No.
I keep reading. She works full-time as a counselor at Safe Haven, a women’s domestic abuse shelter.
So why was she working at the Vault?
She also works on Saturday nights at Metro Diner. Which means she’ll be there tonight. I memorize the address, then move to the list of acquaintances.
Oh, that explains it. Her best friend Sloane Kohen owns the company that catered the event that evening. What are the odds?
My jaw clenches as I scroll through the list of relationships. Robert Maroney. Freshman year of college. Dated four months. Had she forgotten about us so quickly?
Robert Maroney just earned a place at the top of my shit list.
I scroll through the names, my fists unclenching as it seems that was her longest relationship. There is a psychiatrist from her work, Dr. Evan Becker, who she’s recently had a few coffee dates with, but it seems nothing has come of that.
I shouldn’t be happy. I should want her to have someone in her life, someone to love her like she deserves. But I’m apparently a selfish bastard.
I stare at her driver's license photo. She’s young. No one ever looks good on these things. But she does. Her hair is down, eyessparkling, a wide grin captured like the person behind the camera had told her a joke.
With her image burned in my mind, I close the file. Time to head out.
Gunnar and I borrowed a beat-up Buick with tinted windows from one of our soldiers to keep off the Bratva’s radar. We get to the docks half an hour before the scheduled shipment is to arrive. Then we sneak into the container terminal on foot and climb on top of a shipping container.
There’s no moonlight and the East Bay channel waters are black as ink, but there are floodlights on top of the warehouses and lights along the dock.
Lying flat on our stomachs, we keep an eye on the ships coming in. I smack a mosquito that lands on my neck. Fucking bloodsuckers. They’re thick tonight. I’d rather deal with an armed Russian.
“There,” Gunnar grunts.
We watch the small container ship round the bend and move into the channel.
“Six containers,” I say. I move my attention to the semi-truck parked in front of the dock as the doors open and three men hop out. They stroll to the back and roll up the door. A few minutes later, two black Escalades pull up and four more men pile out.
“Anatoly Romanov,” I murmur. “In the flesh.” That’s new. He’s the Captain’s son and hasn’t shown up at the previous shipments we’ve scouted.
Gunnar watches through binoculars. “Must be an important shipment if he’s here.”
Toly shakes the guard’s hand, and they have a brief conversation.
Toly is a broad-shouldered guy, early thirties, wearing black slacks and a black silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up to showcase his beefy, inked forearms. A thick gold chain and chunky gold watch reflect the dock lights when he moves. He’s flanked by two soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders.
Toly is more brawn than brains. If it was him running the outfit instead of his father Oleg, I would’ve had my proof already.
Their soldiers are gripping their weapons, glancing around like they expect trouble.
Interesting.
Some dock workers get busy bringing the crane over and soon the ship docks. A few men hop off and shake hands with Toly. They make quick work of lifting the containers off the ship and unloading the crates into the back of the semi-truck.
Toly cracks one of the crates open with a crowbar and I lift my own binoculars to get a closer look. There are indeed semi-automatic rifles packed beneath car parts.
I want to move in closer, but the soldiers are on high alert and actively searching the area. This is new behavior.
When only the last container remains on ship,Toly and three soldiers follow one of the ship workers to it. The ship worker opens it up and the soldiers step inside.
Seconds later they emerge, clutching the arms of six emaciated half-naked women.
“Fuck,” Gunnar barks under his breath.
