Tailored to KILL

London, United Kingdom.

9:47 PM.

London was particularly beautiful when it rained, provided one was fortunate enough to be watching from somewhere warm, preferably with a glass of expensive wine and absolutely no intention of going outside. The streets of Mayfair shimmered beneath the evening lights, black cars moved slowly through the traffic, and pedestrians hurried beneath umbrellas while the city’s wealthier residents enjoyed the illusion that the weather, much like everything else, could be arranged to suit their preferences.

Inside Bellamy, one of Mayfair’s more exclusive restaurants, Richard Halloway was discovering that money could not solve every problem.

He sat at a corner table beneath a chandelier that probably cost more than the average London apartment, his untouched dinner cooling in front of him. Halloway was a successful property investor, a familiar face at private business gatherings and a man who had spent decades cultivating relationships with people who preferred their names kept out of newspapers. Ordinarily, he was comfortable in expensive restaurants. Tonight, however, he had checked his phone so many times that even the waiter had begun looking concerned.

A message had arrived several minutes earlier. It contained a photograph of a young man standing outside a townhouse, adjusting the cuff of a black jacket. The man had slightly untidy black hair, sharp features and an expression of casual confidence. His clothes were distinctive: a fitted black three-piece suit, a deep royal-purple waistcoat, a matching silk tie and a long coat with a glimpse of purple lining. He looked more like someone attending a private auction than someone being sent to collect a potentially dangerous package.

Halloway recognised him immediately.

A second message appeared beneath the photograph.

Your appointment is confirmed.

He locked the phone and placed it beside his plate. Across from him, a silver-haired gentleman lowered his wineglass, watching Halloway with polite curiosity.

“Something troubling you, Richard?”

“Business.”

“At this hour? I thought you had finally reached the point where other people could do the worrying for you.”

Halloway offered a thin smile. “If only.”

His companion considered asking another question, but apparently decided that the evening’s conversation was already sufficiently unpleasant. He returned to his meal, leaving Halloway alone with his thoughts. The package was supposed to be collected the following evening. The contractor had been paid, the arrangements were in place, and the instructions had been made perfectly clear. Retrieve the case, leave the property and do not open it.

It was a simple assignment.

Halloway had begun to suspect that simplicity was precisely what made it dangerous.

At 8:16 p.m. the following evening, Xavian Thray stood outside Halloway’s townhouse in Kensington, examining the entrance with the mild disappointment of a man who had expected better security from someone with so much money.

The property was an elegant four-storey building with pale stone walls, tall windows and an ornate black entrance gate. Two security cameras covered the front approach, while a third had been positioned above the garage. There were additional sensors along the garden wall, although their installation suggested that whoever had designed the system had been more interested in making it look impressive than making it particularly difficult to bypass.

Xavian checked his watch and adjusted the cuff of his jacket. He was twenty-eight, athletic and considerably more comfortable in a tailored suit than most people were in casual clothing. His black hair had a habit of falling slightly out of place, regardless of how carefully he arranged it, and his sharp features carried an expression that often made people wonder whether he was amused by them. Sometimes he was. Tonight, he was simply assessing the property.

Beneath his long coat, secured in discreet sheaths, rested his two custom karambits. Their dark metallic handles carried subtle purple detailing, while the curved silver blades were designed for close-quarters work. He preferred not to use them unless necessary, though experience had taught him that other people were rarely considerate enough to arrange their evenings around his preferences.

The contract had come through an intermediary three days earlier. The instructions were brief, the payment generous and the client apparently uninterested in discussing anything beyond the collection itself. Xavian had asked the usual questions, received the usual assurances and accepted the assignment. He had no particular interest in what people kept in expensive houses, provided they paid him to retrieve it.

He walked down the side passage, found a narrow garden gate and crouched beside its lock. A small tool appeared between his gloved fingers, and after a few seconds there was a quiet click. Xavian pushed the gate open and slipped into the garden.

The courtyard was immaculate. Trimmed hedges bordered a stone patio, a small fountain continued running despite the rain, and decorative lights illuminated the rear of the property. It was the sort of garden that suggested its owner employed someone to remove leaves before they had the opportunity to touch the ground. Unfortunately for Halloway, it also contained two security guards who were considerably less attentive than they should have been.

The first stood near the kitchen entrance, his attention fixed on the garden rather than the house. The second was smoking beneath a narrow shelter near the far wall. Xavian watched them for a moment, noting their positions and the distance between them. The man by the kitchen had an earpiece. The smoker had his hands occupied and appeared to be enjoying the weather considerably less than his employer’s landscaping.

Xavian moved behind the hedge and waited until the smoker turned away. He crossed the courtyard quietly, keeping the fountain between himself and the first guard, then approached the kitchen entrance. The guard noticed him only when Xavian was already within reach.

“Evening,” Xavian said.

The man opened his mouth, but Xavian caught his wrist before he could reach for his radio. He turned the arm, drove the guard against the wall and followed with a controlled strike that left the man struggling to remain conscious. Xavian caught him by the jacket before he could collapse noisily onto the paving and lowered him beside the doorway.

The smoker heard the movement and turned around. “Martin?”

Xavian straightened the unconscious guard’s jacket, then looked towards him. “He’s having a difficult evening.”

The second man dropped his cigarette and reached inside his coat. Xavian closed the distance before he could draw his pistol, striking his forearm and sending the weapon skidding across the patio. The guard retaliated with a heavy swing that caught Xavian across the shoulder, forcing him backwards. It was a solid hit, and for a moment the man seemed encouraged by it. He followed with another punch, but Xavian slipped to the side, caught his arm and drove a knee into his stomach. The guard doubled over, allowing Xavian to turn him sharply and send him crashing into a garden table. Wood cracked beneath his weight, scattering a glass and silver ashtray across the wet stone.

Xavian looked down at the overturned furniture. “That’s going to be awkward to explain.”

The guard attempted to rise, but Xavian approached and delivered one short strike to the side of his jaw. The man fell back and remained still. Xavian retrieved the pistol, checked it and placed it somewhere neither guard could reach easily before examining the rear entrance.

The door was secured by a keypad. It took him less than a minute to persuade the older system to unlock, and he stepped into the kitchen without making more noise than the rain outside. The interior smelled of polished wood, expensive furniture and something pleasantly savoury cooking in another part of the house. Classical music played softly through concealed speakers, creating an atmosphere that suggested the occupants were either exceptionally relaxed or determined to pretend nothing unpleasant ever happened under their roof.

Xavian closed the door and listened. No voices, no footsteps, no indication that anyone had heard the commotion outside. He moved through the kitchen and into a long hallway, passing a formal sitting room and a staircase that curved towards the upper floors. The house was larger than it had appeared from the street, with high ceilings, framed paintings and enough decorative furniture to make moving through it an exercise in patience.

The private study was at the end of the hallway. Its door stood slightly open.

Inside, a large mahogany desk dominated the room, positioned before a wall of bookshelves. A leather chair sat beside the window, and a half-finished glass of whisky rested on a side table. Everything was arranged with deliberate precision, from the neatly stacked documents to the framed photographs displayed along the shelves. Xavian approached the desk, expecting to find the black case exactly where the client had indicated.

It was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, a photograph lay face down beside a folder, partially concealed beneath several documents. Xavian picked it up and turned it over. Three men stood outside what appeared to be a private building. Richard Halloway was one of them. The second was a broad-shouldered gentleman wearing an expensive dark suit, while the third was younger, his face partly obscured by the angle of the photograph.

Two words had been written across the back in black ink.

BLACK LEDGER.

Xavian studied the photograph for several seconds. He had encountered the phrase before, though only in passing. It had appeared in conversations among information brokers and private contractors, usually accompanied by a change of subject. Nobody had ever explained what it meant, and Xavian had never found a compelling reason to investigate. He placed the photograph back on the desk and checked the message from his intermediary.

Package is in the study. Confirm when secured.

He glanced around the room. “I’m beginning to question the definition of a study.”

The answer was probably somewhere in the furniture. He examined the desk drawers, the cabinets and the shelves, finding nothing more interesting than paperwork and an expensive collection of fountain pens. When he crouched beside the desk, however, he noticed a narrow scratch along the lower wooden panel. The finish was slightly different from the surrounding surface, and pressing along its edge revealed a concealed compartment.

Inside sat the black case.

It was roughly the size of a thick book, with a silver clasp and no visible markings. Xavian lifted it carefully, surprised by its weight, and examined the lock. There was no obvious damage, no label and no indication of what might be inside. He slipped it into the padded compartment beneath his coat, securing it against his side.

As he straightened, he noticed that one of the desk drawers had not closed properly. A document inside had been left partially exposed. He pulled it free, intending to return it to its place, but a line of text caught his attention.

THRAY — ACTIVE.

His expression changed.

He read the line again, then examined the rest of the document. Several columns of information were visible, though much of the page was covered by a folder. Before he could move it, footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Xavian folded the paper and placed it inside his jacket.

A man entered the study wearing a white shirt and dark trousers. He was younger than the guards outside, perhaps in his early thirties, and looked considerably more alert. His eyes moved from Xavian to the open compartment and finally to the curved blade in his hand.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Someone having a rather difficult evening.”

The guard reached beneath his jacket. Xavian moved before the man could draw his weapon, catching his wrist and driving it against the doorframe. The guard fought back, landing a punch across Xavian’s jaw that sent him stumbling against the bookshelf. A second strike followed, forcing Xavian to abandon his grip. The man drew a pistol and brought it up, but Xavian knocked his arm aside as the shot went into the ceiling.

They collided against the desk, sending a lamp crashing to the floor. The guard was stronger than the men outside and managed to pin Xavian’s knife arm against the furniture. Xavian shifted his weight, stamped down on the man’s foot and twisted his shoulder free. The movement gave him enough room to bring the karambit around, its blade catching the guard’s sleeve and forcing him to retreat.

Xavian followed with a strike to the ribs, then drove the man backwards into the wall. The guard dropped his pistol and crumpled to the floor. Xavian stood over him, breathing steadily, although the side of his jaw had begun to ache. He retrieved the weapon and glanced at the hole in the ceiling.

“That is going to be difficult to explain.”

He checked the hallway, listened for additional movement and left through the rear entrance. Outside, the rain had become heavier, and one of the security lights flickered above the courtyard. The two guards remained unconscious, the garden furniture was in ruins and the pistol he had taken from the first man lay where he had left it. Xavian crossed the courtyard, slipped through the side gate and disappeared into the street without looking back.

At 9:03 p.m., Xavian entered Bellamy Restaurant, having changed his gloves and brushed most of the rain from his coat. The cut along his jaw was still visible, but he had decided it looked more like an unfortunate shaving accident than the result of a disagreement with an armed security guard. The restaurant was busier than it had been the previous evening, with soft conversation drifting between the tables and a pianist performing near the bar.

The maître d’ greeted him as he approached.

“Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?”

“Thray. Xavian Thray.”

The man consulted his tablet, then nodded. “Of course, Mr Thray. Your guest hasn’t arrived yet.”

“That’s quite all right. I’m rather accustomed to being kept waiting.”

He was shown to a table near the rear of the restaurant and ordered sparkling water while he waited. His phone vibrated before the waiter had even left.

Package secured?

Xavian typed a brief response.

Yes. Your client should be pleased.

The reply arrived almost immediately.

Do not open the package.

Xavian looked at the message, then glanced towards the case concealed beneath his coat. “I wasn’t planning to.”

He put the phone away and waited. Ten minutes passed, followed by another fifteen. His guest did not arrive, and the waiter eventually returned to take his order. Xavian chose roasted duck, partly because it sounded excellent and partly because he disliked allowing a perfectly good restaurant reservation to go to waste.

The meal had just arrived when another message appeared from an unknown number.

Leave the restaurant. Do not take the package to your hotel.

He read it twice, then typed a response.

Who is this?

The message showed as delivered. No reply followed.

Xavian considered leaving, but the food smelled considerably better than the evening’s developing circumstances. He glanced towards the entrance, where two men in dark coats had just arrived. One spoke quietly to the maître d’ while the other surveyed the dining room. Neither appeared particularly interested in the menu.

Xavian picked up his fork.

“Well,” he murmured, “that seems promising.”

He ate, though his attention remained divided between the restaurant entrance and the phone beside his plate. At 9:41 p.m., the device began ringing. The number was withheld.

Xavian answered. “You’ve caught me at dinner.”

A man’s voice came through the speaker, calm and measured. “You’ve taken something that doesn’t belong to you.”

“That depends entirely on who you ask. I was hired to retrieve it.”

“Your client made a mistake.”

“People do that.”

A brief silence followed. The caller seemed to be considering how much patience the conversation deserved.

“Mr Thray, I suggest you return the package. You have no idea what you’ve involved yourself in.”

Xavian leaned back in his chair, watching the two men near the entrance. “Then perhaps you should explain it to me.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“Unfortunate. I was beginning to enjoy the conversation.”

The caller ignored the remark. “You’ve been identified. We know who you are, and we know where you’re staying.”

Xavian’s expression remained pleasant, although his attention sharpened. “Then you should know I dislike people interfering with my accommodation. Hotels are expensive enough without strangers making themselves comfortable.”

“Return the package.”

The call ended.

Xavian lowered his phone and watched the two men for another moment. One was speaking to the maître d’, while the other had begun looking towards the tables. Neither had approached him yet, but he had no intention of waiting around to discover whether they were simply curious about the restaurant’s interior design.

He finished his water, placed enough cash on the table to cover the meal and stood. When the waiter approached, Xavian offered a polite smile.

“Everything satisfactory, sir?”

“Excellent, thank you. The company was a little disappointing, but the food more than made up for it.”

He left through a side exit rather than the main entrance. By the time the two men had finished speaking to the maître d’, Xavian was already outside, walking towards the street where his car had been left.

His hotel was a discreet establishment in Mayfair, one that catered to guests who valued privacy more than publicity. Xavian had stayed there several times, and the staff knew better than to ask questions about his occasional late arrivals or the condition of his clothing. He entered through the lobby, exchanged a brief greeting with the receptionist and took the lift to his floor.

The corridor was quiet when he stepped out. He unlocked his room, entered and closed the door behind him.

Something was wrong.

At first, he couldn’t identify what had changed. The curtains were drawn, his suitcase stood beside the wardrobe and the room-service menu remained on the small table near the bed. Everything appeared to be exactly where he had left it that morning. Yet there was a faint smell in the air, something that did not belong.

Cigarette smoke.

Xavian did not smoke. He had never particularly understood the appeal, and the hotel maintained a strict no-smoking policy. He remained beside the door, listening carefully. A faint sound came from the sitting area, followed by silence. The armchair had been moved slightly, and a glass he distinctly remembered leaving beside the television was now positioned on the opposite side of the table.

Someone had been in his room.

He reached beneath his coat and drew one of his karambits, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. He checked the bedroom first, then the bathroom and narrow dressing area, finding nothing. Whoever had entered had either left or was considerably better at hiding than the average hotel intruder.

He returned to the sitting area, keeping close to the wall. His phone vibrated.

We would like to speak with you.

A second message followed.

Please don’t make this difficult.

Xavian stared at the screen for a moment before putting the phone away. He was beginning to find the evening’s repeated requests rather tedious. Then came three knocks.

Not from the main entrance.

From the adjoining service door.

He turned towards it, his expression losing the last traces of amusement. The door connected his room to a narrow service corridor used by hotel staff. It was locked from his side, but the sound of someone standing on the other side suggested that the lock was no longer a particularly reassuring feature.

Xavian approached quietly, keeping the karambit low beside his thigh. He stopped just short of the handle and waited.

A man’s voice came through the door.

“Mr Thray?”

Xavian remained silent.

“We need to talk about the package.”

He glanced towards the concealed case beneath his coat, then back at the door. There were several possibilities, none of them particularly pleasant. He adjusted his grip on the karambit and took a slow breath.

“That’s unfortunate,” he replied. “I was just getting comfortable.”

The handle began to turn.

And Xavian smiled.

For the first time that evening, he was genuinely interested in what happened next.