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Cillian
“You’re a hard man to get a hold of.”
At the sound of a thick South African accent, I tear my eyes away from the twinkling lights of Johannesburg and face Klaas Van der Boor. He’s a nasty fucker and I’m sure every scar etched into his face was well-earned.
“So I’ve heard.”
Something like a smile tugs at his lips, but his eyes are hard and cruel as they narrow. “You’re also very expensive.”
“And worth every South African rand.”
He breaks into a real grin now. One that slices his face in two and reveals his chipped teeth.
“So I’ve heard. Drink?”
When he offers me one of the liquor-filled tumblers in his hand, I shake my head.
“Hmm.” He walks around the edge of the infinity pool. Stalks around it. Studies me. We are miles above ground in his penthouse, but he thinks we are down in the Bush. He thinks he’s the king of the jungle, and I am his prey. If he’d done his research, he’d know I’m far from a fucking gazelle.
“A hitman who doesn’t drink.” He raises his glass to his lips, eyes still pinning me over the rim. “How do you drown out your conscious, eh?”
Simple answer? I don’t have one.
But I’m not a fan of small talk. I prefer instructions in my ear and cold, hard cash in my hand. When I don’t respond, Klaas grunts, “Well, then. Let’s get to business.”
Finally.
I follow him through the sliding doors, past the two armed guards, and into a cigar room, where his brother awaits. Same white-blond hair, tanned skin, but fewer scars. He looks marginally more family friendly.
“This is Georg,” Klaas says, lifting a beefy hand towards his brother before sinking into one of the oxblood leather armchairs, reaching for a cigar. We share a strong handshake and while he’s pouring himself a whiskey, I do a sweep of the room. Oil-slick black walls, mahogany shelves lined with humidors, and then a large, floor-to-ceiling cabinet, filled with human skulls. Some are studded with Van der Boor diamonds; others intricately painted like MexicanCalaveraskulls. All a warning sign—Don’t fuck us over, or you’ll end up in here too.
When my eyes meet Klaas’s, he smirks. “Souvenirs.”
“Whatever happened to fridge magnets and keychains?”
Georg looks up and flashes me a dazzling grin. He has fake teeth, a bespoke suit, and a watch so glitzy it refracts light onto the black walls. He holds a sleek tin, filled with cigars.
“Cuban.”
I shake my head. He shrugs, then slips one between his lips.
The Diamond Duo. Every businessman has their diamonds studded into watches, every mafia wife or mistress has them princess-cut in enormous rings or bezel-set in bangles. The highest clarity, cut, and carat, guaranteed.
Klaas and Georg Van der Boor have the best blood diamonds money can buy.
Georg leans on his elbows on his knees, steeples his fingers, and says, “Budimir Romanov, Russian Oligarch living in Moscow. We created a bespoke ring for him.” He leans back, waving his arms about, “The most flawless yellow diamond. Truly flawless, and incredibly rare. So rare, in fact, it isn’t even a Van der Boor diamond. We held up a shipment of diamonds heading for the British Natural History Museum to get it—”
“Diamonds aren’t meant to be behind cabinets to be ogled at by poor tourists, anyway,” Klaas interrupts darkly, “they are meant to be worn. Appreciated.”
“Anyway,” Georg hisses, glancing sideways at his brother, “we created a bespoke ring with it. Twelve million dollars, plus the manpower and bloodshed it took to source the diamond. He was one of our biggest clients. Was for decades. We take just a ten-percent deposit and he never fails to come through on the rest of the money within the month.” He puff, puff, puffs on his cigar, bringing the tip to life. With a smoky exhale, he continues. “But this piece, it’s been sitting on the ring finger of his third wife for six months, and we still haven’t been paid.”
I rub a finger across my lower lip. After a long pause, I say, “So you want the diamond back.”
“Plus the finger it is attached to. And Romanov’s head,” Klaas grunts, jerking his head to the skull cabinet. To the one space left in the bottom-right corner.
My eyes drag from one brother to the other. Something stinks. The Van Der Boors rule South Africa with a diamond fist, and they have more men at their disposal than the country’s National Defense Force.
Sensing my hesitation, Georg says, “Our men do what you do but for a lot less money. They are poor compared to you rich yanks.” He sips on his drink, eyes glowering. “Even my most loyal men… I wouldn’t trust them to get through thirteen countries with a twelve million-dollar ring without taking a detour.” He stabs a finger in my direction. “But you. I’ve heard about you. Every boss on all seven continents has heard about you.”
