Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(34)

A piece of something thick—folded-up paper, maybe?—taped to the inside of the door handle.

My initial reaction is to pull it out and immediately take a look, but some sixth sense stops me. The itchy feeling between my shoulder blades—the one that’s so omnipresent I barely notice it anymore—is far more intense all of a sudden, and instead of yanking out the object and staring at it, I unobtrusively pry it loose, hold it in my closed fist, and get in the car.

Slipping the object—now definitively identified as a piece of folded paper—into my jacket pocket, I pull out of the parking lot and head home. Behind me is the inevitable FBI tail, and as I drive, the paper feels like it’s burning through my pocket.

It takes everything I have to park in front of my apartment building and walk through the lobby to the elevator calmly, without hurrying. It’s possible that this is some kind of advertisement that’s just weirdly placed, but somehow, I’m certain that it’s not.

Stepping into my apartment, I lock the door and glance around. I don’t think there are any cameras or listening devices in here; after all the high-tech equipment found in my old house and then months later in my parents’ house, the Feds sweep my place on a semi-regular basis, and they themselves would need a warrant to do that kind of invasive surveillance. However, just to be on the safe side, I kick off my shoes and walk toward my bedroom closet, maintaining my calm demeanor the entire time.

If someone is watching me, I’m not going to give them reason for suspicion.

My one-bedroom apartment is fairly small, with a tiny kitchen and a cramped living room, but it does have one nice feature: a spacious walk-in closet in the bedroom. I go in there, as I normally would to undress, but instead, as soon as I’m out of sight of any potential cameras, I take out the paper from my pocket and unfold it, my hands shaking.

It’s just a couple of lines, scrawled on the thick paper in sharp, masculine handwriting.

Remember, ptichka. For as long as we’re both alive.





27





Peter



The Moscow job goes smoothly—we eliminate our target in one short week—and then we’re back to hunting Henderson while we await word from Novak. Last month, the Serbian arms dealer confirmed everything is on track for the original eight-month timeline, but he’s still closemouthed about his asset within Esguerra’s organization—the key piece of information I need to implement my plan.

Unfortunately, Henderson remains as elusive as always, so as May progresses, we do another round of shaking down his acquaintances for any leads. This time, we focus on his wife’s connections in her hometown of Charleston, just to switch things up.

“Nothing again,” Ilya says with disgust as we board the plane, having interrogated our five targets. “The idiots didn’t know a thing.”

I shrug and take my seat. “It was to be expected.”

I still consider the operation a success. We got away without so much as a car chase, and we again showed Henderson that nobody in his life, no matter how remote a connection, is safe. Sooner or later, it will sink in, and then he’ll make a mistake. Maybe his wife will get worried about a friend of hers and reach out to check on her, or maybe the teenage daughter will freak out and call her ex.

No matter what happens, the moment they fuck up, we’ll be ready, and my dead wife and son will be avenged.





It’s the beginning of June when it finally happens.

I get an email from Novak that he wants to meet next Wednesday.

Just you, the email reads. No one else.

I suppress a surge of savage joy and begin making the arrangements.





For the past two weeks, we’ve been staying in our Polish safe house, waiting for Novak to reach out, so Wednesday morning, I have the guys drop me off in Belgrade and assume their positions.

They won’t be with me, but they’ll certainly be around.

I meet Novak in the same café as before. As I walk in, I notice that his goons are conspicuously absent—as are the pretty baristas. Novak himself is sitting at the small table in the middle of the café, with nothing but a brown leather folder in front of him.

“All alone?” I ask, trying not to let my surprise show, and Novak’s thin lips curve as he stands up and comes around the table to greet me.

“I thought we could dispense with all the bullshit.” His pale eyes gleam as he shakes my hand. “We need each other, and I think it’s time we built some trust.”

I’m certain this is bullshit—his men are likely positioned as strategically as mine—but I let my stony expression soften slightly as I release his hand. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Good.” He sits back down at the table and motions for me to do so as well. “Please.”

I take a seat and assume an impassive expression. “So, is the asset in place?”

Novak nods, maintaining his smug little smile. “She’s on the way to Esguerra’s compound as we speak.”

My pulse speeds up. Time and date of the asset’s transport—this is already something I can use. “Congratulations. That’s quite an achievement,” I say, keeping my voice even.

Novak accepts the praise as his due. “Thank you. It took a lot of work, but I did it.”