a computer programmer, coasting through life as his marriage collapsed around him. Since then his wife had been promoted, moved to London, asked for a divorce, and then dropped dead on a tube station platform. Natural causes, they said, but the former Lord Iron, Amir, confirmed that her old boss, Neugent, was somehow responsible. Then Amir passed the mantle to him and now he was sitting in his old local, head of a multi-billion global empire, the new Lord Iron. It still didn’t feel real.
He’d actually had to argue with his head of security to meet up with Dave. They only agreed it was possible if he gave them twenty-four hours’ notice. A car full of his staff had driven down the night before, examined the location, worked out whatever they needed to, and three of them were now seated around the pub. They were all in casual clothes, blending in as well as blokes built like tanks could, carefully watching people come through the door. Each new arrival precipitated a round of texting as they communicated with the coordinator outside, no doubt receiving information about who had just entered. The amount of stuff they could uncover in a matter of seconds freaked Sam out. No doubt they had run the same background checks on him when Amir decided to visit his humble terraced house just a few weeks before.
Sam realised he hadn’t answered Dave’s question. “Weird,” he said. He couldn’t say that while Dave had been moaning about the company Sam used to work for, he was worrying about the activities of just one of the companies he owned, and that had an annual turnover nearly five hundred times larger. He would sound like a dick. “It’s…yeah, weird.”
“But good weird, I bet,” Dave said. “You don’t have to worry any more. You know, about bills and stuff.”
Something in his voice made Sam’s discomfort worsen. Did he need help but couldn’t ask? “Are you okay for money? I can—”
“I didn’t come here hoping for a handout!” Dave caught his voice before it turned into a shout, thankfully.
“I know.”
“I just wanted a drink with an old mate, for Christ’s sake. I’m not a bloody charity case.”
“I know.” Sam became far too aware of the three plainclothes guards, all of whom were looking at him as Dave’s voice rose. He knew that if there was even a hint of something turning ugly they’d intervene, and not in a way that would leave their friendship intact. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to help if I could. You’d do the same for me.”
Dave leaned back in his chair and scratched at the stubble on his chin. “You could get the next round in.”
Sam was glad to have a chance to back off from the conversation. He ordered two pints from the landlord who smiled at him just a bit too much and paid for them with a twenty-pound note his PA had given him. He couldn’t even go to a cash point without there being some ridiculous song and dance about it.
A night that was supposed to make him feel more relaxed was giving him a headache. He watched the pints being pulled and realised he didn’t really have anything to say when he got back to Dave. What did they used to talk about? Football. He hadn’t had time to watch any since taking on the burden of being Lord Iron. Work. Nothing in common there anymore. His marriage.
He frowned at the bar as the lump rose in his throat. Six months ago he would have been three pints into the evening and moaning at Dave about how Leanne was never home. Dave would be drunkenly sympathetic in the way a bloke who’d never had a relationship longer than three months could be. Dave would remind him how lucky Leanne was to have him, how selfish she was to put her career first and how stupid she was to think Sam would stand for it much longer.
Now she was dead, the beer was doing nothing to fill the hollowness inside him.
“Mr Ferran?” One of his minders had come to his side. “We have to leave.”
The landlord placed the second pint down and smiled again. “So nice to see you back in here, Sam.”
Sam had no recollection of the landlord knowing his name before everything had changed.
“Sir,” his minder leaned closer once the landlord moved away. “The pub owner has phoned the local newspaper and there’s a journo and some paps on their way