“Now,” he said, folding his arms, “tell me what you need. And don’t insult me by asking for Bongonda’s disappearance. That’s off the table. Another political assassination, especially on your own soil, could unravel everything I built.”
Mutombo shook his head quickly. “No, I don’t want him dead. I want him arrested. Publicly. The bigger the scandal, the better. If we can somehow suggest financial impropriety tied to the hydroelectric contracts ... the Assembly will turn. I guarantee it.”
Fifteen minutes later, Everett Westcott sat in one of the captain’s chairs in the second row of his armored black Cadillac Escalade. He looked through the bulletproof glass as the large SUV surged through midtown traffic toward his office where the chair of the Senate Appropriations Committee had been waiting for him for over an hour.
This wasn’t about power games or empty posturing. There was no need for that. They both understood the reality of their relationship. The senator might command the budget lines and the televised hearings, but it was Westcott who shaped the outcomes. There was no doubt who sat atthe top of the food chain, and it wasn’t the elected official. Still, Westcott needed the senator. Hearts United was well financed, but its wealth did have a ceiling. If the US government signed on as a funding partner for Hearts United’s initiative in the DRC, it would allow Westcott to accelerate the timelines and even expand the scope of the project.
And it would also add an additional layer of legitimacy.
The money mattered, yes, but only if the terms were right. Westcott wasn’t going to leave the government in charge of his project.
Beside him, Charles Mpassi sat upright, phone in hand, and Westcott could hear the man’s thumbs darting angrily across the screen as he replied to several encrypted messages. Westcott gave him a quick glance. Mpassi was clearly agitated. Westcott had first assumed Mpassi’s tension came from the delays. Westcott got it. Mpassi was punctual by nature, and today’s timetable had already been derailed, thanks to the overlong meeting they’d left only minutes ago. But now, as the minutes ticked by, he began to suspect something else was bothering his associate.
“Something wrong?” Westcott asked, not looking up from the legal memorandum in his lap.
“Nothing I can’t handle, sir,” Mpassi replied, still tapping.
Westcott looked at the man, studying him. Mpassi didn’t rattle easily. He’d served in hostile territories and often negotiated with tribal leaders without breaking stride. If something had him worked up, it deserved attention.
“Charles,” Westcott said, “what is it?”
“With respect, sir, I’m handling it. I’ll bring you up to speed after your meeting with the senator.”
“No,” Westcott said, setting the memorandum aside. “Tell me now.”
Mpassi paused, then lowered his phone with a sigh.
“Verena Kaine’s dead. And Mia’s hurt—”
Westcott heard the rest, but the words didn’t land. His mind had stopped processing new information the moment Mpassi had mentioned Mia. The girl—well, a woman now—wasn’t just an asset, she was somethingmore. She was the daughter he never had. He loved her. Not the way he’d loved his wife, Nailah, of course, but it was still love.
Mia did dangerous work. He knew that. Every assignment came with a risk. But she was brilliant, disciplined, and he had given her the tools to succeed, hadn’t he? She’d never failed him. She’d walked through hell more times than he could count and emerged without a scratch. Somewhere along the way, he’d begun to believe Mia was invincible.
“Everett,” Mpassi said gently, “did you hear what I said?”
“What?” he asked, realizing he had been holding his breath.
“She’ll be okay,” Mpassi said. “She’s being patched up now. One of our people is with her.”
“She’s going to be fine?”
“That’s what I said. A bullet fragment clipped her ear. It bled a lot, but that’s all. She’ll recover. Though we might have to pull her from the performance in Budapest, and the one next week in Dubrovnik.”
“And Verena?”
“Mia killed her.”
Westcott closed his eyes, feeling like he was missing part of the story. In Mallorca, Mia had made the decision not to kill Verena on theVeloce. What had triggered Mia’s change of heart in Valencia?
Shit. Can it get any worse?he thought.
Apparently, it could.
“Mia believes Blackstone Security has been identified as the entity who charteredVeloce.”
“How? By whom?”
Mpassi winced, as if whatever he was going to say next hurt him.
