In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(10)

Sasha nodded, wearily, and wrote.



Indeed, that was the point.





Then it happened, and so fast, but time warped in his head so that it seemed hideously slow. His body felt locked in tar as the silver Mercedes gunned its engine and jumped the curb, but he must have leaped backward. He glimpsed Aleksei at the wheel as the car barreled up onto the sidewalk.

Mongelli could barely turn and gasp before it mowed him down, smashing into the glass-topped tables.

From where Sasha lay on the street, he saw table and chair legs stuck out at crazy angles. Mongelli lay beneath them on his belly, the Mercedes’ front wheel crushing his back. Blood trickled from his mouth. His eyes were wide, accusing.

There was the pop of a car door, but the pole holding up the awning had been knocked down, and a curtain of heavy canvas fabric had fallen over the vehicle, blocking the door.

Someone screamed from inside the bar. Shrill, continuous. Aleksei cursed, kicking at the car door against the weight of the thick canvas awning, like a chick trying to hatch from a big striped egg.

The grace of that fallen awning, those extra seconds, was what saved him. Sasha ran, passing people before they knew what they had seen. Just a ghoul flashing by, feet pounding, trying to escape from hell.

But hell was too big. Its boundaries kept expanding, infinitely.

He finally collapsed on a park bench and realized that he had dropped the envelope.

All his precious proof. Collected at such great danger and cost. The photographic prints Sonia had entrusted to him. All that remained of her great sacrifice, her courage. He did not have the JPEGs, nor had he ever dared to scan or copy the prints. He had been watched so closely, for so long. There had been no chance to do it. Ever.

The only proof that the lab had ever existed, the only clues at all to this horrible cruelty—and he had f*cking dropped them.

He hunched down, shivering. Too exhausted even to sob. There was no way to save Sveti now. This had been his one big chance, and he had blown it. He’d killed poor Mongelli for nothing. No, less than nothing. He was infinitely worse off now. And so was Sveti. He had to warn her. Find a place with an Internet connection, get access to some device or other, with what cash he had left. If only he could just call, but he couldn’t shove words out over a phone. Not even to Misha.

He could not crawl out of this hole. No matter how he tried.

No matter how they died.



Portland, OR



Sveti stared out of the taxi window. Her eyes were dry, hot. Knots in her throat and belly burned like points of fire. The tangle of freeway bridges swooped and swerved around her. She’d lost all sense of orientation, except for in relation to Sam, of course.

A needle inside her body pointed straight at Sam, night or day.

She shouldn’t have gone to the wedding. She’d known perfectly well that he would show up, after all those e-mails that she could not seem to delete, all those texts on her phone. Those sweet, hot, sexy things he said. Things that made her want to fall to her knees and beg.

The phone beeped in her evening bag. She jerked it out and scrolled down the arriving e-mail on the screen of her smartphone.



Dear Ms. Ardova: We’re so pleased you’ll be joining us in Italy for the conference, and in London next week! A driver will pick you up at Fiumicino on Friday and bring you to San Anselmo. Attached is your e-ticket, as discussed.

Have a great flight. I look forward to meeting you. Please don’t hesitate to call me with any problems or questions.

Til Friday, all my best, Nadine Muller, Executive Assistant Illuxit Transnational, Inc.





Sveti stared down at the message and the attachment below it. Where was the euphoria, the triumph? She’d been called to Italy as an expert consultant to speak at the Tran-Global Business Organization against Human Trafficking. She was being awarded the Solkin Prize for her contribution to the fight against modern slavery. After that, it was off to London. Illuxit Transnational, a multi-billion-dollar contract research organization, had recruited her to consult for their new corporate anti-trafficking initiative and their Victims Fund. It was a coup for someone as young as she. Excellent money, too, most of which she would save to fund her own budding nonprofit, Soul Rescue. She regretted putting Soul Rescue on hold for the length of the two-year contract, but this was worth it. She’d nailed it, crushed it. She should be proud, full of hope for the future, riding waves of giddy energy.

And all she wanted was for that message to have been from Sam.

She clicked on the e-ticket attachment. First class, when she had specifically told them she preferred economy. It was annoying. Wasteful.

She hugged her bare, goose-bumped shoulders. She’d flounced out of the reception without her jacket. Showing great maturity and sense.

This night was so f*cked up. Why couldn’t she just be normal? Just be attracted to a great guy and go with it. Have him become her boyfriend. Have fun with him, then have it lead someplace wonderful and permanent. Ahhh. The normal girl’s dream. Classic. Romantic.

But she was not normal. Reliving that kiss in Bruno’s office always ended with her huddled in bed, hot face shoved into her pillow, following one of her many erotic Sam fantasies that always led to orgasms like thunderclaps. Knowing perfectly well what came next. Feeling so stupid for inflicting it upon herself, again and again.

Her punishment was always swift and brutal. If she saw Sam, or fantasized about him, it unleashed her worst nightmares, and often stress flashbacks during the day as well. It was like a cruel spell, to crave him so much when giving in to the craving was so self-destructive. Their hot tryst in Bruno’s office had touched off a period of waking flashbacks so violent and awful, she’d considered checking herself into a mental facility. Same thing, after Sam had gotten shot last year, and she’d spent all those nights in Intensive Care. She’d paid for that. During the day, she saw Yuri, her captor from the days of her imprisonment, leering at her everywhere. He was at the DMV, behind the counter at Starbucks, foaming her latte, pumping her gas at the 7-Eleven. At night, it was nightmares from the bad old days. She was naked, chained to a table. They were coming at her, raising the sacrificial knife, and she woke screaming as it was about to plunge into her chest. Or the other classic, where she was making love to Sam, and it was marvelous, and suddenly, he morphed into Yuri. That one was particularly hideous.