“You sure about this?” I ask Niles now as we look down the steep precipice. I’m an expert snowboarder—I have shreddedslopes across the world from Alaska to Zermatt—but I’m not so confident about Niles, especially if the shininess of his boots is any indication of his experience. I do not want this nip-tuck junkie to die falling off a mountain. To let him save face, I pretend I’m the one having second thoughts. “I don’t know, mate. This is no bunny slope.”
Niles smiles up at me, his grin so tight you could bounce a dime off his cheek. Fortunately, his eyes are hidden by goggles, so I’m spared the full horror of his botched, desperate face, just the peaks of his laminated eyebrows poking over the top like they’re trying to escape.
Botulism bandit.Facelift fanatic.The insults invent themselves.
I just hope I can hold my tongue.
Implant imp.
Ach, I need to stop. But those duck lips are a right laugh. If I get through today without quacking at him, I deserve a medal.
Meanwhile, I’m geared up in my black high-performance jacket—waterproof, breathable, and snug enough to show I’m no amateur—paired with charcoal snow pants made for speed and durability and boots customized for precision control. Mirrored visor down, gloves on tight, I’m ready to shred this slope like I own it.
“Are you scared? Wish you had your mommy?” Niles teases. My fingers clench in my gloves, and I take deep breaths through my nose to quell my anger. I will not let this piece of shite get under my skin. “Need a diaper because you’re shitting your pants?” he adds, pushing for a reaction. Then he laughs like a comic book villain—he-he-he-he.
He thinks he can handle this slope? Good for him. I’m not his babysitter.
I salute him.Let’s go, Silicone Soldier.I tip the back of my board and start to fly.
The wind immediately whips up in a sandblasting cold that’s more cutting every second as I carve the mountain at the only speed I know: breakneck. I revel in the freeze and the steepness of the slope. The snow is a crisp glide beneath my board, and I am full-on crushing it, in the zone, so it takes a moment to register the scream that pierces the air. A sound as high-pitched and urgent as a granny with her hair on fire.
I turn to see Niles losing control, his shiny reflective-red ski suit and those equally gleaming boots flailing as he tries to offset his course. Somehow he’s heading straight for the drop-off, the kind that puts thedoublein this black diamond and why we had to sign thirty pages of waivers before we got up here.
Bloody hell. I pivot hard, the deceleration such a jolt that my breath goes ragged, as my crisis training kicks in like a second language. I reset my center of gravity and assess the situation in a nanosecond. Everything slows to a pinpoint, just like it used to out in the field.
If I do nothing, von Graf’s a dead man. Couldn’t be a better accident—clean as they come and no one would have any reason to suspect me. I can see the headline now:Billionaire Investor Lost in Ski Tragedy—though the bastard’s only a nine-digit millionaire; the superrich always get to round up. The police wouldn’t even bother investigating. One look at his shiny red boots, and they’d chalk it up to another cocky, clueless arsewipe who thought he was invincible.
But I take my responsibilities seriously, and I will not let a man die without being one hundred percent sure of his crimes. Tempting as it may be.
What I do might be morally questionable to some, but I’ve gotmy own code. And letting this rhinoplasty reptile fly off the hill isn’t part of it.
So, in the next split second, I make my move. Lunging forward and up at an angle as fast as I can, I wedge myself between Niles and the edge of the cliff. I’m still a bit off, too low, and I’ve got no momentum to turn.
New plan.
I lean into the wind, and just as he’s about to go over, I stretch my arm out and grab the back of his fancy jacket. My fingers catch the slippery, overpriced fabric—probably made from recycled soda bottles and yak semen.
“Mummy,” he whimpers, and it’s all I can do not to laugh.
Instead, with every ounce of strength in me, I drag him away from the edge. It’s like a scene straight out ofMission: Impossible, and I catch myself wishing Josie were here to witness my heroic moment. Though I might’ve misjudged the force; my efforts send Niles tumbling downhill, arse over teakettle, until he skids to a stop just a few centimeters from what would’ve been certain death.
I check he’s safe, then collapse back in the snow, heart pounding, breath roaring in my ears. The cold cuts through the adrenaline, and I let the wind carry the sound of Niles sobbing like the pathetic wanker he is. I give him a few moments, then jump to my feet, brush the ice off my trousers, and head down to grab my snowboard. When I get back to him, he’s mostly pulled himself together, and I hold out a hand to haul him up.
The arsehole better invest in SynthoTech now.
“Damn, Axe MacKenzie. Thanks,” Niles mutters, still shaky. He pulls off his goggles, wiping away the tears freezing on his Botoxed face. I resist the urge to make a crack about him soiling his nappy—though I’d bet good money he shat himself—and reckon that earns me two medals.
I’ll tell Strike later, when we can have a proper laugh about it.
“No bother,” I say, just as the helicopter hovers in to “rescue” us back to the resort. Niles climbs aboard like a man returning from war—never mind the wee baby he was a minute ago. He claps me on the back for the pilot’s benefit.
“Nice run, bro. Fun times.”
I file that away, too—especially the ridiculousbro—Strike will eat it up.
At the bar, Niles orders us martinis, which, since I’m a whiskey man, feels like a waste of the crackling fire in the mammoth stone hearth. But I let it be. I’ve won a big hand today, and now it’s time to let von Wrinklefree play right into it.
Like I said, there are worse ways to spend a Sunday in February. And come March, when I get to slice this bawbag open, I’ll make sure to say,Nice run, bro. Fun times, before I send him off to his maker.
