In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(74)

But Sveti resisted, digging into her purse for . . . what? A business card. Oh, of course. It made perfect sense to give her contact info to this mouthy, pimple-spotted little dickhead who dared to bully and threaten her, just to make it convenient for him to continue his abuse at some later time. “Sveti,” he muttered. “Goddamnit. Don’t.”

Sveti held out a card. “Here’s my number, and e-mail. If you want to talk to me about Sasha, or anything else, please, call me.”

Misha flinched away. “Take it back! I don’t want it!”

Sveti kept her hand outstretched. “Please, Misha.”

“I don’t want to talk to you! And I don’t want your card!” The kid’s voice was wobbly, as if he were about to cry.

Sveti’s arm lowered as she gazed intently into his eyes. She placed her card on the edge of the marble mantelpiece. “I’ll just leave it here.”

“No!” Misha yelled. “Take your f*cking card!”

“Tell Sasha I looked for him, if you hear from him,” she said, as gently and calmly as if the kid weren’t screaming obscenities at her.

Andrei was as taciturn escorting them out as he had been on the way up. Sveti did not attempt to speak with him again. He saw them to the door and shut it smartly in their faces.

Sam hustled her along so fast, she stumbled over her own feet.

“What do you make of all that?” she asked him.

“Let’s get away from this place before we discuss it,” Sam barked. “That kid was scared shitless. And now, so am I.”

“Hey!” A shrill voice sounded. Sam shoved her behind him and looked up. Misha Cherchenko hung over one of the ornate, carved stone balconies on the first floor. He waved Sveti’s business card in his hand.

“I told you to take your f*cking card back!” he shrieked. “Stick it up your ass! You make me sick!” He flung the card, which fluttered and swayed on air currents before landing on the sidewalk ten yards away.

Sveti started toward it. Sam grabbed her arm. “No, Sveti!” he said sharply. “Enough! This is the part where we f*ck off!”

“Let me go, Sam.” She wrenched herself out of his grip and ran lightly to the card, and picked it up. She looked up. “Misha?”

“Take it! Get out! Go!” The kid’s voice cracked from screaming.

Sam scooped his arm around her shoulders and half-shoved, half-carried her down the sidewalk. “You’ve pushed me too far. There could have been ten guys in there, with bad intentions. Never again, get me?”

“Sam!” She barely registered his tantrum, she was so busy scrambling not to trip, and staring at the card in her hand. “Look!”

“At what? My life, flashing before my eyes?”

“No, at the card! Look at the card!”

He finally heard the excitement in her voice. He stopped, looked.

A phone number was scribbled hastily upon it. A time, too. 15:00–16:00. They used a twenty-four-hour clock here: 3:00 P.M. to 4:00 P.M.

His stomach sank at the look on her face. “Don’t give me that big-eyed hopeful look. It’s probably a trap. That kid is not normal.”

“Of course he’s not normal,” Sveti said. “You said yourself that he was scared shitless. And all that swearing and screaming was forced.”

“Sveti,” he said. “I’m begging you. Do not add Misha Cherchenko to the list of people who are your personal responsibility to save.”

“Sam.” She planted her feet, forcing him to grind to a stop, and slid her hands up on either side of his face. She gave him that wide-eyed, radiant, soft-focus angel look. “Sam, breathe.”

His groin tingled. He was such a chump for this woman, it embarrassed him. He popped the trunk of the car and pulled out a briefcase. Once the Glock 19 inside was tucked into his waistband his heart rate came down, but he had a way to go before he hit normal.

Sveti was startled. “That is one full-service car rental you’ve got!”

“Val and I worked it out days ago. His contact will bring me more hardware tomorrow, in San Anselmo. This will tide me over for now.”

Sveti dialed the number. A phone rang on the other end. A voice responded, tinny, distorted. “Un momento,” Sveti murmured, and held out the phone to him. “Italian,” she said. “Would you . . . ?”

He took the phone. “Con chi parlo?” With whom am I speaking?

“Noi siamo La Gelateria del Corso,” said an irritated, older male voice with a Roman accent.

“Dove siete locati?” Where are you located?

“Al centro!” the guy responded truculently. Downtown.

Sam pushed his luck a little further. “Downtown of what town?”

“Sul serio? Castellana Padulli! Don’t waste my time!” He hung up.

Sam pulled over in the next free spot. Typed the gelateria and the town into his phone. Waited while it sifted data, churned out mileage.

“So?” Sveti demanded impatiently.

“It’s an ice-cream shop,” he said. “In a small town south of here.”

They stared at each other. Horns blared. Traffic swirled outside.

“Sasha must be there,” she said.

“Not necessarily,” he said. “That kid is f*cking with you, Sveti.”