In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(84)

He cleared his throat. “That one,” he said. “That one’s a winner.”

She twirled, smiling at the mirror in a rare show of vanity. “I agree, for once,” she said. “It’s very nice. How much does it cost?”

“Don’t even start,” he said. “I’m hard already, just looking at you in that thing, so don’t provoke me. I might end up getting all masterful and overbearing. Just to prove a point.”

“Really?” She twirled, making the skirt flare. “What kind of point?”

He tilted her face up and kissed her hungrily, until she was dazed and breathless. “The kind of point that might mess up the dress.”





“Break his other knee,” Pavel Cherchenko said.

“No!” Misha shrieked, as Ivan lifted the baton over the wretched, bloodied Andrei, who lay broken and unrecognizable on the floor. “It’s the truth! It wasn’t Andrei’s fault! He didn’t know! I’m sorry we didn’t tell you as soon as she arrived, but I didn’t know that you wanted to—”

“Liar. Of course you knew. You spy on everything I do, my son. Andrei is an idiot, yes, but you are not. I had people waiting for her at both airports in Rome and Milan, and you knew it. But what bothers me most is what a bad liar you are.” He swatted the back of Misha’s head, smashing his face onto the gleaming surface of Pavel’s desk.

When Misha dragged himself back up, blood streamed from his broken nose, along with the snot brought on by his womanish tears.

And this piece of shit was all he had to call his heir.

“I’m sorry.” Misha’s voice gurgled. “It was me, only me. Not Andrei. I told him to bring her up, and I—”

“He should have called for instructions.” Pavel punctuated this with a savage kick to the kidney. Andrei shrieked. “He shouldn’t have listened to a snot-nosed, lying little boy.” A crunch of broken ribs. “He should have realized what you were doing.” A boot heel, ground onto the man’s genitals. Andrei jackknifed, in spite of his shattered vertebrae.

“Please, stop, stop, stop,” the boy moaned. “Please.” He sobbed silently, eyes closed, blood streaming down his neck into his shirt.

Pavel gazed at his son with a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d entertained hopes for Misha, even after the blow that Sasha had dealt him. Bright Misha, with his talent with tech, his facility with numbers. A freak, yes, but in this day and age, one needed an edge. Misha was unscarred by Zhoglo’s punishment. Marya and Sasha had been gutted, but there was still hope for Misha. Or had been. Now he was not sure.

He was still angry at Sasha, for not being strong enough. For not appreciating what his father had done for him, by murdering that scum Zhoglo. He had to remind his own self every morning that he had actually done it, as he woke from the nightmares in which Zhoglo was grinding his boot into Pavel’s face. He was not that wretched slave any longer. He had freed himself. Killing Zhoglo had ignited him.

He had avenged Sasha, but had his son shown gratitude for his father’s efforts? Had he valued the possibilities his father had given him? No. The worthless turd had curled up into a ball. A mute wraith of a boy who would not speak, who lost himself in drugs. First vodka, brandy. Then as soon as he was old enough to go and seek it out, heroin. His boy, floating away, on a f*cking lake of opiates. He could forgive a great deal, after what Sasha had suffered, but not betrayal.

Sasha had to die. It would be a relief to everyone. Most of all to Sasha himself, he suspected. But Pavel was appalled to find that the taint had corrupted Misha, too. Something had to be done. Something severe.

His offspring hunched, shaking and leaking before him. He slapped the boy, whack. “Stop crying! I watched the footage. You knew about the hidden cameras. I saw you playing to them. That screaming and carrying on, so overdone. Not like you, sullen, constipated clam that you are.” Whack. “You turned your back to the camera in the library to write on her card. And throwing the card onto the street? How did you plan to justify that to me? Svetlana Ardova’s cell phone number might have saved me time. I don’t suppose you memorized her number?”

“No,” Misha whispered. “I didn’t even look at it.”

Pavel took the baton from Ivan’s hand. Crack, he brought it down on Andrei’s scapula. Misha’s moan was drowned out by Andrei’s shriek.

Pavel panted as he stared at the man twitching on the floor, ruining the fine Persian rug. Rugs were replaceable. Sons were harder to come by. But when a thing was ruined, it was ruined.

He would give Misha one last chance, for Marya’s sake. Not that he owed the bitch anything. She’d been weak. Giving in to despair. He’d worked so hard to make it up to her, but even Sasha’s return from the dead did not slow her descent. From the grave, she kept her grip on him. Guilt, shame, at being powerless to protect his family.

He hated her for it. He hated them all.

“Where are the thermal generators located?” he demanded.

“I don’t know! I don’t know anything about—”

Whack. The slap rocked Misha’s head back. “Why are you helping Sasha?” he bellowed.

“I just . . . wanted to know he was alive.” Misha sobbed, silently.

Pavel leaned into his son’s cringing face. “What did you write on the card you threw down to her?”