“It counts for questions. Like why an American journalist carries a concealed weapon and fights like Spetsnaz. Like what you’re really after and whether my family is your target or your employer.”
She’s too smart for her own good. Or maybe for mine. “If I were targeting your family, I’d be a lot more subtle.”
“Maybe you’re counting on us thinking that.”
The SUV pulls onto a main road, and I notice the driver checking his mirrors more frequently than necessary. Professional paranoia or threat assessment? Hard to tell.
“Look,” I say, “I don’t know what your brother told you about me, but I’m not here to hurt you or your family. I’m here to make money and maybe break a decent story. That’s it.”
“Then why did you come to the gallery last night?”
“Like I said. Following a lead about acquisitions.”
She studies my face like she’s authenticating a forgery. Looking for cracks in the story. Inconsistencies in the details. “You’re lying.”
“Prove it.”
“I don’t have to prove it. I just have to?—”
An explosion cuts her off.
The SUV in front of us erupts in a ball of flame. Our driver slams on the brakes, and tires skid across the asphalt as we both pitch forward against our seatbelts. Metal shrieks. Glass shatters. The world tilts sideways as our vehicle swerves to avoid the burning wreckage.
My training kicks in. I grab Sasha, unbuckle her, and pull her down, covering her body with mine as debris rains down on the SUV. Something heavy hits the roof. The driver is shouting in Russian. Security is on his radio, calling for backup.
“Stay down,” I tell Sasha.
“What’s happening?”
“Car bomb,” I say.
Someone tried to kill her. Or scare her. With Adrian pulling strings, I can’t be sure which.
The driver throws our SUV into reverse and backs away from the burning vehicle while I search for secondary threats. Shooters. Anyone moving toward us with bad intentions.
But the street is chaos. Civilians running, cars are stopped, and there’s smoke and fire and confusion.
Our driver turns us around and floors it back the way we came. I keep Sasha down until we’re several blocks away and it’s clear we’re not being pursued.
“You can sit up now,” I tell her.
She pushes herself upright, sucking in air. “Who was in that car?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Someone just tried to kill us.”
“Or warn us. Or send a message.” I look back through the rear window, but we’re too far away to see anything except smoke rising.
Sasha pulls out her phone with shaking hands and dials. “Dmitri? We’re okay, but someone just bombed the lead vehicle. No, we’re heading back now. I don’t know. Tony’s with me. Yes. Understood.”
She ends the call and looks at me with something new in her eyes. Fear, yes. But also suspicion.
“Was that meant for you?” she questions.
I shrug, “Maybe.”
“Or maybe you knew it was coming.”
