39
999 Words
A brief silence follows. “But you knew he was here. You spoke to him. I can tell by your voice.”
So maybe this asshole is smarter than I give him credit for.
Maybe.
“I had nothing to do with this kidnapping. I give you my word on that.”
He scoffs. “Your bloody word.”
I lower my voice. “Yes. The same way I give you my word I haven’t told any of your Irish Mob friends or the other families who and what you really are. Or who you’re working with. Because if I had, we both know what would’ve already happened.”
In his pause, I sense the wheels turning a million miles per hour inside his head. But he remains silent.
“Thank you for not insulting my intelligence with a denial.”
“You’re welcome. And I’ll thank you not to insult my intelligence with a denial, too.”
“Like it or not, I’m telling you the truth.”
“I’m not talking about Malek now.”
Christ, he’s exasperating. He talks in f*****g circles. “Then what the hell are you talking about?”
“Your involvement with Maxim Mogdonovich’s death.”
He says it with such utter conviction, I know he’s got intel that he shouldn’t have. He’s not guessing.
He knows.
Fuck.
When I don’t speak for a moment, purely from surprise, Declan says, “You remember Max, aye? Your old boss? Died in a prison riot, conveniently elevating your ruthless arse to the number one spot? Funny how that happened. I wonder what your Bratva boys would have to say if they found out you arranged the whole thing?”
“You’re an ignorant slug.”
“And you’re a can of piss. My point is that we both know things about the other that we shouldn’t. Let’s focus on the important issue here. Tell me where I can find this bastard Malek. Where does he live? How does he travel?”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know.”
“You do realize you still owe me for getting your FBI file erased?”
“Incorrect. I let Sloane stay with us while you were out taking care of your business. Your dangerous business, that’s now blowing back in your face. I didn’t have to do that.”
His voice rises. “Listen to me, you—”
“I gave your woman shelter. My debt is paid. The end.”
There follows a silence so long, I think he might have hung up. Then he says, “If you help me, I’ll grant you a favor. One favor. Anything you ask. No conditions.”
“Okay. Shoot yourself in the head.”
“Anything other than that, you bloody great wanker.”
When I don’t reply, he prompts, “You know what I’m offering is valuable. All you have to do is give me something to go on. Give me somewhere to look. Give me f*****g anything that will help us find her, and I’ll owe you a marker. No questions asked.”
I consider it.
A dozen different extremely useful things I could ask him for run through my head. Though I hate to admit it, Declan O’Donnell is a powerful man.
You never know when having a man like that in your debt will come in handy.
And I did specifically tell Malek not to hurt any women while he was getting his revenge. I was very clear on that. Now, a girl has been shot in the process of a kidnapping that wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not just any girl.
One that Natalie cares about. One she wants me to help find.
Decision made.
“All right, Irish. You’ve got yourself a deal. Let me make a few calls. I’ll get back to you when I have something.”
I hang up before I have to hear his annoying accent again.
Then, with Nat watching nervously, I start dialing.
23
Riley
T
he pain is everywhere.
It’s mostly in my stomach, but it’s also all over me, everywhere at once. Every breath is agony. The smallest movement is torture. Even the air brushing my skin makes it hurt.
It hurts so bad, I wish I were dead.
My eyes are closed and my mind is sluggish, dulled by the blunt force of the pain, but I’m still vaguely aware of my surroundings.
I smell antiseptic.
I hear words spoken low in a foreign language.
I feel a cold pinch of metal as a needle is inserted into my arm, then a faint burning in the vein.
The sharpest edge of the pain dulls within seconds. My moan of gratitude is a reflex.
A cell phone rings.
Heavy footsteps move away.
A voice I recognize says in English, “I’m within my rights. It’s not for you to question.”
It’s Malek. He sounds furious.
More silence. Then he speaks in rapid-fire sentences, biting the words off his tongue.
“I took her as repayment for Mikhail. What I do from here is none of your business. This is all the explanation you’ll get, Kazimir. She’s mine now. Don’t contact me again.”
The heavy footsteps move closer. Malek speaks again, this time in Russian.
Also in Russian, the answer comes from my right.
It’s a man’s voice. He sounds nervous. I sense there are others nearby, watching silently, just as nervous as him.
When Malek responds, I understand it, so it must be in English. But my brain is as fuzzy as a cotton ball. Whatever’s getting pumped into my arm is dragging me fast toward unconsciousness.
“Do it,” he growls. “If she dies, so do all of you.”
The words slip-slide out of my grasp even as they’re spoken, rising up on lazy drafts of air to echo against the ceiling until they fade away.
A wave of darkness crashes down and swallows me whole.
- Writer
