In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(9)

But Sveti just had to choose that particular photograph of Sonia to project in that lecture. And in all the time she’d spoken, Josef just happened to look over Sasha’s shoulder at that precise, disastrous moment. Now doom was crashing down on one of the last people on earth Sasha still dared to care about. All his fault. As usual.

Ironically, it was only because Josef had gone hunting Sveti that Sasha had escaped. Josef was the smartest of his father’s men, of the ones in Rome, at least. The cruelest, too. Aleksei and Andrei and the others were stupid and lazy by comparison.

He had tried to be careful and methodical in his planning. Witnesses would make it harder for his father’s men to slaughter them outright, but there could not be too many, so as to minimize the carnage if things went bad. The bar was in a business district, but it was early for the breakfast rush. If the man arrived at all. Lives at stake, and the guy was twelve f*cking minutes late.

Sasha’s life was over at this point, that was certain. Circling down the drain. It was a familiar feeling, that vertiginous swirl, the hollow gurgle. Down he went, lower than dirt. A piece of meat to be chopped up and sold by the pound. He ached to shoot some blessed peace into his veins and let the stabbing pain smooth out. But his stash was all gone, after months of captivity in the Rome house. He was clean. Horribly lucid. His nerves were raw, his belly a black hole, a cigarette burn.

And he had a job to do. He wouldn’t have to wait long for it to end. They would find him soon enough, and put a vicious end to him. Unless he beat them to it, of course. He’d dragged his heels on that, for Misha’s sake, but his continued existence did Misha no favors. It forced his brother to choose sides. Choosing against their father was bad for Misha’s health. It would be best for everyone if Sasha erased himself.

But not today. All his limited courage was focused on blowing this secret open. If the world knew, there would be no point in hurting Sveti. His father and his crew would have far more urgent things to do.

There. Mauro Mongelli, strolling up the street. Sasha recognized him from the photo on his column. Terror turned his legs floppy and boneless. The journalist seated himself at one of the outside tables and called for a barista. He looked ill at ease, eyes darting around. Sasha had been clear about the dangers, but no true journalist could resist a career-changing scoop like this one, no matter the risk.

Sasha clutched the envelope holding the documentation he’d gathered: Sonia’s photos and videos, the computer files, the e-mails and screenshots. Proving what he’d found the courage to do, six years ago. He had almost won his freedom. Almost.

He fought to control his bowels as he shuffled forward. A heavy wind of fear blew him back. The Taurus revolver he had stolen from Aleksei was tucked into the small of his back. His body heat, such as it was, could not warm it. The metal against his clammy skin made him shudder. He’d been forced to tighten his belt to hold the hateful thing in place, he was so skeletally thin. Food sickened him.

The man caught sight of him and half rose from the table. “Lei è Alexsandr Cherchenko?”

Sasha coughed but could not get the words out. He nodded.

Mongelli was a sharp Italian guy, well groomed. His deep, even tan was set off by discreet glints of man jewelry. He looked politely repelled, as well he might. Sasha knew he looked like a walking corpse.

The barista came out, bearing a tray. A cappuccino, a cornetto. He glanced at Sasha. “Qualcosa per lei?” he asked, almost fearfully.

“Niente.” Nothing. Sasha mouthed the word but couldn’t voice it.

The barista fled. Mongelli sank back down to his chair, indicating the chair opposite, but Sasha hesitated, not sure if he could tolerate such close proximity to Mongelli’s rich, buttery cornetto without disgracing himself. Nausea churned inside him.

“Sta bene?” Mongelli asked. Are you well?

Sasha suppressed a cackle of hysterical laughter and nodded.

The man’s eyes dropped to the envelope he clutched to his chest. “That’s the photographic evidence?”

“Sí,” Sasha forced out. He tried to say more, coughed, sighed out the tension, concentrated. Nothing coming out. Fuck. He pulled out the pen and pad he kept in his pocket and scribbled the words down.



Take the police to the location I wrote in the e-mail, immediately. The proof is there. I brought the pictures to demonstrate that it is worth your while to do so.





He ripped the note off. Handed it to the journalist.

Mongelli studied it. “Why not just go to the police directly yourself?” His eyes were beady and suspicious.

Sasha closed his eyes, his jaw twitching, and put the pen to the pad again.



I tried, before. People died. This must be made public, as fast and loud as possible. Do you understand the danger?





Mongelli read the note and nodded, but Sasha could tell by his glittering eyes that he was thinking about career advancement, not danger. “You have photos of these thermonuclear generators?”

Sasha shook his head and scribbled.



I have photos of their shielded containers. The cylinders have been pulverized for easy bomb construction. Strontium-90. If I had opened the container to photograph the contents, I would have died very quickly.





The man’s eyes slitted as he read. “And this deadly radioactive material has been hidden out behind Torre Sant’ Orsola for six years? And no one ever found it? It seems improbable.”