The dining room was a masterpiece of intimidation. A long, black obsidian table sat in the center of the room, flanked by floor-to-ceiling glass that looked out into the absolute void of the desert night.
"To old friends," Julian said, raising a crystal flute of vintage Krug. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "And to the secrets that bring us together."
Amina laughed, but it sounded brittle. Kaelo hadn't touched his glass. Yuki was watching the shadow of a servant moving in the periphery.
I felt the 9mm pressing against my spine—a reminder that I wasn't here to drink. I was here to execute.
Suddenly, the lights dimmed. Not a flicker, but a programmed fade. From the hidden speakers in the ceiling, a voice crackled to life. It wasn't Julian's. It was a recording. Distant. Rain-slicked. The sound of a car door slamming and a woman screaming on a London street five years ago.
The blood drained from Kaelo's face. Amina dropped her fork; the silver clattered against the obsidian like a gunshot.
"Julian," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "What is this?"
Julian leaned back, interlacing his fingers. "This, my friends, is the truth. Before the main course is served, one of you is going to tell us what really happened at the docks."