PROLOGUE
HAIPHONG CITY, VIETNAM
A cold rain slicked the poorly paved streets. Aging Russian hydrofoils banged against rotting piers. Crumbling French architecture struggled with leaks. Life in Vietnam’s third largest city was miserable. Inclement weather only made it worse. Andre Weber couldn’t wait to leave.
Looking at his host, he commented, “Counting machines are quicker.”
Lieu Van Trang smiled. “But they are far less attractive.”
Weber shook his head. Trang was known for his eccentricities. A coterie of young women, stripped naked so they couldn’t steal while tallying his money, was completely on brand. It was also a total waste of time.
Electronic currency counters could have done the job six times faster and would have eliminated any human error. They also didn’t steal. But Trang liked to play games. He liked to fuck with people’s heads. He knew his visitors wouldn’t be able to take their eyes off the girls.
As far as Weber was concerned, it was unprofessional. They were here to conduct business. There was a shit ton of money on the table and that’s where his team’s focus needed to be. The girls were distracting. Even he was having a hard time not looking at them. And if it was difficult for him, it had to have been almost impossible for his men.
This was not how he liked to do things. Weber preferred encrypted communications and washing money through shell corporations or cryptocurrencies. Trang, on the other hand, was old-school. So old-school, in fact, that he refused to conduct any business electronically. Everything was in cash and everything was face-to-face.
The two couldn’t have been further apart in their approach. Even in their appearances they were strikingly different. Weber, the Westerner, was tall and fit. With his short hair and his expensive, tailored suit, he looked like a young banker or a hedge fund manager. Trang, thirty years his senior, was impossibly thin with long gray hair, a wispy beard, and translucent, vellumlike skin that revealed a network of blue veins.
The only thing they shared in common was a lust for money and a talent for taking care of problems. While Weber didn’t want to be here, he had been paid a huge sum of money, a sum equal to what Trang’s girls were currently counting out, for this assignment.
When all was said and done, it would be the highest-value contract killing ever to hit the market. It had already been deposited in a secret account and would be payable on confirmation of the subject’s demise.
But like Weber, Trang was just a middleman—a headhunter, skilled in identifying the right professionals for the right jobs. His fee, payable up front, was a fraction of what the successful assassin would receive. It was quite fair as he was taking only a fraction of the risk.
Anyone whose murder commanded that sort of a price had to be very dangerous and very hard to kill. Trang would have to take extra steps to make sure none of this blew back on him.
Once the girls had finished counting the money and had confirmed the total, he dismissed them. Every set of male eyes, including Trang’s, watched them as they filed out of the room. Several of Weber’s men shifted uncomfortably as they adjusted erections.
“One thousand dollars each,” said Trang, enjoying the men’s pain. “Best money you will ever spend. I will even throw in rooms for free.”
The man had just collected a ten-million-dollar fee, yet he wasn’t above pimping out his girls for a little bit more. He also wasn’t shy about his pricing. One thousand dollars? No matter how good they were, Weber doubted they were worth a thousand dollars—not even for all of them at the same time. Trang was as shameless and as sleazy as they came.
It was time to wrap things up. Weber didn’t want to stay a minute longer than he had to. Removing the folder, he handed it over.
Slowly, Trang leafed through it, employing the freakishly long nail of his right index finger to turn the pages.
When he was done, he closed the dossier and asked, “So what can you tell me about the client?”
“Only that it’s someone you don’t want to fuck with.”
“Apparently somebody fucked with whoever it is or you wouldn’t be here opening this kind of a contract. What transgression, what sin, could be so egregious that it would call for a one-hundred-million-dollar bounty on a man’s head?”
Weber had his suspicions, but as his employment had been shrouded in secrecy and also handled by a cutout, he couldn’t say for sure. Not that he would have, even if he had known. He prided himself on discretion. It was a necessary part of his business and absolutely critical in his line of work. The kind of clientele who hired men like him didn’t appreciate loose talk. It was the surest way to a very similar sort of contract.
Weber changed the subject. “How long?” he asked.
The Vietnamese man arched one of his narrow eyebrows. “To complete the contract? That’s like asking how long is a piece of string. Every professional is different. Each has a different way of going about their craft.”
“The client wants it done quickly.”
“I have a list of certain professionals in mind. I guarantee you that any one of them will be eager for the job. With a fee like this, whoever I task won’t drag their feet.”
“Task all of them,” said Weber.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Task them all. Whoever gets to him first, and kills him, wins. That’s what the client wants.”
Trang smiled again. “He really did fuck with the wrong people, didn’t he?”
Weber nodded and, standing up from the table, prepared to leave.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” asked Trang. “Anything that’s not in the file?”
“Only one thing,” Weber replied, as a torrent of rain slammed against the windows. “Don’t underestimate Scot Harvath. If you do, it’ll be the last mistake you ever make.”
CHAPTER 1
KEY WEST
FRIDAY, TWO WEEKS LATER
Looking back on it, Scot Harvath probably shouldn’t have punched the guy. Flipped him on his ass? Sure. Put his wrist into a painful, yet harmless joint lock? Even better. But uppercut the guy so hard that he knocked him out cold? Not one of his better decisions.
And therein lay the problem. Lately, Harvath seemed to be out of the good-decision-making business altogether.
Forget for the moment that the other guy had it coming. A wealthy Wall Street type, he appeared to take great pleasure in verbally abusing his female companion. The more the man had to drink, the worse it got. It was uncomfortable for everyone sitting nearby. What it wasn’t, though, was any of Harvath’s business.
People got into relationships for all sorts of reasons. If she was willing to sit there and get berated by some jackass, that was her problem.
At least it had been until she took off her shawl. The moment she did, everything changed.
On such a warm evening, in the resort’s open-air lounge, it had seemed odd to be wearing a wrap. Then Harvath noticed her bruises. She had tried to conceal them, but to his discerning eye they were unmistakable, running up and down both arms. Apparently, Wall Street could get rough with more than just his words.
In Harvath’s book—hell, in any decent human being’s book—men who beat women were scum. Did this guy need to be taught a lesson? Absolutely. Did Harvath need to be the one doing the teaching? That was debatable. Karma would catch up with the guy eventually. It was one of those things from which you could run, but never hide.