The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)(88)

“Wait, what?” Amber turned to see who had grabbed Lauren’s attention, her eyes widening when she saw the men in suits steadily walking towards them. “But you don’t have to go with them, right?”

“Yea, but I don’t want you to get involved in all of this. If they see me with you, they might interrogate you next. Call Mish.”

Lauren quickly scribbled down Mishca’s new number on a napkin and stood up. She could practically feel the eyes of the other guests on her as the men flashed their badges, escorting her out after making brief introductions.

Though the ride was short and silent, and Lauren was left mostly to herself, she did well to hide her panic from those around her. Being brought in—this time by the FBI—had her thinking back on everything that had happened since she met Mishca.

Would they ask her about Viktor again? Had they somehow found out about what happened to the Albanian mobster she had shot to death in Mishca’s club?

There were so many possibilities that by the time they got to their destination, she had to stuff her hands in her pockets, just so the agents couldn’t see their trembling.

After her identification was checked, and she was practically paraded around the station, Lauren was escorted to a room whose walls appeared to be made of steel, except a single one that she knew was a one-way mirror. More surprising than that, she wasn’t taken to an FBI field office, rather down to a local NYPD precinct, the officers in uniforms giving it away.

She was left in the room by herself for a while, and she figured they were on the other side of the mirror watching her, waiting for a reaction that they weren’t going to get.

It took some time, longer than Lauren thought necessary, but she was finally joined by a female FBI agent.

She was tall, at least six feet with coffee colored hair and piercing brown eyes. Lauren recognized her from the club shooting—Agent Green, she thought.

Agent Green presented a cup of coffee like a peace offering, sliding it across the table for Lauren. She refused to touch it. If they wanted her fingerprints—not that they would have anything to match it to—they would have to get them another way.

“Comfortable?” She asked with wide eyes, like they were just two friends meeting up rather than a pseudo-interrogation.

“Fine. Should I be asking for an attorney?”

She lost her easy smile. “You’re not under arrest, Ms. Thompson.”

Lauren narrowed her eyes on the woman, her next words spilling without a single thought. “Volkov. Mrs. Volkov.”

Agent Green just smiled. “You do realize whose bed you’re sharing, don’t you? I can understand the allure, I suppose. He can be charming—they normally are—but he’s still a murderer.”

Beneath the table, Lauren squeezed her hands together, trying to keep face. She knew what Mishca was, had accepted it, but she had also made it up in her mind that Mishca killed man that deserved it.

Agent Green produced a manila folder with a case number written across the label. In her heart, she knew what would be inside, just judging from the look on the agent’s face. Even still, the first picture was like a punch to the gut.

It was of a man, his fingers missing, just nubs in their place. His face was so badly beaten that he was rendered unrecognizable. Several holes littered his torso, cutting through the image of the Kirim on his chest. Without a doubt, she knew that the body was Ivan.

Even as agent explained who he was, Lauren wasn't listening. She knew him and how he had ended up like this. This was the product of Mishca’s rage. She knew what he was capable of, at least she had thought she did, but it was nothing like seeing his actual work.

I took care of it.

That was what he had told her so long enough when he had all but confessed to what he had done. She remembered the discoloration of his knuckles, the cuts on his hands, but that was nothing in comparison to what he had done to Ivan…what he had done for her.

Lauren shoved the pictures away, but Agent Green wasn't done. She presented picture after picture, forcing her to face what Mishca had done. She didn’t recognize the majority of them, but that didn’t make her feel any less queasy at the sight of them.

“Surprised?” Agent asked reading Lauren's expression. "You don't just get the markings because you know someone. You have to earn them. I know you must be terrified," she said trying another tactic. "We only need just a little information to put these monsters away."

"I can't help you," Lauren said looking away from the agent, the pictures, wishing she could also ignore the realities of the situation.

"Really? Not even after all they've done to your family?"

Lauren felt cold at her words, time slowing down as she spread out a number of pictures on top of the others, these completely different from the others. She met Agent Green’s eyes, a battle of wills ensuing. This was the challenge, whether she could look down and not be affected.

Finally after what felt like minutes, Lauren tore her eyes away and looked down. Against a wooden door, his legs spread out in front of him was her father. Unlike the other men, his eyes were closed and if not for the blood saturating his shirt, he might have appeared to be asleep.

There were dozens, from every angle, sometimes only a millimeter of change marking the difference in the shots. Looking at them, she knew she hadn’t been ready to see them when she read through her father’s file. She still wasn’t.