“Call again,” I say.
He does. The line rings, then it goes dead.
“What the hell?” I snarl. “What kind of men do you have on this operation?” My pulse is a war drum. The ice in my veins is melting, turning molten.
“I don’t know why they’re not answering,” he says, his voice thin, faraway. “They’re under explicit instructions.”
“You’ve lost control of them,” I reply. It feels like wind is moving through the room.
“They must already have her,” he says. “Must be taking her to the rendezvous point. They don’t know she’s mine.”
Johan shoots him a look of pure disgust. “Her life is in the hands of goons who can’t even follow simple goddamn directions? What were you thinking?”
I turn for a moment, fighting the urge to put a goddamn fist through Peter’s skull. Then I slip out my own phone. I call Bogdan, but like Peter calling his men, the line rings, rings. No answer.
Shit.
I text my driver, telling him to bring the car around, to have it ready.
“Do you know where she is?” I ask to Peter.
“I know the location where they’re supposed to take her.”
“Send me the location. Now.”
He nods, fumbling with his phone. Johan says nothing, his silence speaking louder than words ever could.
I walk out without another word.
“Orlov…” Peter’s voice follows weakly behind.
I’m focused on the task at hand. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to reach her in time.
And if I don’t, Chicago will drown in blood.
I’ll make goddamn sure of it.
CHAPTER 40
GABBY
My cheek is stuck to vinyl.
It’s the first thing I register as I come to: awful, cold, cracked vinyl that smells like cigarettes and industrial cleaner. Then I notice the horrible throbbing in my head, followed by the ache of my wrists, and finally the growl of the engine beneath me.
I groan, pain coursing through me. I try to remember what happened, but everything is so fuzzy.
I blink a few times. That brings the world swirling into focus. I’m in a car. The back seat of a van, to be precise. And I’m not alone. Two men are back here with me.
One’s seated just behind the driver. He’s stocky, with a shaved head and an ugly scar twisting across his jaw. He keeps glancing over at me with an expression of total disdain, as if my mere existence is enough to annoy him.
The other one is seated across from me. He’s tall, lean, pale.He regards me with worried eyes, like he actually gives a damn about what’s happening to me.
Panic jolts me as I begin to understand my situation. Then I remember… “Bogdan.” The name comes out in a pathetic croak, grief cracking wide open. My throat burns and tears begin to pour.
Memories flash back, the sight of him slumped over in the parking garage, reaching out to me. Is he dead? I have no idea.
“Listen to her back here,” Scar-Jaw says, shaking his head in disgust. “Just got up and she’s already whining.”
