The Number 8 (25 page)

“It’s fine, I just want to get home now. But first, I need a drink.”

“Agreed.”

They spent the night talking about all the wonderful memories they had created on the trip and didn’t even mention the negative ones. They told and retold each story. Dante realized how grateful he was to have come on this trip. Asmir had made it pretty clear he would’ve come with or without him. If he hadn’t been here, there was a good chance Asmir would be dead and the killers would have executed their plan perfectly. He wouldn’t have seen a leg in the caves that made him question Viktor’s accident. He wouldn’t have talked to Marco and concluded that he knew Viktor and he wouldn’t have noticed Marco’s shoes being switched. Asmir would’ve been dead and he would have been at home, believing his death had been an accident. No, he was glad he came to New Zealand with his best friend.

They were sat on the plane waiting to take off at 9:40 in the morning, their heads a little fuzzy from one too many drinks the previous night. It didn’t help that Queenstown Airport was situated between a lake and a mountain range. The landing strip stretched from the mountains and ended just meters before the lake, so take off was a little nervy. But as they cruised above the lake, he only had one thought.

Home.

He had barely spoken to his Mum. She must be worried sick. But now he had begun to find the strength to be there for her, instead of it always being the other way around. He was glad to be heading back to Auckland, despite it being the least favorite of the places he’d visited in New Zealand. They had a short layover before their flight tomorrow morning and Dante was sure Asmir had booked a room in the nicest hotel in Auckland. The company were reimbursing them for the cancellation of the remaining few days which amounted to quite a nice sum that Asmir had used to finance the room.

Dante looked at Asmir who had the window seat. He had been asleep since the moment he had sat down. Dante, on the other hand, had wanted to see the plane take off. Now, they were in the air and turning for Auckland. Then, home.

Simon Napier had heard about the deaths of his daughters on the news. He wanted to break down and let his emotions out, but for the last five years he had buried them all. He had been the one who had stayed in New Zealand learning every turn of the road, every place that presented them with an opportunity and systematically planning every moment down to the second. His girls had spent most of the last five years in the UK creating their business, their cover. He had seen them for about a month every year, to plan, to practice, to execute. But, every time he saw them they reminded him of Jasper and ignited the passion, the rage, that drove him for the rest of the year. Now, they too were gone and he was left with nothing. All his planning had been useless. But he no longer had a plan. Now, he was alone. Which is how he had been, emotionally, for years. He knew how to be alone. He had mastered it. He had different identities, disguises, personalities, names and passports that he could summon on demand. But right now, he was Simon Napier, widower and father to three dead children and at this moment he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.

He leant out and peered down the aisle of the aircraft.

Hi guys. Remember me?

CARINA™

ISBN: 978 1 474 03553 8

The Number 8

Copyright © 2015 Joel Arcanjo

Published in Great Britain (2015)

by Carina, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

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