it be?” Rich shot a long look at Damian, then nodded. “How hard can it be, son?”

  This time, they had prepped for it to be done clean. When Damian shot the man this time, there was a plastic tarp ready for the blood. Alex gasped a few times, trying to breathe, and then his head hung down. He was dead, his body just took a few minutes to get the message. It was like that sometimes.

  “You understand from here?”

  Damian nodded. “You want me to make it look like he’s the one who killed you. Like you shot him. Get rid of the other body. Simple, really.”

  Rich nodded. Something was gone from his body now, some vitality that he’d had since Damian had walked into the room an hour ago. He looked old. Not just tired and sick, but old.

  “Do you—Should I get your daughter? Give her a chance to say goodbye?”

  Rich shook his head, a slow side to side movement that made Damian’s stomach clench. He hoped that, however he died, it wouldn’t be like this. Torn up by something that had stolen away every bit of hope he’d ever had.

  “She knows it’ll be soon. That’s why we took this cruise. It was the best way she could think of to spend time with me at the end. She’s been here every day. She’ll be here when it matters.”

  There was enough mercenary left in Damian to make him ask another question. “And what about me? What guarantee do I have that she’ll follow through on your offer and buy my contract out from the Santiagos?”

  He shook his head. “Give me just a minute.” He pulled out a phone and tapped a bunch of keys, clicked apps open, and sent messages. “There. Through all the secure channels. It’ll be taken care of by morning. I assume you have identities that those bastards don’t know about?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that will be enough for them to steer clear of you. I’ve let them know you’re untouchable, or all the proof I’ve been gathering of their criminal activities will go to the federal authorities—and they haven’t had enough money to buy out the feds yet. Disappear—take that pretty girl of yours with you.”

  “I will.”

  “And.” Now the man looked old and sad, and again Damian hoped he would never look like this in his life. “If you get the chance, look in on Fiona now and then. Make sure she’s well. This will hit her harder than she’ll realize at first.” Rich gave a long sigh. “I’ve noticed that she and your girl are becoming good friends. If you can find a safe way for them to keep in touch?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Thank you.” Rich stopped for a moment, a bemused look crossing his face. "Damian, are you a religious man?"

  It was always the old men who started telling tales before death. Damian had long since learned to humor them.

  "Not since I was young." Damian rubbed his hands together without thinking, like he was washing them in the sink. "And very different."

  "I can understand that. Religion has certain obligations that are difficult to respect. But I have never met a man who didn't have something on their conscience. Something that they could ask forgiveness for, or just say because they need to get the words out of their head." Chamberlain sat on the bed, nodding to the chair. "Sit, please."

  Damian knew that they had time. Chamberlain was too calm, too collected for it to be any other way. There was a risk that this was a stall tactic, but false sincerity was something he had learned to identify. He’d heard, 'I have a family' more times than he could count. So, he sat and listened to the old man.

  "Damian, I am the one person in the world who can listen to anything you have to say and can tell you honestly that I'll never repeat it to another living soul—since the window of time to betray your confidence is something like thirty minutes." He cracked a grin. "The dead, then I might tell, but I don't think they'll bother you any." Despite himself, Damian laughed at the ghoulish joke that could only come from a man who had long accepted his fate. "And I know when a man needs to get something off his chest."

  Damian smiled at the old man. It really was a shame to kill him. A shame he was dying at all. "You might be right." It was a quiet thing, his voice as he spoke. He kept his eyes on Chamberlain; his body language, his face, was laid bare to a man whose time left could be counted in minutes. "It's about a girl."

  Rich murmured, "Isn't it always?"

  This time he didn’t ask if Damian wanted anything to drink. He reached over to a cart that had been rolled close to the bed. He pulled out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey, and Damian had to keep himself from laughing. The old man had probably enjoyed a nice drink before bed. And then he sobered; it might very well be to try and deal with the pain.

  Rich poured a single finger of whiskey for Damian, and three for himself. "I won't bore you with the details, but this stuff makes me look young. And I don't know about you, but when a woman's involved, I've always found it easier with a bit of liquor."

  Damian couldn't argue with that; he took a sip of the whiskey, enjoying the warmth of it. He wasn’t a hard drinker—too easy to cloud his mind at the wrong moment—but he knew enough to know this was too expensive for his palate. The man wasn't wrong.

  "Her name is Piper. I was tricked—didn't do my research either, as you can see." Rich chuckled, drinking a bit more liberally. "She wasn't meant to be here at all. Not a thing to do with this. Honestly, if she weren't here, she'd be sitting in front of a laptop. She's a bit like you actually. She does crowdfunding work—helping people with ideas to make them real. Now, instead, she's part of a bloody business that—I was told that there would be a girl, but that she’d be different. Hardened to this. But Piper’s strong, I'll give her that." He downed a bit more of the whiskey. "But I came in and changed her. She can't be who she was. She can go back, sure, but…" He trailed off, looking down at the glass.

  "But she saw the other side." Damian looked up and saw a level of understanding that was rare in a civilian. "Don't be surprised. Once Fiona started noticing that bodyguards were always around her, I had to ease her into the idea that one day, people would try to kill her. Doesn't matter if someone's thirteen or twenty-two, no one should have to hear that. But we tell them. We have to because we are who we are."

  Damian looked at him with an intensity he hadn't felt in quite some time—a hell of a thing considering two men were dead by his hand. "And who am I?"

  Chamberlain, of all things, laughed. "You're asking me?"

  "You're the one with some psych classes and a few decades of experience. I figured you might have some idea."

  "A potshot at a dying man about how old he is? That's a low blow, son." He furrowed his brow. "Truth is, I think you're a man fighting a war on two fronts. The Santiagos? Bah, that's nothing. No, you're fighting against every time you pulled the trigger, and every time you look at your girl and pretend the world was like it was when you were sixteen, and everything was full of hope and promise."

  "I'm not fighting against it; I fought to do it."

  "Ghosts, my boy, ghosts. How many of them do you remember? How many jobs? How many ways have you seen them die, and how many times have you seen the same one die when you close your eyes?"

  Damian didn't say a word. He just gripped his glass tighter and took the whiskey as a shot.

  "Yeah, that sounds about right." Chamberlain refilled his glass, even more generously this time. "You can't change what you did. None of us can. Alex? He's dead and gone. He's a fucking idiot—or was—but even if he'd gotten a kick in the ass in the right direction, it wouldn't stop the fact that he'd been a fucking idiot his whole life."

  Damian snorted. "You should give seminars."

  "I do."

  "Smartass. So what, I am who I am because of all that I've done? That's it, that's the end?"

  "That girl of yours. You're not happy with how you treated her? I'm not stupid, that's a rhetorical question. I can see it just fine on your face anyway. Yes. You've done unspeakable things. You probably hurt her too." Chamberlain took a large pull of his drink, then noticed that Damian’s was mysteriously empty and poured some more for both of them. "Ask yourself this. How much do you think you're gonna hurt her tomorrow?"

  Damian was quiet for a moment. He put his finger in the whiskey, swirling it gently. It probably broke a few hundred rules on how to properly drink the stuff, but proper wasn't ever his deal. "I honestly don't know."

  "Then make the decision. Make the decision because you are who you are, because it's what you've decided. Not what I say. Not what the Santiagos say. Not what the service said. Not even what the lady says. It's you, Damian. It always was."

  The two men finished their drinks in silence. The truth was too sharp and ringing to be broken by more words, and both of them knew it. The minutes ticked by, agonizingly slowly. Damian felt himself more and more drawn to put a stop to all of this, but there was no way out. Chamberlain was right. But this was his last job, one way or another.

  Finally, the old man sighed. "I'm ready, Damian." He laid back, whether by choice or by need, Damian would never know.

  Chamberlain’s head was sunk into the plush pillow, the sheets that were probably a thousand thread count or something ridiculous turned down on the bed. “Can you—if it’s possible? I’d rather it didn’t hurt. Maybe it sounds weak, but everything has hurt so much the past few weeks…”

  “It won’t hurt,” Damian said. He reached into the small pouch he kept inside his pants leg and removed a vial and a covered syringe. “Close your eyes.”

  The old man did, and Damian injected him just under the fingernail. The man winced, but it was just a few moments before his body went slack. Once the anesthetic had taken hold, that was when Damian administered the poison.

  It would be untraceable just hours after the body was dead, but between then and now, it was a dangerous window. He couldn’t allow suspicion to fall on him.

  And beyond that, what it did to the body—it wasn’t pretty. If he hadn’t started with the anesthetic, his claim that none of it would hurt would have been a lie. As the body thrashed, trying to desperately to stay alive even as it was killing itself from the inside out, Damian held the hand of the only man who had ever tried to keep him alive.

  When it was done, he arranged all the bodies the way they would need to be. He disposed of the idiot amateur simply enough—tossing him overboard the way he had always planned to do with another body. And then, when he knew the toxin would be clear, and everything was properly arranged, he fired two shots from Alex's gun.

  He left through the panic room door before the smoke had cleared, and before the rest of Rich’s security force could enter the room.

  20

  By the time Piper heard the gunshots, Fiona had curled up with her head in her lap, having cried herself to sleep. Piper was stroking the other woman’s hair and wondering when was the last time she’d been properly mothered. But the two shots, loud and strident, made her jump. Her jump jostled Fiona enough that she jolted upright.

  “What was that?” she asked, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

  “I don’t think we should go,” Piper said.

  Her stomach was twisted into knots. She knew what those sounds meant. Either Damian’s work was done, or Damian was dead. Either way, she was going to fall apart soon. She thought of the tiny little one growing inside of her, the one she hadn’t had a chance to tell Damian about yet. What if she never could? What if he’d finally run out of luck, and she never got the chance?

  Fiona shook her head hard. She stood up, almost stumbled, and caught herself on the couch. “No. Piper, I think those were gunshots. I think Daddy—” She choked off the words.

  Piper stood up and gripped the woman—her friend’s—arm. “Fiona. If something’s happened to your dad, the security team will handle it. And if they can’t—we’ll just get killed rushing in there and trying to save people who probably don’t need to be saved.”

  Fiona jerked her arm free, and Piper winced. She had a terrible, terrible understanding of what Fiona was going to find, and she wanted to somehow protect her friend. But this was always what it was going to come down to, wasn’t it? This had always been the real plan.

  “Come with me or don’t,” Fiona said, clearly trying to mask her fear with bravado.

  Piper came. They rushed down the hallway, crossing the short distance to Mr. Chamberlain’s cabin. Piper was a little surprised not to see Fiona’s new husband standing out there in the hallway with them—and then her stomach twisted farther. If he’d gotten in Damian’s way… there would be nothing to be done. Damian had a job to do, and Alex wasn’t going to get in the way. And there had been the suspicions that Alex was somehow involved… but Piper didn’t want to think about that now. Not when Fiona was twisting the knob of an obviously locked door, then pounding on it, screaming for her father.

  After a moment, someone in a suit with a visible clear earpiece moved her less than gently out of the way. He pulled out a key and unlocked the door, then pushed it open. He tried to get in first, probably to shout clear like they did in movies or something, but Fiona elbowed him out of the way. Which is why she saw the horror tableau first.

  To Piper, knowing what had happened, it was all so obviously staged. Just pretend. She would ask Damian later what had really happened, and he would tell her. Or he’d lie. She didn’t know which one. Right now, it didn’t matter.

  Alex’s body was laid out on the floor, a pool of blood spreading from his torso. There were several gunshot wounds in his chest, and gunshot wounds didn’t look small or delicate like they did in the movies. His chest was a disgusting mess. Piper felt the bile rise in her throat and had to choke back the urge to vomit.

  Fiona was screaming on her knees because Rich Chamberlain had been shot as well. There was a matching pool of blood covering his mattress, which spilled onto the floor.

  And no Damian.

  Security rushed them back out of the room as quickly as they had gotten in; Piper helped a big linebacker of a guy lift Fiona out. It won’t make much of a difference, Piper thought; the destruction of the room would already be stained indelibly in Fiona’s mind. But they could at least keep her from staring at it.

  The ship’s doctor came and gave Fiona something to help her sleep, and after making sure that she was relaxed, Piper left the room. She passed another woman in the hall, one of the bridesmaids. She was tapping lightly at the door and then slipping inside, presumably to sit with Fiona until she woke up. Piper wanted to do more, but she was worn out. There was nothing left.

  The ship was quiet, although everyone seemed to be gathered in the common areas. If news passed around a small town quickly, it probably passed around a glass bottle of a ship even faster. She was being stared at, gawked at even. She checked her hands and knees—no signs of blood. So just the news, then, that she’d seen what had happened.