Stolen Souls

89

STRAZDAS SAT IN the hotel foyer, his suitcase at his feet. Eight forty-five, the contact had said. He checked his watch. Eight forty-seven.

His phone rang.

“The taxi is on its way,” the contact said. “Get in it, get on the plane.”

“And the girl?”

“I suggest you give the driver a decent tip,” the contact said. “It’s Boxing Day, after all. He’s done me many favors in the past.”

“What about the girl?” Strazdas asked.

Silence for a moment, then, “She got away. It went wrong.”

Strazdas took his knuckle between his teeth and bit down hard, tasted salt. He breathed through his nose, a low groan resonating in his throat.

“It’s done, and that’s all there is to it. A good man died in the process. Just remember that. He didn’t have to but for your stupid bloody vendetta. Now let it go.”

Strazdas noticed the receptionist’s attention on him. He forced himself to release his knuckle form his teeth. Something hot dripped on his chin. He wiped it away and smiled at her. She turned her gaze back to her paperwork.

“You hear me, Arturas?” the contact asked. “It’s over. There’s nothing more can be done.”

“There is one thing,” Strazdas said. “I will send a letter to your superiors. I will name you as Detective Chief Inspector Daniel Hewitt. I will enclose a record of all the payments you have received over the last eighteen months. Those payments will not be retraceable to me or any of my companies, but will cause your superiors to examine your bank accounts, your investments, your lifestyle.”

Strazdas saw the taxi pull up beyond the hotel’s doors.

“Be careful, Arturas,” the contact said. “Once these things are spoken, they can never be taken back.”

“Good-bye,” Strazdas said. “I have a flight to catch.”