“You still don’t get it, do you? I haven’t done you any favors. I’ve just cut your life short by about fifty years.” She glanced at the glass in his hand. “Depending on how hard you’d drink, of course.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. I wouldn’t know what the hell to do with those fifty years anyhow.”
She sighed out a long breath, pressing her slender hand against her midriff. The look in her eyes mirrored his own.
Cold, wind-whipped wastes. Secrets in the shadows. Rocks and hard places.
“You want to do me a favor?” Her voice was low. “Do the world a favor. Kill Zhoglo. Don’t just spy on him. Don’t just hand him over to the law. Put a bullet through his brain stem at close range.”
He thought about Sveti. “Tam, I—”
“Kill him if you can. If you can’t, then God help you.”
She turned, and disappeared into the gloomy shadows.
Nadvirna, The Ukraine
Vadim Zhoglo slowly sipped the fine brandy from the crystal snifter in his hand and gazed out at the snowy peaks of the Carpathian mountains. “Transport details for the first shipment are in place, Pavel?” he asked.
“Yes,” the man replied stolidly. “Everything’s arranged.”
Zhoglo turned to look at him. “And you can vouch for each one of your people this time? No more surprises, like six months ago?”
Pavel’s hand darted to the collar of his suit, tugging to make space for his large and lumpy Adam’s apple to bob and twitch.
That was his answer. Again. Zhoglo closed his eyes. “What has happened this time, Pavel?” he asked with deceptive gentleness.
“Nothing serious,” Pavel hastened to assure him. “But one of the men in place in Puget Sound had to be, ah, replaced.”
“Killed?” Vadim frowned. “How is this possible?”
“Suicide,” Pavel forced out, his voice gravelly and reluctant. “He hanged himself. Pyotr Cherchenko.”
“Your nephew, no? The one you had me arrange those expensive immigration documents for? I see. Yet another wasted investment,” Vadim said. “My condolences, Pavel. And his replacement?”
Sweat shone on Pavel’s pale forehead. “A man named Arkady Solokov. From Donetsk. He’s taking care of security on the island.”
“And you can vouch for this Solokov? Without hesitation?”
Pavel’s eyes slid away. “We’ve had dealings with him before. He was with Avia. He brokered those deals for the M93 grenade launchers and rockets to Liberia four years ago. He seems very competent. And his English skills are—”
“Seems competent,” Vadim repeated, with ironic emphasis. “I invest millions in this project, and you tell me this person ‘seems’ competent.”
“I had to get someone in place quickly, Vor, and I am sure that—”
“I am sure of nothing. Except that you’re an idiot who compels me to take risks. Very well. We will proceed as planned. You may go.”
But Pavel lingered, shuffling his overlarge feet.
“What is it?” Vadim barked. “You’re boring me, Pavel.”
“My—my sons?” Pavel faltered. “You promised that we could have Sasha and Misha back if I—”
“The agreement was that you could have your sons back if you corrected the error you made in that unfortunate business last year. But you have not, Pavel. You have compounded your mistake.”
“Vor, please. My boys are just two and eleven, and—”
“I am not heartless. You may have one son back. The other goes out with the first shipment. To defray the cost of your errors.”
Pavel’s face drained to the color of ash. “One? But I—but Marya—” The clock ticked loudly. “Which one?” he whispered.
Vadim shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. There is equal demand for vital organs from two-year-olds and eleven-year-olds.” He smiled indulgently. “Take an evening to think about it, Pavel, by all means. Discuss it with your wife. Let me know your decision in the morning.”
Pavel stood like a statue, eyes staring. Zhoglo pushed a button on his belt to summon two large thugs. They hustled the man away.
Chapter
2
Skinny-dipping. Skydiving. Crewing on a yacht. Camping under the stars in the Sahara. Backpacking through Europe. Getting a cute tattoo. Having passionate love affairs with untamed guys with lots of rippling muscles. The list went on and on, all the crazy things girls did before they calmed down and found The One. Things that Becca Cattrell had never gotten around to trying.
Aw, face it, already. She’d never had the nerve, let alone the time.
Becca stubbed her big toe in the dark on a board that stuck up out of the wooden walkway. She braced herself for the time it took for pain to flash through her nerves and assault her brain. That interval was significantly slowed by the alcohol in her bloodstream. It got there eventually, though, and oh crap, that hurt.
She lifted the uncorked cabernet to her lips and took another swig. The bottle felt suspiciously light. So did her head.
No matter. She had to loosen up. By brute force, if necessary. She was no longer willing to play her divinely ordained role as a dutiful, dependable, reasonable goody-two-shoes twit. She was going to work her way down that list, and do every one of those silly things.
And enjoy them, too, goddamnit. Just watch her.
However, on isolated Frakes Island, there wasn’t a whole lot of choice in terms of running wild. Getting plastered alone, trespassing on some millionaire’s property, skinny-dipping in his pool without an invitation, hey—it was the best she could do without advance planning.
It did seem like something that Kaia would do. Kaia would probably take it a step further, though, and have exotic six-way sex in the millionaire’s pool. But alas, Frakes Island was deserted in mid-April. There was nobody around for Becca to have aquatic erotic adventures with.
Aw. Poor her. What else was new?
Kaia. Thinking about that girl made every muscle in her body contract. Becca shivered. She was naked beneath Marla’s terry-cloth robe, wearing only flip-flops that slapped against the boards of the walkway. She should have scrounged jeans and a sweater from Marla’s vacation garb. Being naked in the woods at night was unnerving. Too quiet for a city girl like her. The silence felt like a pillow, smothering her.
She didn’t have a stitch of appropriate clothing for this island adventure. She hadn’t had a chance to go home and pack before she dodged the tabloid reporters lying in wait for her in front of the Cardinal Creek Country Club. She’d been forced to sneak out the service entrance, and her boss, Marla, had rushed her straight from there to the ferry dock. Bye, Becca. Don’t hurry back. Don’t get eaten by a bear if you can help it.
Good ol’ Marla. Becca silently thanked her again for the heart-warming support.
She must have looked ridiculous when the taxicat guy had brought her over from the mainland in that cool catamaran. Breasting the waves in a houndstooth power suit. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of cab. She took another swig.
To say nothing of her red, puffy eyes, her paleness, her bluish lips. Just call her the Corpse Bride. Hah. Except that she couldn’t get up the aisle as any sort of bride, corpse or otherwise.
She chased that thought away with a bigger swig of wine.