In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(131)

Sam cursed viciously into the dead phone. It could be true, or it could be a brush-off. He tried the hotel where they were still checked in. They informed him she hadn’t been back.

If only she’d taken one of Simone’s minions with her to Villa Rosalba. If only he’d had the presence of mind to give her back her phone. He could have warned her, or even traced her, with the help of her family. No way would that crowd send off their precious damsel fair to Europe without a trace in her phone. They protected what they loved.

Unlike himself. He ripped out the surgical tape and the IV needle, letting the tube dangle and fluid drip forlornly out onto the floor.

He struggled to sit up. Had to roll to his side, strangling a groan. Fiery bolts of pain ripped through him with every hitching breath. His groin was swollen like someone had stomped his balls with a giant boot.

He was in no shape to pull off a grand rescue, even if he had the faintest idea where she was. He shoved his legs off the bed so that their dead weight would give him some ballast for the push—and sat up.

He almost passed out. Blood spotted his bandages. Thigh, ribs.

The suitcase Connie had brought taunted him from across the room. Fresh clothes, shoes. Twelve feet of floor. It looked like a f*cking mile.

And where did he think he was going, once he dressed himself? The only people who might know where she was were Renato and Hazlett. It could take days to track them down. Sveti was all out of days. They were closing in on her. Like they had at the foundry.

That had been bugging him. A puzzle needing to be solved, when he had the time, and the bandwidth. How the f*ck had Cherchenko and his mafiya hit squad followed them, after the complicated evasive moves he’d pulled? Someone must have planted a trace, but how, when, and on whom? Simone had bug-swept the car and hadn’t detected anything. To be absolutely sure, they would have to dismantle the vehicle to its smallest component parts. Who had the time?

Pavel was dead, and the others. There was no asking a dead man. But what about Misha? Sveti had said he was a tech geek.

Of course, Misha might well have been the one who sold his brother out in the first place, by spilling the info about the gelateria. But Sam couldn’t blame a fourteen-year-old for being intimidated by a dad who would cheerfully disembowel people. Misha was orphaned, brotherless, maybe stricken with remorse. Nervous about his future. Scared shitless.

Misha might know something useful. And this vague, formless plan was the only possible course of action Sam could think of.

One did not find a mafiya vor in the White Pages, but there were those silent calls Sveti had been convinced were from Misha. He’d chalked that notion up to wishful fantasy. Sveti wanted so badly to save the world, sweeten the bitterness. He’d been such an arrogant prick to rag on her about that. It made him squirm to think of it.

But maybe it wasn’t a wishful fantasy. Maybe Sveti had insights from sources he couldn’t imagine. Maybe he should have listened more carefully. Been more respectful of her feelings, hunches. In retrospect, it was a marvel she hadn’t blown him off sooner, as dickish as he’d been.

He pulled up Sveti’s call log. The first silent call had been, what, the day before yesterday? It felt like weeks. He dialed it. It rang four times. The line clicked open. There was a heavy, attentive silence.

Sam clenched his fist. “Misha?”

The line clicked, went dead.

Shit. Needles of pain stabbed through his temples, jabbing every which way. He opened a message and swiftly texted.



pls pls I need your help Sveti in danger.





He sent it and sat there waiting. A minute went by. Then two. The phone burped softly in his hand.

He thumbed the message open with a trembling hand



y do u have svetis fone





He texted back, getting the letters wrong with his swollen fingers. His thumb so goddamn thick and shaking violently.



she left it with me by mistake





Misha’s response was swift and succinct.



u r both stupid





True to form, arrogant little shithead. But Sam could not afford to get his back up about Misha’s manners today. He sucked it up, and texted again.



pls. talk 2 me. pls.





Another minute passed. Two more. Seconds measured by the thud of his heart in his torn, stitched, bruised, or otherwise f*cked-up tissue. The smartphone buzzed. He clicked open the line. “Misha?”

No answer. For the love of God. He hung on to his temper. The kid had just lost his entire existing family in a gun massacre. “Misha,” he said. “This is not going to work if you’re just going to breathe into the phone.”

“I am here,” Misha said. His voice was clipped, robotic.

“Good.” Sam groped awkwardly for something to say to the kid. “I know it’s a hell of a time to ask for favors. I’m sorry about your father—”

“Don’t be,” Misha said. “He was a monster, and I am glad that he is dead. I would have killed him myself, if I had a chance.”

Wow. That was cold. But it was better that they were both on the same page about his father. “Your brother, then. I’m sorry about him.”

“Are you? I was told he died jumping out in front of you. To save you.” Misha’s voice had an accusing tone. As if he considered it a poor trade.