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A development.
That’s what they always called it when they wanted to ruin his fun.
And this particular development had sent Warbucks into something of a rage. The man wasn’t as handsome as his mayor brother. Perhaps that was why he’d gone the pharmaceutical route.
In Tom’s opinion, this was not a guy who would do well in prison, but he’d spent five years in some little happy-go-lucky camp—probably knitting during rec-time and singing bedtime songs.
No...Warbucks wasnotan intimidating man. But he was a very, very wealthy man.
Which was why Tom had agreed to work for the guy.
At first, Tom had wondered if being called to the man’s super-yacht had been a prelude to getting shot for the business back in that Italian restaurant.
But Warbucks hadn’t even mentioned the low-level crook on his payroll. Instead, he’d started ranting, raving, and flinging furniture.
A few men carrying heavy, automatic weapons stood along the deck, occasionally glancing over in curiosity as Warbucks threw his tantrum.
After a bit more, though, the man in the white, puffy coat—which seemed strange garb for such a temperate climate—had finally calmed.
Warbucks wasn’t his real name. But rather Wardell Castillo.
Wardell had calmed enough, briefly, to yell, “Did you hear me, Tom?”
The killer nodded vaguely.
“Killed him. In his own night club! Someonekilledhim! Just walked in, guns blazing, and took out everyone.Everyone!” Wardell paused now, standing next to the pool built into the deck of his yacht. The breeze ushered over the boat. The evening sky would soon turn to night.
None of it mattered to Tom.
He just watched dispassionately, eyes hooded. “You don’t seem to care,” Wardell said, scowling now.
And for the first time, Tom sensed danger in the man’s voice.
He wondered how it would feel to reach across, grab the man’s neck, and snap it. But that was why he had those guys with the AK-47s behind him. It was funny the things that money could buy. Loyalty, perhaps not, but there was rarely loyalty among criminals. Wardell’s brother, the mayor, had given them enough leeway to make things work. And Wardell had capitalized. Political power and money. It all seemed to work well together.
But now, Wardell was glaring. He pointed a thin finger. In fact, everything about the man in the puffy white coat was thin. Tom wondered if that was why he wore the ridiculous jacket, pretending to be larger than he was. Skeletal. He was certainly addicted to something. The bones in his face stood out against the skin.
“I seem to recall another incident,” Wardell was saying. “Another lieutenant gunned down. His associates too. Even a couple of people in the kitchen.”
Tom didn’t blink, didn’t react. He just shrugged. “Sorry to hear it,” he said conversationally. “Is there a reason you’re bothered by the death of Karpov? Wasn’t he an enemy?”
But Wardell shook his head, wagging a finger. “Don’t you get it?” He said. The small, bony man in the puffy coat approached. His features were ghoulish. His hair thinning, and soft like a baby. It fluttered on the wind, caught by a breeze sweeping over the boat.
“Let’s say I don’t.” Tom tensed as the man who paid his bills got closer. He wondered what it would feel like to snap those small, twiggy fingers. What it might feel like to gouge the man’s eyes out.
The woman in the hood at his side, her hands bound in front of her, was still weeping. He had half a mind to strike her, just to shut her up.
There was too much input. Too much distraction.
He scowled.
But Wardell had now draped his hand over Tom’s shoulders. Tom’s prosthetic appendage rested against his thigh. He stood dispassionate and quiet.
“You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if you had killed Alex?” asked Wardell in a wheedling tone. “I mean, I wouldn’t even blame you. I get it. You probably thought you were helping, didn’t you?”
Tom didn’t blink.
“How could I have done anything to Karpov? I was dealing with her.” He nodded towards the woman kneeling on the yacht deck.
