The Viper

PROLOGUE

HE WAS AFRAID TO GO NEAR THE BIG HOUSE AT THE END of the quiet, tree-lined street.

The stories whispered about the man who lived there kept people at a respectful distance. There was no doubt that he’d had men killed. The number was guessed at in hushed tones, as was the number he’d executed with his own hands. It was a known fact that people entered that house and were never seen again. But such was the man’s power—and the dread he inspired in potential witnesses—that he’d never been convicted of any crime at all.

Walking up the man’s driveway that day in the autumn chill would have been unthinkable a short time ago, but everything was different now. As the heavy front door swung open and an ageless, stone-faced woman led him down an unlit hall into a windowless den, his trepidation was suppressed by a desperate hope.

The man sat in semi-darkness behind an ebony desk, massaging his temples. It was rumored that he suffered from migraines. He wore tinted glasses, a sign of his sensitivity to light. His hair was gray and thinning, his skin sallow. The air in the room was humid with a faint odor of tropical decay. There was only one object on the ebony desk—a small gold sculpture of a coiled snake, head raised, fangs exposed.

“So,” the man said in a soft voice, lips hardly moving. “What can I do for you?”

The words came rushing out, not at all as he’d rehearsed them ever since calling for this appointment, this audience, but in a stuttering jumble. Even as he made his request with its peculiar requirement—especially with its peculiar requirement—he realized how idiotic it all sounded.

In a surge of regret, he wished to God he hadn’t come. It felt like the worst mistake he had ever made in a life full of mistakes. But it was too late. Fear grabbed his heart. His hands trembled.

The man regarded him through his tinted glasses with morose, unblinking eyes for what seemed like a very long time. He finally gestured toward the only other chair in the room.

“Sit down. Relax. Talk slow.”

He did as he was told. Afterward, he could remember almost nothing of what he said—only the man’s response and the look in his eyes.

“The story you tell me is full of misery. Your son’s disrespect has poisoned your life. What you want to do now is quite unusual. The favor you ask of me is something I would not normally grant. But because I know well the stabbing pain you have described, I will consider your request. If I agree to do what you ask, in return you must do what I ask. I will describe this to you when the time comes. But there is one thing you need to know from the beginning. If you accept my terms, there will be no turning back, no second thoughts. Our agreement will be unbreakable. You understand what this means?”

“I do.”

The man’s lips twitched in what appeared to be a fleeting smile. Behind the tinted glasses, his eyes, as impassive as death itself, were focused on a plan taking shape.