Page 172 of King’s Ransom

The Unperson threw a knowing look at me. ‘Your weakness is love, Samuel. Mr Woods’s weakness is his search for love. When Vasha swiped right on his profile, he rushed to meet her, desperate to find love.’

I said, ‘You’re a prick.’

‘Sticks and stones, Samuel. Sticks and stones. As for you, Mr Woods, you have proven to be too adept at your art and so—’

‘Do you realise who you’re fucking with?’

It was Roman Oberov who had spoken.

I imagined he wasn’t used to being in this position: at another man’s mercy. It was probably usually the reverse.

‘Excuse me, Mr Oberov,’ the Unperson said. ‘I was speaking with Mr Woods. I’ll get to you in a moment.’

He turned back to Monty in his pit.

‘As I was saying, somehow you hacked my communications. This was no small feat. It must, however, be punished severely.’

‘Now, wait—’ Monty yelled . . .

. . . just as Uri appeared at the edge of his rectangular pit holding the thick concrete pouring hose . . .

. . . from which he unleashed a gushing flow of concrete sludge into the pit, all over Monty Woods.

I gaped in shock.

They were drowning him in concrete.

And when it set and hardened, he’d be buried in it.

The foul grey aggregate mixture splattered all over Monty as he squirmed and shouted in terror.

‘No! Jesus, fuck, no!’

Then some of it got into his mouth and he began coughing and spitting it out.

The pit filled quickly, covering him, and soon Monty went fully under the heavy semi-liquid aggregate.

Within moments, the pit was filled to the brim with bubbling grey sludge that would set into solid concrete.

I stared in horrified disbelief at the sight.

Poor Monty . . .

The Unperson saw my look.

‘I know. What a shame,’ he said. ‘And a waste. He was a very talented and intelligent fellow. But now I won’t have to be concerned about Mr Woods and his digital skills anymore.’

The Unperson turned to face the two Russians down in their pit.

‘All right, then. Mr Oberov. Thank you for your patience. I’m ready to speak with you.’

Roman Oberov had gone pale at what he had just seen and heard.

His gangster bravado had vanished.

He knew he was in the hands of a psychopath, as pure a psycho­path as he’d ever met.

The Unperson said, ‘I worked for you once. A matter involving a hedge fund manager named Yates in Connecticut, as I recall.’