Page 21 of Ash Storm

9

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Ash

Ash dropped the black canvas bag onto the grimy bed, watching it sink like a rock into the sagging mattress.

Just my luck.

Right now, Griffin was probably enjoying a cocktail in the garden of the Four Seasons at the Bosphorous, one of Turkey’s most luxurious resorts. From there, he’d be moving to a bed with sheets of fine Egyptian cotton.

Meanwhile, Ash was sitting in a hostel that didn’t look like it would pass the most cursory sanitary inspection. He pulled the bedspread down to reveal dozens of reddish brown apple seeds crawling around in a leisurely fashion.

Damn it.

Ash hated bed bugs. He’d spent a lot of time in uncomfortable places, but there was no fucking way he was going to become dinner to those things tonight.

Other than the bed, the single item of furniture was a rickety chair that didn’t look like it would hold a child, let alone a two-hundred-and-twenty pound man. There was also a sink on one end, cracked in pieces but hopefully still working.

He had to admit, Carrie and Pascale had found the perfect place for a down-on-his-luck boxer.

The burner phone in his pocket buzzed.

“How’s my favorite client doing?” Slate asked.

“Tell me you have something for me,” Ash replied, practicing his Italian accent.

“A job, if you’re feeling up to it.”

“A job sounds good. You know I need the cash.” Ash didn’t think anybody would have bothered to place a microphone in this shit hole, but one could never be too careful.

“This one’s special, Romano. Remember that job I told you about last year? I got you in. Two nights. Two fights. The second night, the fight is … a bit different.”

“What does different mean?” he drawled.

Slate paused.

“The prize goes to the last man standing.”

Nice euphemism.

“The prize?”

“A million American dollars,” Slate replied, injecting a greedy note into his voice. “Seven hundred for you, three hundred for me.”

“Are you also going to come over here and risk your neck for the cash?” Ash asked sardonically.

“Ah … fighting is your business, Roman. Mine is finding you the fights. And this is the best.”

“You get fifty thousand. Not a cent more.”

“A hundred. If you want in.”

“Deal. Give me the address,” Ash said.

“It’s to the death, Roman. You heard me, right?” Slate asked. Ash hoped he wasn’t going to slip out of character now.

“I heard you. Send me the address,” Ash said, ending the call.

From the canvas bag, he pulled up a small toiletry kit containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, a razor, a small bar of soap, a small bottle of peppermint oil, and some hair gel. He was going to need a lot of hair gel tomorrow to play up his Italian looks.

He brushed his teeth, lined up all the items against the sink, then picked up the peppermint oil bottle. From his bag, he pulled out a thin sheet and proceeded to soak it in the peppermint oil before spreading it on the ground and bundling up his jacket to use as a pillow. Sleeping on the hard floor was preferable to waking up full of bedbug bites.

He purposefully blanked his mind, and waited for sleep to claim him.