Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(59)

“Is this one taken?” A techno beat blared through the speakers on the wall behind me. I raised my voice over the music and asked again.

Irina glanced up at me. She shook her head and smiled placidly, her brows rising when she caught sight of my bright white shoes. She didn’t look at my face again, showing no sign of recognition. This was good. A dark room, lots of people, loud music. She wouldn’t get a good look at me, and we probably wouldn’t be overheard.

I planted my feet in the stirrups, my neon-white shoes beginning to move in lazy circles as I pedaled. Watching Irina out of the corner of my eye, I mimicked her movements. This wasn’t so hard, I thought to myself as the instructor called out a series of commands to the group.

The class rose in unison, pushing up in their stirrups like a wave, then down again as the lights switched with the beat of the music from purple to green to blue. I tried to find a rhythm, rising and falling with them, but I was always a half beat off. The faces of the riders around me were focused, concentrating. It was now or never.

“Irina?” I said her name as loud as I dared, just loud enough to be heard above the music.

Her head turned by a fraction, the only indication she’d heard me.

“You met my friend,” I said between breaths as I pedaled. “You gave her some money and asked me to do a job for you. But I think there’s been a mistake. I’d like to talk to you.”

Her eyes drifted to my arms, my legs, then my shoes as they struggled to stay connected to the pedals. She’d hardly broken a sweat. “There’s no mistake,” she said. Her voice was as dark and severe as her eyes, the clipped words heavily accented. “The money’s yours,” she said, jutting her sharp chin at me, her pin-straight bangs falling in jagged layers around her face. “You get the rest when the job’s done. There’s nothing to talk about.”

The instructor called out to the group, “You ready to pick up the pace, ladies?” Cheers erupted as the tempo quickened. I tried to keep up, rising out of sync with the wave, my butt smacking onto the seat as my pedals lurched out from under me. The stirrup bit painfully into my heel before I managed to catch the pedal again. I was pretty sure I wasn’t getting paid enough to be here.

“But see … that’s the problem,” I panted. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m not qualified to do the type of work you hired me for.”

“That’s not what Patricia said. She said you were competent. Neat.”

“She was wrong.”

“I don’t think so. Patricia knows my husband’s line of work. She would not have recommended you if she wasn’t confident you were suited to the job.”

“But it wasn’t me!” I let go of the handlebar with one hand, pressing it to my chest. The gesture cost me my balance and I slipped again. I wedged my foot back into the stirrup. “I wasn’t the one who…” I looked around, lowering my voice as much as I could over the persistent thump of the bass. “I wasn’t the one who finished that job.” Sweat dripped down my neck, and my thighs were beginning to burn. “Can we go somewhere private where I can explain? I have something of yours. I’d like to give it back.” As I pedaled, I cut my eyes to the Disney backpack on the floor between us.

“There’s nothing to explain,” she said, dipping low, then back up again, in perfect time with the other riders. “Patricia’s husband is handled, yes?”

“No,” I said between searing breaths. “I mean, yes. But…” I looked around anxiously, but the women around us were entirely focused on the instructor, pushing up and dropping low, pedaling like crazy people. The music was so loud, I could barely think.

“Increase tension!” the trainer called out.

Irina adjusted a knob between her knees and crouched over her handlebars, her butt perched high over her seat.

I pumped my legs, determined to keep up. My pedals were flying like living, hungry beasts. I moved faster, afraid if I stopped they’d chew the backs of my feet off.

“You are my only option,” she said, her forehead beginning to glisten. “My husband knows everyone else in your line of work. You,” she said, smirking as sweat drenched my collar. “You he does not know. It will be easy. He won’t be expecting it from someone with your…” My shoes slipped precariously on the pedals and I nearly came flying off the bike. Her grin widened. “Your modest skills.”

Great. Just great. In her mind, not only was I qualified, but I was perfect for the job.

“More tension!”

No, damnit. No more tension!

“Aren’t you afraid someone might find out?”

“Who? Feliks?” she asked, taking me off guard. She waved dismissively, never once breaking rhythm. “Feliks does not involve himself in domestic affairs. If Andrei is careless enough to allow himself to be subdued by a pretty face, I’m sure Feliks would agree that Andrei deserved whatever happened to him. Andrei has been reckless. He’s become a liability. Andrei is only lucky Feliks hasn’t done it himself.”

“Push it out, people!” the instructor bellowed. “Really push it!” Was the woman kidding? I hadn’t pushed this hard since I was in labor with Zach.

The group grunted with a collective burst of speed, like something out of a nightmare. I couldn’t feel my legs, and yet every inch of me was in pain. Irina leaned into her bike with a savage grin as the room took on the colors and tone of a disco. Lights flashed, sirens blared, the bass thumped. My heart was slamming out of my chest.