I watch him walk across the gravel lot toward me. “Do you have the books?” he asks when he stops in front of me. His Russian accent is thick. Do you have zee books? It would be no surprise to anyone who knows organized crime that he’s Bratva. Russian mafia.
“I’m sure you know I do.”
Up close, I can see how this guy differs from movie mobsters. It’s not his face. It’s scarred, but not too grotesquely. It’s not his size. His heft is intimidating, but not overly much since I’m the same height and obviously in much better shape. It’s not his words. They’re direct and innocuous enough.
No, it’s his eyes that make my palms sweat. They’re cold and dead. If I ever had to describe to someone what the eyes of a killer look like, I’d describe these. Not the color or the shape, but what they say. They say he doesn’t mind doing his job and that he probably never has. They’re the eyes of someone who’s never had a soul, someone who was probably born into this world doing horrible things to innocent people inside his head until he was old enough to do it in reality.
I pray to God these eyes never touch Olivia. Not even from a distance.
“Give them to me and I give you the girl.”
“Let me see her first. I’m not giving you anything until I know she’s okay.”
Those eyes watch me for the longest ten seconds of my life before he speaks. Without fully taking his gaze off me, he turns his head and yells something in Russian. Seconds later, one of the van doors slides open and Marissa is pushed out of the van. Her hands and ankles are bound, as is her mouth, and she’s blindfolded. She falls lifelessly to the ground, landing on her side. I hear her moan of pain and see her draw her legs up toward her chest as if in pain. Around the gag and blindfold, I can see that her face is bruised, as is her shoulder, which is bared by the camisole she’s wearing. It looks like the top to some pajamas I’ve seen her wear before. I hope it is and that they haven’t done anything worse to her than just bruise her. Whether or not I really like Marissa or respect her as a person, I wouldn’t wish what has happened to her—and certainly nothing worse—on my worst enemy.
“Now, give me books.”
“Have them put her in my car.”
“Show me books first.”
I had sort of figured it might go like this, so I feel prepared when I turn and walk to the car, retrieving the blank ledgers. I leave the driver’s side door open, which will hopefully save me valuable seconds if I need to get away quickly. I walk the books back to the big guy, stopping short of where I stood before. The more distance between us, the better.
I hold up the books briefly then drop them back to my side. “Now, have them put her in my car.”
The guy smiles the most chilling smile I’ve ever seen. It makes me wonder if I’m somehow playing right into his hands. I don’t know how I could be, but I’m smart enough to know that underestimating people like this is a fatal error.
So I don’t. I do my best not to underestimate him.
He calls behind him again, to whoever is in the van. “Duffy, put her in car.”
I watch a smaller, more American-looking version of the guy in front of me step out of the van, scoop Marissa up, throw her roughly over his shoulder and carry her to the BMW. He opens the back passenger door and flings her onto the back seat. Through the still-open driver’s side, I can hear her muffled sobs. I don’t know if they’re sobs of pain or relief.
“Now, give me books,” he repeats, like I’m an obstinate child he’s running out of patience with.
My heart tries to hammer its way past my ribs as I hand him the blank ledgers. As I suspected, he flips through them. When he raises his cold eyes to me, if possible, they’re even colder.
“I thought you’d be smarter than this. Your father, not so smart. Look what happened to him.” He pauses meaningfully. “And to his family.”
Fire races along my veins at his reference to my mother and her horrific death. “Things are going to be different this time. You’re going to let us leave here with the books and you’re going to assure me, on behalf of you and your boss and all your shitbag associates, that no one will ever come near me, my family or my friends again. Because if you do, the books will be the least of your worries.”
“What makes you think I do that?”
“Because we have video. Very damning video of the trigger man at the dock that day seven years ago. A man that can be directly linked to Slava.” Slava is the leader of the Bratva cell in the South. “Now I can promise you that, as long as everyone I’ve ever known or met remains safe, this video will never see the light of day. But if—”
The cell phone in my pocket rings. My heart skips a beat. There’s a problem. A big one. Everyone was clear on when to use this number—only if something has gone terribly wrong.
My stomach squeezes into a tight knot.
Olivia.
“Hold that thought. This must be my contact for getting you a preview of the video.”
It’s a bluff. Only Nash has seen the video and it’s only on his phone, not mine. He made a copy onto a flash drive, but it’s not with him. It’s in a safe place, according to him. But it buys me a couple of minutes, which I apparently need.
“What is it?” I answer.
“They took Olivia.” Gavin’s words and the steel in his voice make my chest feel tight.
Holy shit, they’ve got her! Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!
It’s arguably my worst fear to date. And it’s happening. Right now.
“Where?” I ask, mindful of the enforcer standing not too far from me.
“I followed them to a small brick house in Macon. Looks like a hide out.”
“Are you…prepared?”
“Mate, I’m always prepared.”
“I’ll call you back.”
My thoughts are racing through ways to get us out of this. Giving them another bargaining chip—the ultimate bargaining chip, as far as I’m concerned—was never part of the plan.
Outwardly casual, I smile at the big guy, turning just enough so that I can keep the smaller guy, Duffy, in my peripheral vision.