Page 1 of The Hitman’s Final Job

ONE

SILAS

Viktor Soós has been watching me for twenty minutes when he finally makes his move. I’ve kept the bar stool next to mine free, waiting for this moment.

“You’re not Hungarian,” he says in perfect English but with a strong Eastern European accent. He settles onto the seat and signals the bartender.

“Canadian.” Or at least that’s what this week’s passport says.

“What are you drinking?”

“Whiskey.”

“A man of refined taste.” He orders two more without asking if I want one. “I like that.”

On paper, Viktor Soós is a respected Hungarian politician. A lobbyist with government connections that stretch from Budapest to Brussels. His wife is beautiful. His daughters attend private school. And his country home outside the city is the kind of place that is featured in architectural magazines.

What isn’t featured in any magazine write-ups is the drug network that operates out of three Eastern European countries under his calculated management and the government connections that exist primarily to keep his other business invisible.

Viktor Soós is a man who has built an empire on two foundations: legitimacy and fear.

He’s also a man who’s hiding an even bigger secret. One that I’m about to capitalize on.

He reaches for his drink while at the same time placing his free hand on my leg. I bring the glass up and track him from behind the rim as the liquid touches my lips and I dry swallow. It’s a real shame. I bet this whiskey is the kind that travels smoothly down your throat and almost asks for forgiveness for affecting your bloodstream. Real shame.

But I’m not here to enjoy this drink, so I lean only slightly toward Viktor to make it clear, but with discretion, I’m more than willing to be his indiscretion.

I lick the liquid from my lips, sad that this is indeed good whiskey.

It’s almost boring how men like him are so predictable. Enough money and power to run countries, but it’s the thoughts of young cocks in their mouths that ultimately leads them to a less fortunate and premature ending.

“What brings you to Budapest …?”

“John.”

He laughs. “Of course you are.”

“I’m here for business.”

“What business could a Canadian man have in Budapest?”

I roll the whiskey around the glass and raise it to my mouth, but as he takes another sip of his, I put mine back down on the bar and lick my lips again.

“The kind that takes a while,” I reply. “You?”

“Same.” He smiles, and it’s the smile of a man who’s used to charming people and having it work. “Long days in the office and longer nights in an apartment nearby that’s entirely too comfortable to enjoy alone.”

My gaze is steady. “Is that what you’re looking for? Company?”

“I find myself with a quiet evening ahead, and the whiskey on my shelf is a superior quality to this one. It would be a waste to drink alone.”

He’s not subtle, because men like him never are. They’ve spent too long taking what they want to bother with subtlety. No doubt he already has plans to dispose of me in a discreet manner should I end up causing any trouble.

“That does sound like a waste,” I say.

His smile widens and he raises his glass to his lips, but this time he doesn’t drink. “Turn left, then right. Five minutes.” He sets the glass on the bar and leaves.

I do the same, but instead of the exit, I head off to the bathroom. When I’m assured there’s no one around, I call my partner.