No wonder Declan can’t build up the West Coast.
The door clicks, and Brody charges through, bringing fresh air with him.
I wrinkle my nose when the acrid odor reaches me.
Shit, maybe the place is burning.
I hope he’s here to cut me loose, but so far, he hasn’t even acknowledged me. A phone’s tucked beneath his ear like he glued it there.
“Brody!”
He spins around.
“I smell smoke. A little help?”
“Understood.” He agrees with the person on the phone, not me. He repeats that same word a few more times before shutting off the device, slipping it into his pocket, and extracting a switchblade.
The blade shoots open, glistening in the shitty fluorescent lights.
Oh, yeah, been sitting under those all night too.
“Is the Cypress actually on fire?”
He cuts the ties securing me to the shelves bolted into the walls. I yanked on them until my arms ached, to no avail.
My hands remain secured behind me, but I can at least stand and stretch my legs. “Is Maeve’s hotel on fire, man? Is she okay?”
Brody jerks his head. “Let’s go. We’re getting out of here.”
I obey the guy only because I’m no good to Maeve dead, and if the place is ablaze, we all need to exit. I crush the anxiety blooming behind my ribs. She’s an intelligent, self-sufficient woman who thinks on her feet. I’ll find her outside.
Hopefully.
We head for the stairwell near the delivery area that leads to the main floor. “Stop ignoring me. Have you talked to your sister?”
He shakes his head, a sound akin to a laugh escaping him. “Worry about yourself. My sister’s fine. She’s a big girl.”
“Well, if this wedding is ruined because some asshole left a candle burning or shot a cigarette butt out the car window onto the grounds, she’s not going to be fine. The Cypress is her life. This is her career we’re talking about.”
“Are you for real? You have bigger problems than my sister’s wedding stress, man. Doyle is gone, for one.”
I stop walking. “What? How the hell did you lose him?”
He turns back, approaches, and tries to yank me forward, but I’m twice his size.
“Move, Brennan.”
I don’t. “So you admit you took Doyle, and now you misplaced him? Or did the snake just slither off to the highest bidder?”
“I wish it were that simple.”
“Brody, where the fuck is he?”
“Andrei Kruschev has him.”
Kruschev, Kruschev… Why do I recognize that name?
He must see my wheels spinning. “Rostov.” Brody connects the dots for me by spitting out the answer.
