In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(107)

“I’m doing him a favor,” he replied, unrelenting. “He doesn’t need sympathy. He needs his ass kicked.”

Sasha turned to Sveti. “Why are you here?” he coughed out. “I begged you not to come. Told you they were h-h-hunting you. The m-m-message. Did you not see it? Why didn’t you . . . l-l-listen?”

“That’s not what you said in the message!” Sveti protested. “You told me to hurry, that you needed me! You asked for my flight info!”

Sasha shook his head. “Josef d-d-discovered our e-mail account.”

“Before you go on, clarify something,” Sam said. “Are you high? Because I don’t have any thought cycles to waste on a drug dream.”

“Sam!” Sveti gasped, horrified. “Don’t talk to him that way!”

Sam gestured at the powder. “I’m justified. It’s in my face.”

Sasha met his eyes. “No.” His voice was stronger than it had been so far. “I am clean. I’ve been waiting, ever since I saw you on my monitor at the gelateria. I had Saleh bring you the note.” He choked on the long speech, coughing, and then went on, looking at Sveti. “I thought you were safe, in America. With your friends protecting you.”

It pissed Sam off. This guy had the privilege of Sveti’s love, and yet he had allowed her to see him in such squalor. He should be strong for her, after what they’d shared. How dare he f*ck up this badly.

Sasha murmured something halting in Ukrainian. He flicked a guilty look at Sam, and repeated in English. “Sorry, to let you see this.”

“We’ll get you out of here somehow,” Sveti said.

“No.” Sasha seized her hands. “It is too late for me.”

“That’s defeatist thinking! Don’t talk that way!”

“Shhh. I am a dead man, after what I did.”

Sam crossed his arms. “What did you do, Sasha?”

Sasha’s gaze darted to him. “I . . . I be-be-betrayed my father. I t-tried to ex-ex-expose him. I have tried before . . . but he did not . . . know it was me. This time, I was caught in the act. They will kill me.”

Sam groaned. So they were right in the middle of a mafiya family betrayal. Sweet. That was just f*cking priceless. “What do you mean, you tried before? You make a habit of it?”

“I . . . I t-t-tried, once,” Sasha said. “I d-d-did not want Sveti in danger. I b-b-b-begged her not to come.”

“You didn’t beg loud enough or long enough,” Sam said harshly. “What about the guy selling roses? The kid on the bike? What happens to them if your mafiya buddies come down on you?”

Sasha’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I had . . . no choice.”

“No? You’re not locked up. I see choices all over the place.” Sam looked around. “You chose to stay here. To have people bring you food, which you then chose not to eat, or dispose of. That baggie is a choice. You’re making lots of choices. You’re just making the wrong ones.”

“Stop scolding him!” Sveti said hotly. “Don’t you see it’s hard for him to talk?” She turned to Sasha. “Ignore him. He’s being an *. How did you betray your father?”

“I tried to expose . . . a deal. Years ago.” It took forever for Sasha to cough the words out. “He bought . . . thermal generators from an arms dealer. In A-A-Abkhazia. Stuff the S-S-Soviets left in Georgia, after the Cold War. I intercepted the messages. The cores were strontium-90. Already p-p-pulverized. They . . . they spent almost thirty million euro.”

“Who is Josef?” Sveti asked.

“One of my father’s men. The worst one. He went to find you. To question you.”

“Oh, him. So that’s his name.” Sveti shuddered. “Yes, we’ve met. Sam saved me from him. What are thermal generators?”

“Radioactive materials. For powering nuclear plants,” Sam said. “Dirty bomb?”

Sasha nodded. “Or more than one.”

“And we should believe this why?” Sam demanded.

Sveti looked astonished. “Why would he lie?”

Sam looked at the baggie. “He abuses mind-altering drugs. If he told me where to find the nearest toilet, I would question his credibility.”

“He has no reason to make this up!” she said angrily.

“I don’t know. I might go to some crazy lengths to justify lying around in a rathole with only a bag of smack for company,” Sam said.

Sasha’s eyes flashed. “I can prove. I tried to tell a journalist. I tried to show him proof. I thought, when it is on Internet, the press, there is no going back. But they killed this man, in front of me.”

Sveti winced. “Oh, no. Oh, God, Sasha.”

“Mauro Mongelli is the name,” Sasha said, still staring at Sam. “He was murdered. Look, on your phone. You will see. Look. Go on.”

Sam pulled out his phone and tapped the name into the search engine. Interesting, that Sasha spoke more clearly when he was pissed.

Mauro Mongelli, columnist. Killed in a hit-and-run in Rome, stolen car, driver still at large. Foul play suspected. He looked at Sveti. “It happened right about when they came after you,” he said.

“I didn’t know who to tell,” Sasha said. “I had to tell someone, before I . . . before they kill me.”