Page 184 of Lethal Obsession

I guess it’s true what they say—we all have our gifts.

“The Cartographer boys aren’t planning simply to kill you, Alexei,” Mak says quietly. “First, they want it to look like you’re the power behind Marty Hunter Jr. They’ll pin all his crimes on you, a campaign they’ve already set into play with the whole Ron Watkins escape. You will be the man who corrupted his precious daughter. Christ, he’ll probably even claim you seduced his god-awful wife. They’ll paint you as a brutal psychopath with a long history of murder and intimidation, including that of your criminal rivals, the Luccheses. They’ll make it look like you control all of Florida, including law enforcement—which, I imagine, is why your friend Renata has been so effectively shut out of her own investigation. They’ll want her gone, too,” he adds. “God forbid she talk about what Silas’s beloved son did to her. So when Marty Hunter Jr. finally ‘exposes’ you as the poster child for corruption in Miami and tearfully confesses how he’s been held hostage to your brutal standover tactics, Renata’s face will appear alongside yours. You two will be the crown jewels in his campaign—and Florida, after all, is one of the most active death penalty states in the United States.” He gives me a grim smile. “Why would Silas Thorne murder you, when he can enjoy the public spectacle of you being executed in full view of the world?”

Tin foil hats, indeed.

Head spinning, I stare at the screen.

I hate to say it, motherfucker. Lars’s dry voice crackles through my brain. But you’re fucked.

Not that I need his voice, or anyone else, to tell me.

I’ve faced a lot of dangerous fuckers in my life. But there’s something particularly insidious about feeling like a pawn on someone else’s board, a piece to be moved and sacrificed at will.

“Why did they come for Ofelia in Granada?” There are parts of this that still don’t fit for me. “And why attack the yacht?”

Mak shakes his head impatiently. “Granada was the Novikovs,” he says. “Overstepping for their own personal vengeance. A mistake, one I’m guessing Thorne and the others know you will take care of for them. The yacht is more sinister.” His eyes on mine are grave. “You said Lars was tracking down Meridian.”

No. Please, no.

But I don’t know why I’m hiding from it. I’ve always known this was my fault.

“No matter how careful he was,” he says, “chances are Thorne’s tech geeks picked up the probe. But my guess is they planned to take him out long before this.”

I frown. “Why?”

Mak has that sympathetic look in his eye again, the one that automatically makes me brace for the worst. “Who are all the Andersson Technologies patents registered to, Alexei?”

Oh, fuck. “Lars and me. Our names are the only ones on all the patents.”

“Patents that are up for grabs if Lars is dead and you’re on death row for his murder.”

Murder. I almost want to laugh as Lars’s sardonic tones swirl in my head. If you were looking for punishment, motherfucker, it looks like an evil genie just granted your wish.

The room starts spinning again.

Mak’s mouth twists in a dark smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Believe me when I say this, Alexei: all the evil you have seen, terrible as it might have been, does not come remotely close to what these men are capable of. On this you must trust me. Organized crime might be brutal, but geopolitics is utterly lethal. The bratva game takes out players, or maybe families. Geopolitics takes out entire countries. I should know.” I don’t miss the uncharacteristically dark edge to his tone. “I’ve been playing it at the highest levels for a very long time.” Whatever Mak is currently involved in, it’s clearly gotten beneath even his smooth exterior.

But I have no space to wonder what might have the power to discompose Mak Tereshenko. His voice seems to be a long way away, although to my relief, I no longer feel sick. It’s more like I’m sitting amid swirling pieces, which are slowly starting to settle into place.

“They didn’t mistake Lars for me.” My voice seems to come from very far away.

A flicker of understanding crosses Mak’s face. “No, Lex, they didn’t,” he says quietly. “And for what it’s worth, Lars would have been in their sights whether you existed or not. The military industrial complex wants those patents, and I doubt Lars would ever hand them over. Which means that, sooner or later, he’d have wound up with a gun pointed at him. Tracking Meridian just brought that agenda forward. And there’s something else.” He meets my eyes steadily. “The operatives who planted the bomb, the snipers at sea and on the cliff, weren’t from Sentinel.”

“Then who the fuck were they?”

“Hired guns.” His voice is calm and even. “Silas Thorne’s hired guns. And before you ask, Lex, yes: I am sure. Outside of Sentinel, I am intimately familiar with those operating in the assassin space. These guys were Balkan cartel members. Disposable, and easy for Thorne to disavow—but also crude, which is why Jack’s men spotted them before they managed to kill everyone on that yacht.” He smiles tightly. “There’s no need to worry yourself about taking them out, however. Luca Bellini has already obliged. An attack on Sicily, and on his guests, is an unforgivable breach of etiquette, one he couldn’t let slide. I’m sure you understand.”

But I’m lost amid the swirling pieces, starting to see where they will fall—and how I’m going to catch them.

My phone rings, jolting me out of the spinning room. I snatch it up and answer before the first ring ends.

“Lars is out of surgery.” Jack delivers the news without preamble. “He’s alive, but in an induced coma. Nobody will know the outcome until—and unless—he wakes up.”

I put the phone down, not trusting myself to speak. I take the vodka on the table and down it in one gulp, then pour another and drink that.

I doubt I’m ever going to stop feeling responsible for Lars being on that operating table. But for the first time since I watched the yacht blow sky-high, I can actually breathe.

I meet Mak’s eyes. “You asked me at the beginning of this,” I say slowly, “if you could have John Owens.”