And now I’m trapped in an elevator with three men who might not be who they claim to be.
Twenty-three. Twenty-two. Twenty-one.
My phone vibrates in my purse. Probably Ledger calling back, but I can’t answer now.
Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen.
“You’ve suddenly gone pale, Mrs. Volkov. Are you all right?” Morrison’s voice is gentle.
“Just tired. Pregnancy.”
“My wife had three children. I remember those last months being difficult.”
Eight. Seven. Six.
The elevator slows. Through the glass walls, I see the lobby approaching. One guard at the security desk. Not anyone I recognize.
And Pedro is nowhere.
The doors open.
Morrison places his hand on my lower back. “This way. Our vehicle is right outside.”
We cross the lobby. The guard doesn’t look up.
The front doors slide open. Sunlight blinds me after being inside for so long. There’s a black SUV at the curb, windows tinted, engine running.
“Right here,” Morrison says, opening the back door.
I stop. “Where’s your official vehicle? FBI agents don’t drive unmarked SUVs.”
“Budget cuts.” Morrison laughs. “We use whatever’s available.”
Dalton’s hand closes around my upper arm. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm. “Let’s not make this difficult, Mrs. Volkov.”
And in that moment, I know with absolute certainty.
These men are not FBI agents. They’re Kozlov’s men.
“No.” I try to pull free. “No, I’m not getting in that car. You’re not?—”
Dalton’s grip tightens. “Get in the car.”
“Let go! Someone help! They’re not?—”
Morrison’s hand clamps over my mouth. Between them, they lift me and shove me into the back seat.
The door slams.
The locks click.
34
LEDGER
My meeting runstwenty minutes over schedule. Dario Sokolov insists on reviewing every detail of the proposed alliance three times, questioning numbers that have already been verified, and demanding assurances that I’ve already given.
By the time we shake hands and finalize the agreement, it’s 3:47 PM.
