Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Dima picks up the iPad and reads the words out loud to the rest of them.
Someone gathers me into a hug. Nikolai, maybe. I’m passed to Sasha, who also envelopes me against her chest.
I can’t stop crying. I only hear snippets of their conversation: ...turning himself in to Skal’pel’...the bottle of Soviet champagne that was delivered here for him… I can’t track him, he left his phone here…
Finally I make myself speak. “S-stop him,” I sob. “You have to stop him.”
“We will,” Ravil answers grimly, even though I can tell by his face he doesn’t believe it.
He means he will try.
But we may be too late.
Oh God, we may be too late.
How could this have happened? How did I fall in love for the first time in my life only to lose him in the matter of two weeks?
I’m hyperventilating. It’s that ugly, out of control sobbing where you can’t breathe. Can’t speak. Can’t release the torrent of emotion trapped in your body.
“Why?” I sob, even though he told me why.
He did it for me.
He sacrificed his life, so I would stay safe.
I hate myself now for insisting on going to gigs. Making him worry about my safety.
Fuck, if I would’ve know it meant him turning himself in to get butchered by some cruel doctor, I would’ve holed up here in this penthouse with him for the rest of my life.
The salt in my tears burns my eyes.
Someone hands me a tissue. Then another.
Then the whole box.
I can’t stop the hurricane.
“You have to stop him,” I repeat again. “Please.”
Some of the men have left the room. I’m not sure what’s happening.
“Are you going to find him?” I ask. I’m like a lost child in the airport. I don’t even know where to begin or who to turn to.
Ravil comes to me. “We’re trying to track them down. I’ll be honest. It might be difficult. Skal’pel’ is a smart man who could be using any identity and wearing any face. He could’ve been living anywhere. But Dima’s working every angle we can think of.”
I shake my head, refusing to accept that answer. “No. You have to find him. You have to get there before anything happens. How long has he been gone? Does anyone know?”
“Not yet,” Ravil murmurs, pulling out his phone. “But I’ll check with Maykl down at the front door. We have security footage.”
I stumble around the room, my stomach scrunched up under my ribs. “This is wrong,” I mutter between hiccuping sobs. “It’s all wrong.”
“Story.” Ravil gently grips my shoulder. “I’d like you to stay here while we figure this out, okay? You may still be in danger, and I need to keep you safe.”
I blink at him then burst into fresh tears, but I nod. “Yes,” I say. I want to be with them. I need to be with the people who know and love Oleg.
Because I need them to bring him back.
Oleg
I blink, trying to open my eyes, but even when I do, I can’t see. I shift. My wrists are bound. There must be a bag over my head.
I’m still alive.
I’m surprised by that fact.
At dawn, I walked outside the Kremlin and stood outside the building to wait.
I stood motionless for three hours, and then a black limo pulled up across the street and parked. When no one got out, I waited a few minutes, then crossed the street and opened the door to the back seat.
It was empty.
“Get in,” the driver said, without looking back at me. He was American. Possibly a thug for hire. He drove to a private airstrip and parked. There, the back doors were simultaneously opened by two more thugs—also American—who told me to get out and get on the plane—a small jet parked on the tarmac. I walked up the steps. The moment I arrived at the top, someone stabbed a needle into my neck. I didn’t fight them or the drug. I just looked around for Skal’pel’ before I topped into the waiting arms of the two thugs who’d followed me in.
I never saw him.
He may never have been in Chicago at all.
That fit. He wouldn’t risk his own neck to get me.
I test my bonds. My wrists are bound in front with what feels like zip ties. I’m sitting upright in a comfortable seat—the jet’s chair, maybe?
“You’re awake.” The mild-mannered voice of my former boss reaches my ears. He’s speaking in Russian.
The bag comes off. We are on the jet—at least, I think it’s the same jet, but it may be a different one. Skal’pel’ sits across from me in an expensive tailored suit. I don’t recognize his face—he’s changed it. But I would remember the voice anywhere. And his body frame hasn’t changed, other than a few extra pounds.
I don’t move. I have no fight in me. My only plan was to surrender to this man to save Story.