Page 6 of Knox

I look at my team. “Harknetts! Let’s go home.”

“Ja,” Björn cheers, walking happily toward the parking lot. “I am dying to see what this mission with Harrington-Hale will be!”

Fuck…

The annoyance of dealing with a wealthy client hits me all over again.

I aim my rifle at Björn’s ass and pull the trigger.

THWACK!

“Argh!” he gasps, clapping a hand over his butt cheek. He pulls it away, staring at a palm covered in red paint. “You shot me!”

“You annoyed me.”

— ¤ —

Later that evening, I look around the room, and I feel… uncomfortable.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been in the waiting area of a helipad, but it is the first time I am in one that looks this fancy.

There is a bar with alcohol I never knew existed, a freaking barber, a chef waiting for orders, and even a pool table, which, okay, that one is cool… but the rest is just too… ostentatious.

“Here are your tea and coffees,” says Toby, Mr. Harrington-Hale’s assistant, placing the tea on the table next to Law and the coffees in front of Logan and me. “We should be ready to leave in no time.”

“Thank you, Toby.” Logan takes his coffee, leans against the leather couch, and takes a sip.

He is wearing black trousers and a white shirt, the same outfit he wears whenever we are meeting a client for the first time. And for some reason, it makes his honey-blond hair and beard look lighter than they normally are.

Logan’s gray eyes stare at me with concern. “I’m sorry, Knox. I know this is hard for you… Given what happened to your mom… but you’re the best man for this assignment, and I need you on it.”

Ughh…

The reminder of why she died tightens a knot in my chest.

I rub my eyes, dragging a hand down my face, dreading the headache I know I am about to get.

“No, I get it, Logan. It’s just… fuck…”

“If it’s any consolation,” Law adds with his thick British accent, “the principal’s likely more keen to bin this deal than you are.”

“Then why did he hire us if he wants out?”

“He didn’t hire us. The client is his uncle.” Law clicks his briefcase open, slides a folder across the table, and waits.

I flip it open and take out a handful of papers that have been crumpled or torn up.

They are anonymous letters addressed to “Cillian.”

Some are typed, but most have magazine-cutout letters pasted across them.

Like a fucking nineties serial killer.

What the…

I read them.

Even though they’re not written using the same method, they all contain a mix of the same phrases: “you are a fraud,” “your inheritance was stolen,” and “you’ll die.”