I take all of my materials home and set about making the bomb. I’ve just finished when my phone buzzes. I look and see that Briar’s sent another tweet. Not the bullshit one her PR people published earlier this evening. A tweet just for me.
I’m sorry X
Oh.
Heat rolls down my whole body as I read it again, and again. I moan. Oh, God. She’s talking to me. She’s talking right to me.
I feel light-headed. My breathing gets fast. I lean back against the sofa, blushing furiously, and force myself to take some time to calm down and really rationalise.
I’ve gotten it all wrong.
Briar is a sweet girl. I know she wouldn’t say those nasty things about me if she didn’t have to. Celebrities are like puppets on strings. They have managers, and PR people, and agents. Everybody is always telling them what to do and what to say. My angel is being manipulated. That’s why, as soon as she could, she tweeted out that apology to me. I imagine her lying in bed right now, typing out the tweet before her people can notice.
God, my poor girl. I remember her face as that security guard carried her away from the event. He’s the same guard who keeps making her kiss him in front of the cameras. She’s being controlled!
But soon, she’ll be free. In two days, she’ll be here with me. I’ll give her a new life.
I look down at the petrol bomb. I guess I may as well use it. Ideally, I would blow up that awful guard, but he’s staying at the same hotel as her. She could get hurt.
I glance at the clock. It’s past midnight. Technically her birthday. An idea forms in my brain. I’ll use the bomb as a birthday present.
There’s one man my angel has always hated. One man who hurt her more than anybody else. Who turned the world against her, and spread vicious, awful lies about her. I’m sure she wants him dead.
So I’ll make that happen. To prove to her that I’m not mad at her. And as an extra-special birthday present.
I stand up and grab my car keys. She’s going to love it.
Thirty-Three
Matt
?
I’m woken by an insistent buzzing under my pillow. Twisting my head, I blink around the unfamiliar room. Something warm shifts against me, and I turn to see Briar curled up under my arm. Her pink lips are slightly parted, and her eyelashes flutter as she dreams. She’s unbelievably sweet when she’s asleep.
Hell. She’s kind of unbelievably sweet in general. I hazily remember her holding my hand in the car yesterday evening. Even through all of her anger and frustration, she was still so gentle.
I must have looked like a goddamn idiot.
My phone vibrates again. I hook it out from under my pillow and frown at the contact, recognising the FBI number. Settling against the headboard, I swipe to accept the call, stroking my fingers down Briar’s arm.
“Hello?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“Matvey. I hear you’re back in the States.”
“Anfisa. Nice to hear from you again.” I first met Anfisa fifteen years ago. Her husband worked on the FBI hostage rescue team, and they trained with the British SAS back in the day. Kenta, Glen, Damon and I actually attended their wedding. And his funeral.
Anfisa’s one of the best FBI employees I’ve ever met. Whip-smart, and almost scarily analytical. We’ve worked together a few times on US jobs, and every time, she’s blown us away.
“I wish the circumstances were more pleasant,” she says crisply.“Colette called and informed me of your client’s issue a few days ago; I looked through it briefly, just as a matter of interest.”
“And? You have any idea who it is?”
“No. But we had agents investigating a separate case a few hours ago, and I think it may be related to Miss Saint’s stalker.”
“What do you mean?” I rub my eyes. “Is the guy branching out? Finding new girls?”
She hesitates. “Would you be able to meet at my office? I want to ask your opinion on some of the evidence we’ve collected.”
