“She was never in real danger. The men had orders to shoot wide, create chaos, and leave. You’re the one who escalated by engaging them.” A pause, then Adrian adds, “Though I suppose I should have anticipated you’d react that way. You always did have a weakness for playing protector.”
Something about the phrasing bothers me, but I don’t have time to analyze it before he continues.
“It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you use this situation to your advantage. I assume the Kozlovs will reach out soon. They’ll want to know who you are and what you want.”
“Probably.”
“When they do, accept whatever they offer. Get inside their circle. Get close to her.” The possessive edge returns to his voice. “Sasha needs to trust you before we move to the next phase.”
“What’s the next phase?”
“That’s not your concern yet. Just do your job and get me the intelligence I’m paying for.” Adrian’s tone changes quickly. It’s almost conversational as he says, “You know, she was quite different in London. Much sweeter. I preferred her that way.”
My hand tightens on the phone. “You knew her in London?”
“I knew a lot about her in London. But then she had to go and ruin everything by—” He cuts himself off. “Never mind. Ancient history. What matters is the present, and presently, you need to accept whatever offer Dmitri makes and embed yourself deeper.”
“What if he doesn’t make an offer?”
“He will. The man’s not stupid. He’ll want you close where he can control you.” Adrian’s chair creaks in the background. “When he does, report everything back to me. Every detail about their operations, security, and relationships. But especially anything involving Sasha. Where she goes, who she sees, what she does. I want to know all of it.”
The obsessive quality in his voice raises every red flag I’ve learned to recognize over the years. This isn’t about business rivalry or criminal investigation. This is personal.
Before I have a chance to dig deeper, the line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, trying to piece together what I just learned. Adrian orchestrated the gallery attack. He knew Sasha would be there. He wanted her to be afraid. And he knew her in London, though he won’t say how or why that connection ended badly enough to fuel the vendetta he’s nursing.
My phone goes off with a new message before I can think about it anymore.
An unknown number. Russian country code.
Mr. Haugh, Dmitri Kozlov would like to extend an invitation to meet this afternoon at 2:00 p.m. A car will collect you from your hotel. Please confirm receipt.
Adrian predicted this with disturbing accuracy, which means either he understands how the Kozlovs think, he has a mole in the Kozlov organization, or he’s manipulating events I’m not seeing yet.
Probably all three.
I type back a confirmation and set down the phone. Then, I head for the shower, because I need to wash off the feeling of being a pawn in someone else’s game.
The carthat picks me up at two is a black Mercedes with tinted windows and a driver who doesn’t speak. We drive through Moscow for twenty minutes before pulling up to a building in a commercial district that looks legitimate on the surface. Import-export, according to the sign, but the security cameras and reinforced doors tell a different story.
The driver escorts me inside and up to the third floor. We pass through two checkpoints where armed men search me thoroughly and confiscate my phone. Standard procedure for meeting with organized crime leadership, but it still makes me feel exposed.
Finally, I follow the man into an office that screams power and money. Leather furniture. Original artwork on the walls. A desk that probably cost more than my car back in the States. Behind that desk sits Dmitri Kozlov, Bratva Pakhan.
He doesn’t stand as he says, “Mr. Haugh. Please, sit.”
I take the chair across from him and wait. Let him control the opening. Let him think he has the advantage.
“You saved my sister’s life last night,” Dmitri comments.
“I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“Or the wrong place, depending on perspective. We met briefly at my brother’s wedding. You were asking questions about legitimate business expansion.”
“I remember. Congratulations on your brother’s marriage.”
Dmitri ignores the pleasantry. “You’re former military. Special operations, according to your background.”
