The garage felt smaller after Victor left.
Adam stood frozen, the wrench still in his hand, the photograph of Sofia burned into his mind. He could still smell Victor's cologne—expensive, cloying, the scent of a man who had never done his own dirty work.
He set the wrench down. His hands were steady. That surprised him.
“Adam?” Sandra appeared in the doorway. She'd been in the office, doing paperwork. “Who was that?”
“Victor Markov.”
Her face went pale. “The man from Europe?”
“The same.”
“What did he want?”
“To give me an ultimatum.” Adam walked to the tool chest, opened a drawer, and pulled out a gun. He checked the magazine, slammed it home. “Work for him, or he kills Sofia. Then Elena. Then you.”
“He threatened Sofia?”
“He showed me a picture of her leaving the hospital. He's b
