Page 4 of The Rook’s Obsession

We worked it out eventually. Fists, then words, then grudging acceptance. “You hurt her, and they’ll never find your body.”

I believed him then. I still do.

I also believe Laura—or Ivy, or whatever the fuck her name is now—will be back. Because under all her trained composure, she wanted to know if what I was saying could be true.

She’ll be back because there was a split second where my words hit home. She’ll be back because I have no intention of leaving now that I know where to find her.

And when she comes, I’ll be ready for her.

IVY

The man in the chair doesn’t know he’s going to die tonight.

He’s too busy laughing at something his friend said while he swirls expensive whiskey in a crystal glass. Enjoying the kind of evening people like him take for granted. A private dining room in the sort of restaurant most people would never be able to afford.

Here I am, across the street, perched behind a rooftop ledge. My rifle is assembled, ready to do its job. I’m early, because I’m always early. Vincenzo taught me to be early. Arrive before anyone expects you. Study your environment. Learn the exits, blind spots, patterns. And by the time the moment comes, everything should feel as natural as an exhale.

Normally, it would. I’ve done this enough times that the entire process is, indeed, as natural as breathing.

Today, though, my mind isn’t where it should be.

It’s in a hotel room where a man with dark hair and pale blue eyes told me my name wasn’t my name.

Two days later, I still haven’t managed to shake it. His voice follows me like a song I can’t get out of my head. Not the words themselves, because words mean nothing. People lie. It’s what they do. They tell you what they think you need to hear if it means getting what they want. I’ve built my entire career on that principle.

It wasn’t his words, but the way he said them.

I grieved for you.

I shift on the ledge, rolling my neck to work the tension out of my shoulders. I have to focus. My target is still down there, laughing and drinking because he’s still alive. His friend excuses herself, probably to go to the restroom. A waiter refills his glass. Every night, he steps outside for a cigarette at exactly the same time, and that time will come around in roughly ten minutes. Creatures of habit make the easiest targets.

While I wait, I check my phone, flipping through the feeds from the cameras positioned at different angles around the hotel. There’s one in the lobby, pointed at the front entrance. One covering the side exit. One in the hallway outside his room. Hacking the hotel’s security was child’s play. Why bother having security in the first place if you’re going to make it that easy?

I hacked it within hours of our little encounter, because I knew he wouldn’t listen. Men like him never do, especially when they feel like they have the moral high ground.

Sure enough, he’s still there. The hallway camera shows his closed door, along with a thin strip of light visible underneath. I watched him go out and come back earlier. I told the son of a bitch to get out of Prague, and he’s sitting in his room now like I handed him an invitation instead of a threat.

It should piss me off. Actually, it does. But there’s something else mixed in with the anger. Something that feels uncomfortably like curiosity.

Who is he?

I know his name now. I know both of them.

When I pressed the barrel of the Beretta to his chest, my other hand was busy. It’s reflex at this point—if you get that close to someone, you take whatever you can. My fingers found the inside pocket of his jacket and lifted his wallet before he ever knew it was gone. He was too focused on my face. Reaching for me, trying to touch me. Trying to find someone who isn’t there.

The wallet held two IDs. The first matched the name on his hotel registration: James Ward. It’s a decent fake, good enough to pass a casual check, not good enough to survive real scrutiny. I’ve seen enough forgeries to know the difference.

The second ID was tucked behind it. Real. Worn at the edges, like it had lived in the wallet for a while. Nick Brooks.

I’ve carried enough fake IDs to wallpaper a room, but there’s something about the fact that he keeps his real name close—hidden, but close. It tells me more about him than he probably realizes. He hasn’t let go of who he is. Some people in this life do. They become the cover so completely, the original person disappears. He hasn’t done that.

I ran the name as soon as I got back to my apartment. I plugged Nick Brooks into every database I have access to, every search engine.

I found almost nothing.

No social media. No public records leading anywhere useful. There are a few hits on the name, but none that matched. They were the wrong age or location, the wrong everything.

Digitally speaking, the guy’s a ghost. Someone has gone out of their way to keep him off the grid and done a good job of it. That takes resources. Connections. Regular people don’t scrub themselves from the internet. Regular people want to be found.