“I have something.”
The sound of Kazimir’s voice on the other end of the phone is both a relief and an instant aggravation. “It’s been over a week!”
“You’re lucky I found anything at all.” He pauses meaningfully. “Your FBI contact come through for you?”
“You bloody well know he didn’t,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Yes. And I had to kill three men to get this information. So a little appreciation is in order.”
“Just get to the fucking point already!”
“Since you asked me so nicely, I will.”
His voice oozes sarcasm and self-congratulations. I mutter to myself, “This bloody minger will be the death of me.”
“With any luck. Do you want to hear this or not?”
He seems satisfied that my silent seething is a yes and continues.
I immediately wish he hadn’t.
“She’s in Russia.”
After I regroup from that shock, I say, “How? We had eyes on the whole country. Airports, bus terminals, ports, everything.”
“He’s a slippery motherfucker, that’s how. And the Canadian border is notoriously porous.”
Canada. He went north. Fuck. “Go on.”
“He stole a truck, changed the plates, and smuggled her though the border near Niagara Falls. Smart move, considering the amount of daily tourist traffic they get. The truck was found abandoned near a small airfield in Hamilton, Ontario. They flew out from there.”
“The final destination?”
“Malek’s hometown. Moscow.”
Moscow. The sixth largest city in the world, with over twelve million people.
And not a single one of them willing to help us find Riley.
“So she was alive when they left the States.”
“Yes. Though from what I’m told, barely.”
This just keeps getting better and better. “And now?”
“No idea. His trail is dark. Nobody knows exactly where he lives, and nobody in Moscow was willing to talk to me.”
I snap, “You should’ve offered them money!”
He chuckles. “Oligarchs aren’t interested in bribes.”
“What are they interested in, then? What can we offer them to get them to help us?”
After a pause, Kazimir says, “I agreed to help you in return for a valuable favor. A personal favor. That doesn’t extend to the rest of the Bratva. If you want to make a deal with Moscow, contact them yourself.”
This smug prick. Infuriated, I snap, “I’ll tell them about Maxim Mogdonovich.”
“And I’ll tell the Mob about your extra-curricular activities as a spy. Checkmate.”
“It’s not checkmate, you dryshite. It’s stalemate at best.”
“Agree to disagree. The point is, I got you the information you were looking for. Now you owe me a marker. You’ll hear from me when I need to cash it in.”
He disconnects, leaving me shaking in rage.
Riley’s in Moscow.
How the bloody hell am I supposed to tell that to Sloane?
“Where did he take her?”
I turn at the sound of Spider’s voice. He stands on the other side of the desk in the office in the safe house, staring at me with haunted, feverish eyes.
He arrived in New York from Boston two days ago. Since then, he hasn’t slept, showered, or eaten, as far as I can tell. He merely paces the length of whatever room he’s in, then turns back and paces the other way, grinding his teeth the entire time.
He looks like seven shades of shite. The two inches of stitches crawling down his temple from where Malek bludgeoned him don’t help.
I tuck the cell phone back into my shirt pocket, fold my arms over my chest, and look him up and down. “You need to get some rest.”
He insists, “Where did he take her?”
I’ve known him long enough to know that he’ll keep badgering me with that question until he gets an answer. So I give him one, though I’m not confident his reaction will make me glad I did.
“Moscow.”
He stands stock still for a moment, processing it, then says gruffly, “How is she?”
“Barely alive, from what Kazimir said.”
He swallows hard, looks at the floor, then glances back up at me and says vehemently, “What time do I fly out?”
“You don’t.”
He steps forward, eyes flashing, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “I’m going. Like it or not, I’m going to Moscow. It’s my fault. This is my responsibility. I’m going to find her.”
Keeping my voice even, I say, “You’ll go where I tell you to go. Right now, we need you here.”
He shakes his head in frustration. “I’m useless here, and you know it. I can’t focus. I can’t sleep. I can barely fucking think!”
“Lower your voice. Take a breath. Pull yourself together.”
He closes his eyes, drags his hands through his hair, and exhales heavily. “I’m sorry. Fuck.” He drops his hands to his sides and looks out the window. His voice lowers an octave. “I have to find her. I have to. I’m going bloody mad.”
Something in his tone makes me look at him sharply.
I know he’s drowning in guilt over what happened. He blames himself more than Sloane or I do. His misery is palpable. He walks around under a black cloud of suffering so thick, it has its own atmosphere.
Maybe there’s a reason for that beyond the obvious.
Watching him carefully, I say, “I’ll need you to look after Sloane while I’m gone. I’ll get a crew together, keep you informed of our progress once we get there.”
“I’m going!” he roars, pounding a fist on my desk. “I’m not asking permission!”
I don’t react. I simply stand and gaze at him until he realizes he’s given himself away.
He would never speak to me with such disrespect unless his heart was involved.
He sinks into the chair beside him, drops his head into his hands, and groans.
After a moment, I say quietly, “She doesn’t seem like your type.”
He exhales. “I’ve never met a woman who could make me blush before.”
Jesus Christ. Anger makes my tone harder than it should be. “Do I know everything I need to know about this situation?”
He jerks his head up and stares at me beseechingly. “I never laid a finger on her. I swear on my mother’s grave. Nothing happened. She doesn’t even know.”
“You’re saying it’s one-sided?”
“Aye.”
I know he’s telling the truth. Spider doesn’t have the kind of face that can hide lies.
I turn to the window and look out, thinking. What a bloody mess.
From behind me, Spider speaks in a low, urgent voice. “Malek will be expecting you to come. He’ll be waiting. Watching. Nobody will expect me.”
“He’s seen your face. He knows you.”
“He knows you better. Everyone does. You walk down a street in Moscow, and within an hour, every Bratva in the country will know you’re there.”
He pauses to let that sink in. “And you know you can’t go and leave Sloane here. Even if you tried, she wouldn’t let you. Do you really want her following you to Russia? Because we both know she would. One way or another, she would.”
I say crossly, “I’m aware.”
“So send me. I can fly under the radar in a way you can’t.”
Sighing, I turn from the window and sit across from him. “Moscow is huge. It could take you ten years to search. We don’t even have a starting point. It would be like looking for a single grain of sand on a beach.”
“Aye,” says Spider, nodding. “So the sooner we start, the better.”
I don’t like the look in his eyes. There’s an uncharacteristic defiance there. A hint of mutiny.
I hold his rebellious gaze and say firmly, “The answer is no. I’m not sending you. It would be a death sentence. I’ll arrange something else.”
Breathing shallowly, Spider stares at me. I can tell he’s struggling to control his emotions and carefully choose words that will change my mind.
Finally, he gives up. He stands and walks to the door.
Before walking out, he turns back to me. Holding my gaze, he says softly, “I’ll not stand idly by while that Russian son of a bitch does whatever he likes to the lass, Declan. I’ll not stand idly by.”
He leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
Two hours later, he texts me from LaGuardia.
My flight is about to take off. I’ll call you when I have her.
“You barmy son of a bitch,” I say aloud to the empty room, astonished. “You’ll get yourself murdered.”
Then I pick up the phone and call the only person in the world who can help me now. A man who knows everyone and everything, even though he died more than a year ago.
Killian Black.
