“For who?” she asked again, trying to be patient.

  Second Guy said, “And Anders said⁠—”

  “Shut up,” the leader snapped.

  She frowned at all three men. Anders, huh.

  Anders was a dodgy businessman who had delusions of being a criminal king pin. He’d attempted, on more than one occasion, to make good at those delusions by hiring her. She’d turned him down. She was particular about who she worked with.

  Since he was the sensitive type, with an ego the size of Queens, he hadn’t been pleased with her refusing his jobs. He might well want to kill her. But he should have known better than to send amateurs after her.

  “What did you do to piss him off?” she asked.

  “What’d you mean?” Second Guy, trying to look tough.

  “Shut up,” Leader hissed. “We aren’t here to talk about that,” he said to her.

  “So you did piss him off,” she said.

  “No. That’s… I didn’t say that.”

  “You did steal his truck,” Third Guy said.

  “Did not,” Leader snarled.

  “It was his Porsche,” Second Guy said.

  “Damn straight,” Leader said. “Not getting jammed up for stealing a fucking truck.”

  “You stole Anders’ Porsche?” she asked.

  Leader glared at the other two. Second Guy shrugged a little. Third Guy shuffled his feet in the sand.

  “You know he loves that stupid car, right?” she asked.

  “How was I supposed to know?” Leader waved his own gun around to emphasize his point. “Gorgeous Porsche just sitting there. Keys in the ignition. How was I supposed to know who it belonged to? He didn’t leave a fucking sign, did he?”

  “The license plate has his name on it.”

  “Wasn’t looking at the plate, was I?”

  “Do next time. Could save your life.”

  “I don’t take advice from cheating ex-mistress thieves,” Leader snarled.

  She blinked at him. “Say that again.”

  “You heard me, bitch.”

  “He told you…” She cleared her throat. “He told you I was an ex-mistress?”

  “And that you stole a million from him. He wants his money back.”

  “And he don’t care how we get it,” Second Guy said.

  Third Guy lifted his lip in a smirk. His flashlight beam still wavered.

  “Wow.” She considered the sand for a long moment. “Yeah. You guys really pissed him off, stealing the Porsche. Sent you halfway around the world to be killed.”

  “What the fuck you talking about?” Second Guy said. “We’re the ones with guns.”

  She swung her pack off her back, low and up, sending soft white sand flying into their faces. The breeze was at their backs, which made the sand thing less effective than it might have been if the wind was blowing off the low hills behind her. But these guys weren’t the professionals she was used to dealing with.

  They waved at the sand, cursing, coughing, their guns swinging wildly. One shot randomly in her general direction, hitting a palm tree.

  She dove, rolled, and came up next to the Third Guy. She gave him a split second to blink at her before she slammed her go-bag—with the heavy flashlight inside—down onto his arm. He dropped his gun with a scream. She stepped on the gun at the same time as slamming her fist up under his chin.

  She didn’t wait to see him hit the ground, but did use his falling body as cover. Second Guy ducked and aimed his gun at her, but was obviously reluctant to shoot his comrade.

  That redeemed him to her. A little. A very little.

  She pushed Third Guy so he fell into Second Guy, sending Second Guy’s arms flailing as he tried to catch Third Guy without dropping his gun. She spun past him, taking his gun and slamming the butt down on the back of his head before he had a chance to curse.

  Second Guy and Third Guy both hit the sand with a thud as she swung to face Leader. He was pointing his gun at her, his gaze jumping between her and his two unconscious companions.

  “What the hell?” he muttered.

  “Anders didn’t send you to rough up an ex-mistress for stolen money,” she said. “There’s no money. No mistress.”

  “Who the hell are you then?”

  “Just a woman trying to relax on vacation. Read a few books. Dip my toes into the waves.”

  He reflexively glanced down at her feet. She kicked sand in his face, brought Second Guy’s gun down across his wrist, cracking bone, and caught his dropped gun before it hit the ground.

  He screamed and swung wildly around with his good arm, but she’d already moved behind him. She brought both gun butts down on the back of his skull, hard. And watched him fall face first into the sand.

  “The broken wrist…” she said to the unconscious man. “That was for letting your boys ruin my books.”

  3

  Casey had all three men duck taped to a palm tree by the time they regained consciousness. There was a lot of cursing when they realized they couldn’t move.

  “Right,” she said, squatting down so she was eye-level with Leader. “You’re gonna want to have that wrist looked at after someone spots you and cuts you out. Hopefully, that won’t be too long. Breakfast is delivered at nine. You shout enough, someone’ll probably hear. Since Anders sent you to get killed, I’m going to suggest you stay as far away from him as possible from now on. Find a nice safe town on the far side of the planet from him, and only boost the cars of normal people. No more stealing wealthy-wannabe-crime bosses’ Porsches. ’Kay.”

  She patted Leader’s cheek then stood.

  While they’d been unconscious, she’d rinsed sand and saltwater off in the small freshwater shower in her bungalow. Then she’d repacked her single backpack with as many of the paperbacks as she could salvage, her scant few clothes, and returned her diving knife to the go-bag. She hadn’t even bothered to use it on the men. She hated getting stupid people’s blood on her good weapons.

  She threw the backpack across her shoulders, carrying the go-bag by the top clip, and turned away from the men.

  “Hey, hey! You can’t just leave us here,” Leader shouted at her back. “I got a broken wrist. There’s no one around! You can’t just leave.”

  She ignored his shouts as she dug her toes one last time in the brown sugar textured sand, breathing in the salt flavored air, disappointed her vacation had been cut short. More than disappointed.

  She was pissed.

  By the time the sun crested the horizon, painting the sky pink and orange, she was on a stolen speedboat, heading toward the mainland. And a flight to London.

  She had a wannabe-crime-boss to see.

  At the airport, using a burner cellphone she’d picked up from an acquaintance in Denpasar, she rang her associate, Nicky.

  “Thought you were on holiday,” Nicky said without preamble. “No phones, no technology. What happen, you get bored?”

  “Anders sent some fellas to disrupt my peace and quiet.”

  She scanned the airport, sitting with her back to a wall. No one sat near her on the row of plastic seats, and she discouraged company with a pointed stare. The cacophony of shouting, talking tourists stomping past on the polished marble floors drown out the sounds of her conversation. Only one young Australian man gave her a second look, moved close enough to say hi, then hurriedly left after meeting her eyes.

  “Anders tried to kill you?” Nicky said, nonplused. “Is he suicidal?”

  “He sent three asshole amateurs.”

  “Amateurs? He sent amateurs? After you?”

  “Sent them so I’d kill them.”

  “Without…booking you first? Without paying you?”

  “Yup.”

  “While you were on vacation?”

  “Hmm Umm.”

  “Well, that’s insulting.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Why’d he want them dead?”

  “They boosted his Porsche.”

  “Shit. He loves that mid-life-crisis-I’ve-got-a-small-dick car.”

  “He surely does.” She considered a busy restaurant across the corridor from where she sat. Steam rose from hotplates, and the smell of rice and spices made her stomach growl.

  “Still,” Nicky said, and sniffed. “Rude.”

  “Right?”

  “And unprofessional.”

  “He told them I was an ex-mistress.”

  “Ew.”

  “As if.”

  The airport loudspeaker squawked on and a polished female voice announced in five different languages that her flight was boarding. Standing and sweeping up her backpack, she headed toward her gate, giving one last longing glance at the restaurant. Airplane food would have to do. Some end to her vacation.

  “I’ll be in London by tomorrow morning,” she said. “Get me a meeting with Anders.”

  “Office or home?”

  “That gawd awful townhouse he’s been working on for forever. That’ll do.”

  “You just want to see the library.”

  “Nicky, they dumped some of my paperbacks into the ocean. Before I’d got the chance to read them.”

  “Shit.” There was a moment’s silence for the loss. “Right. Home, it is, then. Want to meet Bruno before you go in?”

  “Won’t need to.”

  4

  The massive white stone townhouse in the heart of Kensington was a point of pride for Anders. Just like his Porsche, the mansion was his “baby,” and he’d spent years renovating it, ensuring it was just so. Hardwood, inlaid floors throughout. Marble accents. Sweeping staircases with intricately, hand-carved wooden banisters. Light wood wainscoting under pale wallpaper. Art to rival a museum’s hanging on those wall.

  Not that she recognized any of it. She wasn’t a thief so she hadn’t bothered to study that sort of thing. But she knew Anders, so she assumed everything hanging, sitting on the tiny wooden tables, and tucked into the decorative insets in the walls was all valuable and showed the world what a big shot lived there. Anders would accept nothing less.

  Such a fucking poser.

  After she’d been searched for weapons, a liveried butler—more posing—led her into a giant library. And here, finally, she was impressed.

  Massive windows looking out onto the gray London street beyond. A giant wooden desk sat in front of the windows. Thick Turkish rugs over the inlaid floors. And wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, light wood, fully packed bookshelves. Leather bound books mostly, at least at eye-level. But one of those tall ladders that slid along the cases gave access to the higher shelves, and up there she spotted regular paperbacks and hardcovers. That’s where she’d spend most of her time. Up on the ladder pulling down novels to read.

  The place smelled of leather, ink and paper, lemon-scented furniture polish, and just a hint of tea. The tea might be her imagination, though, since she was in England and everyone here was obsessed with the stuff.

  Two wing-backed, green leather chairs sat in front of a giant marble and stone fireplace to the left. And that’s where Anders waited for her. The butler left her at the door. She took a seat next to Anders. He didn’t stand. Given the setting, she sort of thought he might.

  Anders—one name only because he was a poser wannabe crime boss—was a relatively unimpressive looking man. Average height, average weight, fit enough but not thick, dark hair trimmed neat and short, blue eyes behind tiny round-rimmed glasses that were just for show, a kind of pinched mouth that reminded her of the disapproving head mistress at the girls school she’d attended for exactly two months before being kicked out.

  He wore a garishly neon green track suit that was probably from a brand that cost as much as an average Londoner’s monthly rent, but it looked like ordinary nylon running pants and zip-up hoodie to her. He wore a gold Rolex. And she suspected his runners were custom made by one of the big tennis shoe companies. But you’d have had to know these fashion-related things to look at him and say, “Wealth!”

  Mostly, he looked like someone trying to look like a hoodlum trying to look like a big man. But he ended up just looking like a muddled mess. Fake glasses with a track suit and a Rolex… The combination made her eyes hurt.

  “Sherry,” he offered, gesturing to a crystal decanter and cut-crystal glasses sitting on a little wooden table between them. He had a relatively ordinary voice, too. Posh, flat London accent he’d worked years to train, but otherwise, nothing particularly special in his voice. Not too deep, not too high. Just…ordinary.

  Lot of ordinary for a wannabe criminal king pin.

  “No,” she said. “Alcohol gives me headaches.”

  “Shame. How do you relax?”

  She gestured at the books. “Read. You?”

  “Drive very fast in my Porsche.”

  “I told them they’d really pissed you off trying to steal that thing.”

  “They should have checked the car’s plates.”

  She smacked the arm of the chair, then pointed at him. “That’s what I told them. Thugs.” She shook her head mournfully. “At any rate, sending them to me to be killed without paying me first was very cheeky of you.”

  “Did you kill them?”

  “Yes,” she lied straight-faced.

  “Then I’ll pay you.”

  That wasn’t how her business worked. But she’d deal with that in a minute. “What were they worth to you?”

  “Ten each?”

  She snorted. “Your Porsche is worth a couple mil. Custom made and all that. You’re insulting me yet again.”

  He flattened his mouth. “Fine. A hundred each.”

  She raised her brows.

  “They were knackers. You didn’t have to do much. Can’t imagine they even got close enough to be a threat. They weren’t worth more than a hundred each.”

  She continued to stare at him.

  He turned away first. “Fine. Five hundred.”

  “Each.”

  His mouth worked, but he said, “Each.”

  “Pounds. Not dollars.”

  “Pounds. Five hundred thousand pounds each. Fair?”

  She glanced at the fireplace. “That thing is massive. Aren’t you afraid it’ll catch the house on fire?”

  “Hasn’t yet.”

  “Yet being a very significant word here. You ever actually have fires in it, or is it just for show?”

  “In London? Mostly just for show nowadays. Gets cold enough. But there are all kinds of air quality laws now.”

  “Fair enough. This city used to be gross. Couldn’t be here more than twenty-four hours and I’d be cleaning black shit out of nose. Lot better now. Definitely.”

  “Is that all? Are we done here? I have other business.”

  “Now, here I’ve flown halfway around the world to see you. Cut my vacation short, just for this meeting. And that’s all the time I get?”

  “You’re getting paid. Isn’t that all that matters with your kind.”

  “My kind? That sounds like an insult Anders. That’s rich. Pot kettle kind of comment.”

  “Your handler made the appointment last minute, or I would have booked more time for you.”

  “Sure.” She stood. Waited for him to stand. When he didn’t, she shook her head. No manners. Not even offering a handshake.

  She stared down at the side of his face until he turned to look at her.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “You ruined my vacation, you know.”

  “I’m sure you can take another one.”

  “They dumped some of my books into the sea, Anders. My books.” She glanced around the giant library.

  “Books are replaceable.”

  “So’s a car.”

  “Not this car.”

  “You would have paid less to just get another car.”

  “Even a million and a half wouldn’t have replaced the car.”

  “Still. Lot less trouble. Lot less blood.”

  “What blood?”

  She smashed the crystal cut decanter into his face. There was a very satisfying crunch. Blood poured out of his nose.

  She shoved him back into the chair, pinning him in place with a knee to his groin, and an arm across his throat, and said near his ear, “Never send anyone at me like that again. I don’t kill without payment.”

  “You think I’m gonna fucking pay you now? You just broke my fucking nose.”

  He opened his mouth to shout, but she stuck the heel of her hand against his already broken bone, pressing hard enough to make him whimper.

  “Shhhh,” she murmured. “I’m not done talking yet. I told you before I won’t kill for you. Then you went and ruined my vacation. And your goons—who aren’t dead, by the way, because I don’t kill without payment—trashed some of my books. My books, Anders.” She leaned in very close. “So now you’re going to get that money into my account, without argument. Because if you don’t, next time I won’t bother with an appointment.”

  He tried to snarl, but with blood gushing down his face and over the horrid green track suit hoodie, the expression fell flat.

  “One more thing,” she said against his ear, while pressing her hand tight against his nose and grinding her knee down hard. “You’ll find your Porsche parked at the bottom of the Thames.”

  She shoved away from him and shouted, “Help! Someone. Help!”

  The butler pushed inside immediately—confirming he was more than just a liveried butler.

  She pointed at Anders’ nose and softened her voice, affecting shock and worry. “He needs help. He stood to shake my hand, slipped and smashed his face against the decanter. I think his nose is broken. I tried to stop the bleeding, but…” She made a helpless little gesture with her hands, fluttering them in distress. “Get someone. Quick.”

  The butler shouted down the hall, vanishing for a moment as he rallied the troops.

  She met Anders’ gaze and murmured, “I’ll expect the money by five. If it’s not there…”

  “Why not just kill me now?” he muttered, looking at the blood on his hands.

  “I don’t kill unless I’m paid,” she reminded him. Again. “Though, I could be pushed into making an exception. I don’t recommend you push me. Consider the fee and the damage to the Porsche break even for my vacation. And my books.” She smiled and said cheerily, “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

 

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