In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(33)

No. He wasn’t. The landlord and the new wife were dodging sharks on the Great Barrier Reef. The third-floor neighbor was working on his long-distance relationship in Chicago. There was nobody in that big Victorian except for Sveti. Or at least, there should not be.

The van’s taillights flicked on. It jerked away from the curb. He caught the first three letters of the plate before it left his line of vision. His car roared to life and turned the corner just in time to see which way the van went at the end of the block, and juddered to a halt in the spot the van had just vacated. Instinct screamed follow, now, but his instinct was f*cked when it came to Sveti. There could be a legitimate explanation. Sveti could be stepping into her shower, humming, while he went racing off after a couple random guys whose only crime was to be transporting stuff outside of normal business hours. Thereby cementing his status as a psycho head case, a danger to himself and others.

He groped for his phone as he sprinted toward the porch. It was not there. He’d left it in the pocket of the jacket Sveti wore. Too busy wallowing in his own goddamn hurt feelings to remember it. Fuck.

He wrenched the screen door open. The front door was unlocked, and a glance at the faceplate of the lock showed a coating of oily graphite dust. He flung the door open.

A crimson shoe lay on the floor, the straps torn loose. A red evening bag. Some change had spilled from it.

He dove for his car, his body jangling. Asshole. Second-guessing himself. Tires squealed on the curve. Not much traffic yet. They could be on the freeway, or they could have turned anywhere. His detour had cost about forty seconds, maybe forty-five. Oh, God, oh, God.

His heart thudded painfully when he saw a white van, stopped at the last light before the freeway on-ramp. He got closer, fingers white-knuckled on the wheel until he was close enough to read the plates.

The light went green as he pegged the first three letters. Same. Yes.

He got in line, two cars behind onto the on-ramp, breathing down panic. Jesus. No backup, no police, no phone, and he didn’t dare lose eye contact for a split second. Just him and his Glock 19. Fifteen in the magazine, one in the chamber. Not even a spare mag in his pocket.

That was the cavalry.



Whack. Yuri was kicking her on the ground, calling her names: whore, dirty cunt. His breath stank like dead things. Whack. Whack.

Splash. Sveti coughed and sputtered, choking. The room spun, dim and foggy. She blinked, frantically. She was in a warehouse. Maybe a barn. A damp, ancient one that stank of mold and mouse shit. Crates and boxes were piled high, but the boxes were deformed, giving in to gravity, contents decaying. Light filtered through high, dirty windows.

Yuri stood in front of her. No, not Yuri. Yuri was in a maximum-security prison in Siberia. This man was taller, broader. His features were thick and blunt, his eyes were hot little pale points burning inside shadowy pits. His graying hair was buzzed short. His mouth was moving, but she heard nothing.

There was another man in the shadows, smaller, wearing a black ski mask. His dark eyes glittered through the slits in the mask.

Splash. The pale man heaved a plastic pitcher full of ice water in her face again. His voice boomed suddenly in her ear, volume spiking.

“. . . vetlana,” he yelled. “Pay attention! Wake up!”

“Wha . . . who?” She coughed out water, shuddering as rivulets soaked her chest, her back. She could not move her arms, to wipe water from her eyes, or push back the hair clinging to her face. She was bound. She could not see it, beneath her skirt, but it felt like duct tape. There was a big plastic basin full of water and floating ice.

The man held up a dripping plastic pitcher. “We need to talk.”

She tried to speak and ended up coughing again. “Who are you?”

His yellowed teeth flashed. “That’s not relevant.”

It finally sank in. That wasn’t English. The man was speaking Ukrainian. Terror stabbed, like lightning. “What do you want?”

The man set a rickety chair down in front of her and straddled it.

“Everything,” he said. “Everything you have.”

“My friends are expecting me,” she said. “I’m supposed to be at work at eight o’clock. If I’m not there—”

“You have given notice at your jobs and volunteer activities. You sold your car, too, no? You are leaving the country.”

“How do you know all this? Have you been following me?”

“Not exactly, not until just recently,” the man said. “But keeping an eye on you, most definitely. For years.”

“What do you want?” she repeated.

“We’ll get to that. First, tell me about the man you spent the night with after leaving the wedding party last night.”

She was stupefied for a moment. “What man? I went out, after the wedding. I met some friends, went to a couple of clubs. One of my friends gave me a ride home. There was no man.”

“Don’t lie. We followed you home from the wedding, and then to his house. You were there for hours. Did you enjoy your night of passion? Were you satisfied by Lt. Petrie, of the Portland Police Bureau? Were you left with longings unfulfilled? Tell us. Maybe we could help. My colleagues and I stand ready to serve.”

Her stomach churned. “My friends will find you, and they will crush you,” she said.

“They might, but it will be too late for you.” He pulled out a wicked, narrow-bladed knife and hooked up the sodden hem of her skirt with it. Cold air rushed in, chilling her naked flesh still further.