“Come on. I had a transfer in Russia and had to send B-Group. A-Group is still with me and we’ve had a rough couple of days. I’m out of guys.”
Tatum let out a low growl. “What’s the gig?”
“Theprincehas a date on Friday.”
“Good,” Tatum grunted. Maybe Prince Marius had moved on from Neese. He grinned, remembering her description of a boyfriend versus a suitor. She may have put Tatum in the “friend zone,” but at least she hadn’t called him asuitor.
“Good?” asked Nelson.
“I mean, good for him,” Tatum recovered.
Nelson’s face took up the whole screen as he leaned in. “What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing. So what are we going to do about the trigger man? I can’t have him arrested because it wasn’t a US crime to shoot me on foreign soil.”
“If he doesn’t know you’re there, you have the upper hand. See if you can find out who hired him.”
“Right. Then what?”
“Then we take care of it. Nobody shoots my partner.”
Tatum contemplated his partner. They’d lived life within the harsh shadow of death—coming out on the good side of a them-or-us standoff more than he cared to count. Blatant bloodlust wasn’t their thing. Protection first. Survival second. Capture if you can. Those were the rules they lived by, because they kept them from turning into the men they fought against. “And by taking care of it you mean …”
“We maroon him on a desert island and leave his life in God’s hands.”
That seemed too lenient considering the pain Tatum experienced. “How about we have him thrown in a South American prison?”
“Even better—the survival rate is lower.” Nelson laughed—the sound light. If he got a hold of the assassin, the man would be sorry, but he wouldn’t be dead. Tatum would do the same for him. “About the job. If you have plans, I’ll cancel the order.”
Tatum sighed. “Moving to the Atlantic is the goal and these smaller countries are all connected in some way. Riodan and Zimrada are close—their kings friendly. If we could get a reference from Marius, we’d have a better shot at getting the Zimradian contract.”
“You’re saying what I’m already thinking.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Thanks. I’ll email you the details. If you’re worried about the contract, then last night didn’t go well. What happened with the queen? Did you put your highbrow Wyoming education into play?”
Tatum checked his grin. He’d played, but not in the way Nelson was thinking. “She was a no-show. I’m meeting up with the princess in about an hour.” He checked his watch. “Where’d you get your intel? They had the wrong royal.”
Nelson scratched his head. “It came from the palace. I wonder why they sent out the wrong info.”
“They’re trying to throw someone off. So far, all I’ve heard about is the blockade in the harbor.”
Nelson cracked his knuckles. “That will be fun to break up.”
“Right?” Between the two of them, they had a dozen ideas on how to go about frightening off the radicals barricading the trade ships inside the breakwater. Tatum had experience with underwater explosives and Nelson preferred the direct approach—as in approaching directly with a large gun. They would try peaceful means first, but if negotiations went south, they would take care of making sure the king’s ships got through. “If there’s more to the situation than a trade embargo, then we may need to adjust our bid.”
“I’ll see what I can find out today.” Maybe Neese would know. He checked his watch again. “I’ve got to go or I’ll be late. Out.”
“’Kay. Out.”
Tatum crossed his small hotel room and stared out the window. He rubbed the spot just above his pectoral where the bullet had entered. The scar on his back was much larger, the bullet ripping through his flesh. The view faded from before him as he thought back to that moment when he’d jumped in front of his client. The street was dark and smelled of human feces and dead rats. They were sneaking the private executive, dressed as a laborer, into the corporate compound.
Tatum heard the mechanical sound of a bullet being loaded into the chamber. Even now he wondered how he’d picked up on the noise over the sound of the crying child at the end of the street and the barking guard dog. Without thinking, he’d thrown the exec onto the ground, took a knee, and prepared to return fire. The bullet hit just as his left hand took hold of his rifle. He got off two shots before his body registered that something was wrong. His mind figured it out first when his shots were low because his arm wasn’t able to hold up the end of his rifle. By the time he saw the blood, the assassin was gone and he fell next to the exec, who threw up when he saw the blood. Nelson was there, his face close and his mouth moving as if he were shouting, but Tatum couldn’t hear him over the sound of his blood pumping in his ears.
Tatum dropped his chin to his chest and scrubbed at his head.
The smells. The blood. The exec’s blubbering. It all faded back into the recesses of his memory.
