Free Nemesis Unlimited [1] Sweet Revenge by Zoe Archer

claiming that his Italian blood couldn’t tolerate coarse English whiskey. Ridiculous, particularly since she had witnessed him drain more than a few glasses of whiskey at the end of an especially difficult assignment.
    After taking one more sip, she gave the flask back to Dalton.
    At that moment, Marco and Simon returned to the compartment, closing the door behind them. Spotting his flask in Dalton’s hand, Marco scowled and snatched it away. It seemed to be a measure of Dalton’s improved humor that he didn’t plant his fist in Marco’s face.
    “How does this Nemesis operation work?” he asked. “You run adverts in the paper: ‘Downtrodden? Want justice? Nemesis, Unlimited has all your vengeance needs. Find us at the corner of Dean Street and Fetter Lane. ’”
    Marco rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. We started finding clients just by keeping our ears to the ground, using our sundry connections to find out when someone was being wronged. After our first few cases, word spread. Former clients bring us new cases, and we still use our connections to find those in need of help. No advertising necessary.”
    “Ever turn anyone down?”
    “All the time,” Eva said. “Some people think Nemesis is their own personal bully squad. They want us to collect debts or throw acid in a rival’s face. But we work to obtain justice for those who have been truly wronged, we don’t deal out thuggery. Yet there’s always legitimate work for us, and we usually take on several cases at once.”
    “Can’t imagine that these clients of yours pay handsomely.”
    “We take small remuneration for our services,” she said, “but Nemesis is funded out of our own pockets.”
    Dalton snorted. “Bad business model.”
    “It’s not about the money.” Simon’s lip curled. “It never has been.”
    Dalton looked patently skeptical. “Tell me what happens when we get to London.”
    “We review options, devise strategies.” Simon neatly flicked back the tails of his coat as he took his seat. “Plan our course of attack.”
    “Based on information that I give you. And then?”
    “And then … Nemesis will do its job.”
    “After that?” Dalton demanded.
    “We can’t think beyond our immediate goals,” she said. “Otherwise, we lose focus.”
    Dalton’s mouth curled. “No need for you lot to worry about the future. You don’t have the warders biting at your heels.”
    “Earlier this evening,” she noted, “you seemed willing to die to get vengeance on Rockley. A few weeks of uncertainty is nothing by comparison.”
    He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “This is why I don’t like mixing with clever people. They twist you around so much you don’t know your nose from your arsehole.”
    “What an enchanting image.”
    Silence pressed down in the compartment. They all seemed to run out of words, as though a tap had been opened and everything worth saying drained away.
    She burned with impatience to reach headquarters so they might begin the next stage of their plan. The others must have felt the same way, all of them restive, legs crossing and uncrossing, knuckles cracking, fingers drumming on kneecaps or any available surface—the dozens of small yet irritating ways men channeled their pent-up energy.
    Dalton seemed torn between restlessness and exhaustion. With his arms still folded over his chest, he kept glancing around as if anticipating an ambush. But then his eyes drooped shut. An instant later, he snapped them open, fighting sleep. Yet escaping from prison and a long chase across the moors had taken their toll. No matter how he struggled, sleep dragged on him.
    At last, he could fight no more. His head tipped back, leaning against the seat. Dreams began at once, his dark eyelashes quivering. What did he dream of? Murdering Rockley, most likely. Or maybe he dreamt of his sister. The file contained only the most basic information: Dalton and his sister had different fathers, and their mother