Private Dublin

Chapter 40

There were no dreams or nightmares, just dark oblivion, and I can’t pinpoint exactly when I returned from that void to the real world. I gradually grew more aware of sound, the hum of machinery, indistinct words spoken quietly some distance away, the smell of sweat, the taste of blood, the feel of a fabric hood against my head, obscuring my vision.

I was sitting on a chair. My hands were securely cuffed; I could feel metal chafing my skin when I tried to move my wrists.

“He’s awake,” a man said, alerted by my futile attempts to move.

I heard footsteps and sensed someone approach.

“Let him see,” another voice said. This one had a strong French accent.

My hood was removed and I squinted at the sudden glare of light. Strip bulbs blazed white in the ceiling, and as my eyes adjusted, I made out shapes: crates, pillars, walls, a large sliding metal door. I was in some kind of warehouse. The man who’d removed my hood was tanned, bearded, and wore jeans and heavy work boots. A Led Zeppelin T-shirt completed the seventies rock band roadie look. I didn’t recognize him, but his companion was familiar to me.

In stark contrast to the roadie wielding the gun, the man approaching me was immaculately dressed in a cream linen suit. He had chiseled good looks, thick blond hair meticulously styled, and an air of superiority, even in this grubby place while on the run from the law. I recognized him as Raymond Chalmont, owner of the Chalmont Casino, who had fled Monaco after we’d thwarted Propaganda Tre’s plans there. Chalmont had been a leading member of the group that had wanted to disrupt a European peace initiative by attempting to assassinate US Defense Secretary Eli Carver, a man I count as my personal friend. Chalmont had been the group’s money launderer. When the conspiracy had been smashed, he’d left his business and family, fleeing multigenerational wealth and privilege for life on the run.

“You took everything from me,” he said, punctuating his words with several blows to my face.

I glared at him. “You took it all from yourself when you got involved in a conspiracy to commit murder.”

“You boy scout!” Chalmont responded angrily. “I spent months planning what I would do to you. Your death was to be public. A disgrace, a humiliation. I wanted to rob you of everything. Just like you did to me. Most of all, I wanted you dead.”

He moved back a step. “I still do.” He clicked his fingers at his companion. “Gun.”

The roadie handed him the pistol, and Chalmont raised it to my temple. He stared down at me. I wasn’t sure whether he was expecting me to break down and beg for my life or become enraged in those last moments, but there was no way I was going to give him the satisfaction of revealing any emotion.

“You’d better not miss,” I told him, and he frowned at me as his finger tightened around the trigger.