Page 328 of Eight of Swords, Part One

Two?

No, one.

Three?

It’s hard to keep track.

Lachlan is in the wrecked mansion interior with the Delacroix twins and the dead body of Thomas Whitlock.

Mikhail Sorrenko is intermittently brought in and out.

Roman also comes and goes.

Lachlan keeps his reactions firmly locked down whenever they bring Roman in. Craig Fenwick isn’t especially intelligent, but he’s observant. Lachlan doesn’t want to give him any excuse to downgrade Roman’s status from HVT to a pressure point for interrogation.

Roman only speaks Russian, never a word of English. No one on Fenwick’s team speaks Russian. From what Lachlan sees, both Roman and Mikhail play the part of pathetic rich people very well. Sorrenko is more seriously hurt, beaten within an inch of his life, cut and even burned.

It’s sloppy work, really.

Blood-loss in this heat, not smart at all.

The idiots from the adjacent safe room couldn’t go twelve hours without water, apparently. They opened the door to their side and surrendered easily. Thomas Whitlock started barking orders when they dragged him up into the mansion. He insisted he was in charge, that the attackers would only get paid if he was taken care of. Lachlan didn’t trouble himself to warn Whitlock that establishing credibility with a spare was a very likely move.

He still remembers the way that fucker looked at Jules.

Quite a spurt.

A single bullet ended his life forever.

Their focus is getting into the safe room that’s still locked.

Fenwick’s team still haven’t found the ventilation access.

The island is small, but combing three square miles in search of the vent exit will take a long time. These men are impatient, unprofessional and sloppy.

The Moroz Front, whatever else, are professionals.

And they were Sorrenko’s all this time. It’s the kind of thing where it was so obvious it just didn’t seem like it would be Sorrenko, like it was too obvious to be—

Someone slaps him.

‘He’s slipping again.’

‘I think,’ Fenwick says, accent thick, ‘they’re all getting thirsty.’

The formerly beautiful mansion is now open-plan mayhem. Blood on broken glass, the bodies in the pool become a feast for the local wildlife and twined with the heat, the smell is unbearable.

The Delacroix twins are tied the same way Lachlan is. Hands behind their backs, wrists zip-tied. Lachlan’s boots were taken along with all hostages shoes, so any runners won’t get far. The glass is everywhere. The stench of death is everywhere. The massacre in the pool got so bad yesterday that the commandos dragged the bodies to the beach and tossed them into the sea.

Lachlan is on the floor in only his pants, no shirt or jacket. Cuts, bruises and fractures are all easy to ignore, but the sun is roasting him alive.

Soon, Danya will come with help.

That’s what Lachlan holds onto, that’s what he tells himself.

He trusts Danya despite what Sorrenko said.

Lachlan simply being near to the twins exposes him to all kinds of information that’s unworthy of processing. He learns much of what he already knew about their relationship, their beliefs, corruption and disloyalty. It would be satisfying in any other context to see them reduced to sobbing children, snot and tears and piss in the corner.