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clutched in his hand. Si-mone’s defiant gaze met mine over the top of Matt’s tethered body.
    “I think I just changed my mind about needing a bodyguard, Charlie,” she said, her voice tired and bitter to the bone. “You’re hired.”

Three
     
    B y the time we got back to where Sean had parked one of his company Mitsubishi Shoguns, I knew I was in trouble. Even for Sean, he was much too quiet.
    Sean Meyer was quiet on many different planes. His hands and body were always quiet unless there was something to engage them. It made his actions all the more intense.
    Even back when he’d been one of the most feared sergeants on the Special Forces training course I’d abortively attempted in the army, he’d never had to shout and bawl in order to instill a dread respect in his trainees. The quieter he was, the more scared of him we’d all become. The clever ones, at least.
    And now, most people wouldn’t have spotted there was anything wrong. He’d been nothing but coolly professional while we’d ejected a still-protesting Matt from the restaurant and evacuated Simone and Ella to the safety of Harrington’s office at the bank, where security was tight as a matter of course. For speed we’d used Harrington’s waiting car and driver rather than retrieving our own vehicle, and I’d half-expected Sean to order me to stay with them while he went to fetch it. Instead, he ordered me along, and that was my first inkling that something was seriously awry.
    He strode along the icy pavements from the bank to the car park with an easy poise, plaiting his way smoothly between the other pedestrians, who were making their hurried assaults on the last remnants of the January sales. He moved without ever missing a step, but under the surface I could sense something simmering. It was there in the slight angle of his head, the way his arms swung fractionally tense from his shoulders.
    I held out, waiting for him to make the first move, until we’d actually reached the multistory parking structure and were on the right level, almost at the car. Then I sighed and stopped walking.
    “OK, Sean,” I said, short. “Spit it out. Don’t give me this silent treatment.”
    He deliberately kept moving so there were half a dozen paces between us before he stopped and turned. For a few moments he just stood there, staring at me, hands loose by his sides, his face that of a stranger.
    A sullen, sneaky wind whipped into the open concrete building, causing his long overcoat to flap lazily round his legs like that of a western gunslinger. It was only three in the afternoon but already the sky was darkening and the sodium lights strung across the concrete ceiling lit us both with an unearthly orange glow. The whole place smelt of diesel and burnt clutches.
    Just when I thought he wasn’t going to speak at all, when an unnamed fear had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart tight shut with it, he said:
    “You hesitated.”
    It was said flat, without inflection, but I heard the accusation as an underlying harmonic, even so.
    “I took him down,” I said, defensive. ‘And kept him there. What more do you want?”
    “It was messy. He nearly got away from you, and he wasn’t even a professional.”
    I felt my exasperation rise, partly at the harsh criticism and partly annoyance that I knew he was right. “Don’t you think you’re being overly critical? OK, so you feel I made a mistake. But I contained it—nobody else noticed. And come on, Sean—he was the kid’s
father,
for heaven’s sake!”
    Sean cocked his head from one side to the other, slowly, like he was shifting the weight of his thoughts. “So?” he said coolly. “What difference does that make?”
    What I’d heard of his own father, I recalled belatedly, sketched the man as a drunken bully, both to his wife and to his children. When Sean spoke, rarely, of his father’s premature death in a largely self-induced car accident, it was with a kind of quiet resentment. It