Some days, it's just your lucky day. Some days, everything falls into place. That's what David Carter was thinking as he climbed out of bed the following morning. He had slept alone – Felicia was away wherever it was she went – and he'd welcomed the opportunity to get a little peace. A little room to breathe. Maybe once this whole mess was over with – well and truly over with – he'd take a break somewhere by the sea. Somewhere hot. All work and no play, as they say.

He was usually smart and well turned-out, but today he took extra special pains to look his best. He spent a little longer combing his hair in the bathroom mirror and added an ornamental, diamond encrusted tie clip, plus a monogrammed pocket square to his double-breasted Savile Row suit. He couldn't afford to let his standards drop – not today of all days.

The apartment buzzer sounded at around eight-thirty; it was David's driver. The limo was waiting for him at the kerb. David took a deep breath, and one last look at himself in the floor-length mirror, before heading down.

Wasn't it always the way, he thought as the elevator descended, that the answer was usually in plain sight all along? That Russian money could put an end to the club's worries – once it had been filtered through a number of shell companies, of course. And their friends in high places might even be able to get the Silvertown deal back on track. This would enable David to play the conquering hero, pleasing the fans and the partners in the Silvertown deal. Of course it meant handing over a pound of flesh to the Russians, but that was a worthwhile sacrifice. And after all, Mikhail Popov wasn't a bad ally to have.

Really, it was the perfect solution.

*

Wayne had spent a bit of time wondering what the best method would be. A gun? He didn't own one and didn't know where he could get hold of one at such short notice without arousing suspicion. So, a knife? He went into the kitchen and grabbed the largest, sharpest kitchen knife he could find. He gripped the handle and practiced a few stabbing motions. It was no good. The knife was too big, it would be easily spotted. His plan would be over before it had even started. Replacing the kitchen knife, he grabbed another, shorter, thinner, mean-looking serrated steak knife. That was just what he needed. He tightened his grip around the handle and swung it out a few times. It made a satisfying swishing sound as the blade sliced the air. This was the one.

He headed outside, pausing as he took in that first lungful of fresh, morning air. Some days, he thought, it's just your lucky day.

*

David Carter arrived at the stadium early for the meeting, but of course the Russians were already there. He would not have expected anything less. Mikhail Popov sat in the luxury corporate suite foyer, sipping black coffee from a tiny cup. He was flanked by his sons, Yuri and Stanislaw, who greeted David politely. It might have been just another ordinary tete-a-tete between corporate bigwigs.

"David," said Mikhail, when he had finished his coffee, "there's something I'd like to discuss with you."

"Excellent. That's what we're here for."

"I don't think you understand me, David. Something I'd like to discuss with you now."

David glanced at Yuri and Stanislaw, both of whom stood stony-faced. They weren't giving anything away. "Alright," David relented. "Whatever you say. Rochelle, bring us some more coffee, would you?"

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

*

"Morning Rochelle."

"Wayne! Long time no see. You're looking well."

"Thanks. So are you." Wayne was indeed looking well, and he knew it. He was clean-shaven for the first time in a while, and his hair was slick and professional-looking. Like his father, he had decided to make an effort for this special occasion. "Where are the others?"

The foyer was empty, and yet there were now only ten minutes until the meeting's allotted start time. Wayne had expected the partners to be milling around. He would certainly have expected David to be making his presence known.

"The partners are in boardroom A," Rochelle told him. "All ready and waiting."

Of course they were.

"What about Dad?"

"He's... I'm not sure where he is, actually. But he's around."

This was good. A chance for Wayne to start making inroads with the partners. They were going to have to get used to him.

He headed for the boardroom and found various men in suits – a familiar sight these days. All of them exuded a certain ambiance of power. Any one of them could have had him killed if they'd wanted to. He began to introduce himself around, and felt for the first time like the sort of corporate bastard he had always dreaded becoming. So this was 'networking.' Of course it was a somewhat atypical experience, as Wayne was all-too-aware of the steakknife tucked in the pocket of his suit jacket. Soon these men would witness a gruesome, ugly crime. A crime that he himself would commit.

*

"Consider it a show of good faith," said Mikhail Popov.

"Yes. Thank you." David spoke in a monotone, not taking his eyes off the Russian. The two men were in a small side office, with Yuri and Stanislaw standing guard outside. Their conversation was brief, and neither man would ever divulge what they had discussed.

"We had better go," said Mikhail. "We're late for the board meeting."

"You go," said David. "I have a couple of things to sort out. I'll be there shortly."

*

Wayne was beginning to get nervous. There was a kind of dry scratchiness in his throat. That same apprehension he used to feel before an important match. A sort of restlessness, a need to pace around. Where was David? Why hadn't he shown his face yet?

The door at the far end of the room eased open. Yuri and Stanislaw came in, followed by Mikhail. They began to work the room, shaking hands with the partners like visiting dignitaries. Yuri gave Wayne a grin, but Wayne could not bring himself to make eye contact. Instead he kept his eyes on Mikhail, who favoured him with a quick nod. So Mikhail knew what was about to happen. Wayne took the nod as a tacit approval. Slowly, he tucked his hand into his jacket pocket and gripped the blade by the handle. It was almost like a comfort blanket – he wanted to reassure himself that it was still there.

Typical of David Carter to be fashionably late. It was now nine-seventeen. Wayne swallowed. His throat was scratchier still. He needed a drink. He headed for the door and poked his head out into the corridor. Rochelle was at her desk, typing away at an email. He beckoned her over.

"Everything alright, Wayne?"

"Any sign of Dad?"

"He's on his way. Just popped to the loo, I think."

Wayne nodded. "Alright. Do you think you could get me a drink?"

"Of course. Coffee?"

"No, just water. That'd be fine."

"Alright."

*

David studied his face in the mirror. He was alone in the gents’, taking a moment to gather himself. It's funny how you get more introspective as you get older. He'd never taken much time to consider his face. It was still pretty handsome, even though he was getting on in years. The lines added character, he told himself. And his hair was nice and thick. He looked the part. If he'd learned anything over the years, it was the importance of looking and acting the part. But sometimes that wasn't enough. Sometimes you had to act.

He sniffed and straightened his tie. Then he stared himself straight in the eye. Those dark eyes of his. What did other people see when they looked in them, he wondered? What had Mikhail seen? Felicia? What about George McMinn? There was a saying about eyes being a window. But his eyes were more like a funhouse mirror – when you looked in them, all you saw was a distortion. You could never really know what was behind it.

He practiced a smile. It was a little thin and pinched-looking, but it would do.