Money really was the great equalizer.

Whenever my clients complained that things were taking too long, I would remind them that if they paid more, it would go faster. Most thought it was a ploy to squeeze more money from their grubby little hands.

It wasn’t.

Money greased squeaky wheels in every language and every country around the world. Everybody had a price, and if you hit it, then they would betray all their beliefs. For some people, the price might be steep, but if you gave the most pious man in the world ten million dollars, I’m supremely confident that he would punch his dying mother in the mouth. Most people would strangle her to death for a tenth of that.

Even I had a price.

I vowed to rain Hellfire down on anyone who worked with the demon jerk Et’atal that betrayed me, but when Dexter offered me five million dollars to spare his little rodent life, I agreed. It was a betrayal of my own values. The thing was, I was broke, and I needed money to track down Et’atal if I was going to make him pay for trying to kill me.

It had only been a month since Dexter’s money cleared, and I had already used a third of it to clear my debts and another third to pay off four dozen informants to squeal about Et’atal—hotel clerks in Amsterdam and Fiji, a bank manager in Bali, two ex-employees in Sudan, old clients all over the U.S.S.R. One thing was true across all of their accounts—Et’atal was a ghost.

Not one of them had met him in person. They delivered for him. They picked up for him. They received weapons, drugs, women, and more from him, but they were never in the same room as that son of a bitch. A month of my life and nearly two million dollars bought me very little in the way of tangible information.

It vexed me, and that was putting it mildly.

I had gleaned a whole lot of information about Et’atal’s organization, tax records from every country in Europe, and reams upon reams of papers that were useless to me for anything but kindling. Phil’s house was filled with papers that he spent all day and night scouring through for me, but the more information I gathered, the further away from the truth I felt.

When my beeper buzzed with the number from a contact in South Africa, I was skeptical that I should even meet my contact down there. Marcus was not known for handing over pertinent information, and I doubted the lynchpin I needed would come from him. However, I was desperate, so I agreed to his price and portaled down to Cape Town to meet with him.

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South Africa was really two different countries. One for white people who had access to all of the excess the 1980s was known for, and another for the Black African majority they ruled over. Marcus was the city manager of Cape Town and thus had access to all the housing records, land deeds, and zoning requests that flowed through the city. Criminals liked South Africa because in it, they found a government as corrupt as their cold, dead hearts.

We met at a restaurant overlooking the cape. Marcus sat against the edge of the patio in the back when I arrived, having already ordered two Bloody Marys for himself. He expected me to pay, of course, and indulging their decadence was part and parcel of dealing with corrupt politicians. Sometimes, you could get them to flip just by paying a couple of hundred dollars for their meals. Not Marcus, though. He was savvier than that.

Marcus was dressed in a white linen suit and thumbed a manila folder on the table. I slid into the chair across from him, and immediately his panic washed over me. He was usually a cool customer, having spent his life steeped in underhanded dealings, but he was tapping his leg and darting his eyes back and forth like it was his first time on the take.

“I see you started already,” I said, pointing to the Blood Mary glasses.

He nodded and took a sip. “Just need to calm my nerves. You have no idea what you asked me to dig up.”

“I think I have a pretty good idea.” The waitress brought a tray of curly fries and laid them on the table. I ate one before speaking again. “What do you have for me?”

He leaned forward. “I need more money, Ollie.” Marcus loved negotiating for more money and then underdelivering.

“Tell me what you have, and if it’s worth it, I can go up to seventy-five.”

“I need a hundred.”

“Are you going to bang me with a gold dildo, too?” I had never paid Marcus more than fifty thousand for information before. “Or are you just trying to screw me metaphorically?”

He gripped the sides of the folder, bending up the sides. “My house was shot up last night.” He crunched the folder together. “I need that money to get out of Cape Town because of you. Agree to a hundred, or I’ll burn this folder.”

I laughed. “Well, if what you’re saying is true, you need my fifty thousand to escape.” I leaned back in my chair. “I doubt you’ll burn it.”

“I’m serious,” Marcus said through clenched teeth. “You owe me.”

“You better have something good. Okay. If you lead me to Et’atal, then I’ll give you a hundred thousand.”

I grabbed the folder and pulled it toward me. He fought me for a second, his iron grip warping the folder before he relented with a sigh and released it. I opened it to see pictures of a tall, gangly man. Or at least I thought it was a man, the images were blurry and had been enhanced poorly.

“What am I looking at here?” I said.

“Do you know the looks you get when you say the name Et’atal?” he said, taking a long sip of his drink. “Half of Cape Town must be on his payroll.”

“And this is him?”

Marcus shook his head. “I—d—” He grabbed his throat and started choking, gasping for air, and convulsing. He fell out of his chair and onto the floor as foam spewed from his mouth.

“Marcus!” I shouted, dropping to the ground to help him, but it was too late. His glassy eyes looked at me for a moment, then all the life drained from him.

He was dead. Maybe he really was on to something. He wouldn’t die in vain.