In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(14)

“I will earn back that money for you ten times over,” Josef said.

“Yes? And while you hypothetically multiply my cash, my sons are left unguarded. Sasha got away, Josef. He went straight to the press.”

“The press?” Josef was aghast. “But Aleksei and Andrei—”

“Are f*cking fools. Aleksei barely caught him in time. He was with a journalist. We recovered an envelope. Full of photographs that would have ruined us all, including you, my risk-averse friend. He knows exactly where The Sword of Cain is hidden, that lying piece of shit. Six years, he’s f*cked me over. My own flesh and blood.”

Josef was startled. Sasha? He would never have thought that frail, wasted bag of bones would have the nerve. “Is he dead?”

“No, unfortunately,” the vor growled. “The journalist, yes, but Sasha is still at large. Aleksei lost him. You must come back. Hurry up with this job, Josef. It is getting less important by the minute.”

“Yes, Vor,” he said stoically. “I will take her tonight and return.”

“Get your answers however you must; but afterward, I want your snakehead goons to chew up what is left of her and spit out the bones.”

Josef relaxed. “Of course. They specialize in that very thing.”

“Film it,” Cherchenko ordered. “Record every moment. With good light. Every detail. Every scream. Every cut. Make it ugly. Make it last.”

Josef paused, mouth dangling. “Ah . . . Vor, documenting the event in that way would be extremely risky—”

“It is an absolutely necessary risk. Sasha must watch. I will set the footage to loop endlessly, tape him to a chair, and lock him in a room with it. Then he will understand the price of disappointing me.”

The implied threat hung heavy in the air after the boss hung up on him. Josef stared into space, feeling a muscle in his cheek twitch.

He had fully intended to let the snakehead thugs do the honors, both men being stupid and self-destructive enough to fill the girl’s orifices with their genetic material with no thought of consequences.

But he might have to join the fun. A soft, squealing target upon which to channel his rage would ease the sting of the conversation he’d just had. Until he could make his very favorite fantasy a reality.

The fantasy that starred Pavel Cherchenko, spread-eagled, staked out. Alive, moaning . . . with all his skin removed.





CHAPTER 3

The light was on in Sam’s living room.

Sveti stood in the shadows of the shaggy rhododendron bushes that flanked the porch of his bungalow, feeling the seconds tick by. She could call another car, and stand shivering in the dark waiting for it, but why? The bellow that had risen up from inside her outside her apartment would just start to howl again.

She had to throw it a chunk of meat, or it would rip her to pieces.

At least he hadn’t gone out drinking, or to another woman’s house. He couldn’t have been back for more than a half hour. Not enough time for a booty call. She propelled herself up the steps. Poised her finger over the bell. Froze, without pressing. Her finger shook.

Oh, God, this was stupid. She’d known that if Sam got her alone in a room, he would seduce her. She’d taken deliberate steps to prevent it while desperately hoping it would happen anyway. It was so confusing, so messed up. Rocks and hard places, wherever she turned.

A shadow flickered behind the curtain. The door jerked open.

Sam had changed into sweat pants and a frayed, shabby T-shirt decorated with a faded stencil of Mt. Hood. His big, thickly muscled body looked as formidable in sleep rags as it had in the elegant suit.

He looked blank. Seconds ticked by as she floundered for something to say. Her English had deserted her. It happened when she was scared. Which was to say, mostly when Sam Petrie was around.

Sam’s thick, winging brows drew together. “What the f*ck?”

“I . . . I . . .” She licked her very dry lips. “Can I come in?”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you here to put me out of my misery?”

She tried to parse that. “Ah . . . in what sense? I’m not sure if—”

“If you walk through this door, the only way out goes through my bed.” He paused, waited. Prompted when she didn’t reply. “So?”

She goosed herself into action and floated past him into his house. Excitement clenched her lungs, her thighs, her toes. She was in a tunnel that led to his bed. Tunnels were simple. Simple was good. There were no right or left turns in a tunnel. No turning back. All decisions were already made. She could not get lost in a tunnel.

Sam slammed the deadbolt shut and turned his scorching gaze upon her.

She opened and closed her mouth, and blurted it out. “I’m leaving Portland,” she said. “I’m going to Europe in a couple of days. I got a consulting job. Helping big corporations do their bit to combat slavery and trafficking. I’ll be based in London, for the next couple of years. After that, who knows.”

His face was a mask. “I see.”

“I’m flying to Rome,” she babbled. “There’s a conference on modern slavery in San Anselmo this weekend. I’m speaking on the panels, as an expert consultant. They’re giving me an award. For what I did last year, and the follow-up fund-raising and crowdsourcing.”

“That would be the adventure that earned you the death threat?”