I smile as I think about some of the things I want to do to Eddie. “Balls in holes sounds like a good idea.”
“Hit me up when you’re back in the States and we’ll go out for dinner and celebrate.”
“I will.”
I mean, I won’t, but I won’t tell him that. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. But once I walk away from this, I’m turning my back on it forever.
My sole focus will be Eddie and my family.
After revenge, of course.
I end the call and destroy that burner. Yes, he could track me to this area if hereallywants to, because nothing is perfectly secure to the alphabet-soup agencies and their spy satellites, but I have nothing hanging over my head from their end that would prompt him to put in that level of effort and start looking for me.
Nothing that they’re aware of, that is.
Besides, why would they waste assets and energy on a washed-up old man with a bad back who’s had a stellar career and now wants to retire?
They won’t.
Which is why Cunningham will never see me coming.
Correction—us.
He’ll never seeuscoming.
* * * *
While I’m downstairs, I take some time to clean up the kitchen, pack my kit and everything in the living room, and make other preparations. I use a different burner phone through the encrypted VPN to research a couple of things and to plan. I have to get Eddie into Paris and stash him in my flat before any other plans can be made. I have several contacts at various border crossings who will flag me through without a closer look, but I can’t risk flying with Eddie until I have his new ID in place. Eventually, I need to provide “proof” that he’s deceased, so he can get flagged in systems as being dead and it officially takes him off the servers from that point forward.
Right now, I need to get him out of this country.
By car, the straightest route to Paris is less than a day’s drive from Bratislava, which we’re not far from. That’s if I can guarantee getting him through customs and immigration checkpoints.
I might need to buy a box truck. They’re less likely to look closely at a commercial vehicle and its drivers than they would tourists or private citizens.
I have an older French passport, a valid one under a fake name, that I could use and substitute the picture from Eddie’s passport. Which is probably a fake one.
Before I finalize this plan, I suppose I should talk to him.
It’s over two hours later when I finally head upstairs again, with food and a couple of bottles of water for him. When I unlock and open the bedroom door, my throat goes dry.
There is my pet, looking like a Jackson Pollock painting with the blood and cum and lube dried all over him, in his ready position. Hands and knees, head down.
Ass up.
Cock hard.
And, at some point, he locked the chain on his collar again.
The painful lump in my throat catches me by surprise, as do the tears stinging my eyes, which I have to blink several times to clear.
“Good boy,” I tell him once I finally pull myself together.
I leave the bedroom door open behind me and carry his food over to the bedside table and set it there. The mark on his back has crusted over and stopped bleeding. I’ll need to keep it bandaged for a few days to prevent infection.
His butt is also wiggling, I realize.
He’s wagging his ass at me.
