“I’d like to see you try,” I say with a small smile.
“You’ll lose that bet.”
“Alright, soldier. You win logistics. Whatever gets me to see my friend, I’m ready to do.”
He tilts his head one more time, as if trying to consider any other variables he might’ve forgotten about. No doubt he’s imagining all the different ways this could go sideways.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” he says. “We’ll leave work early and beat rush hour. Then we’ll be back here in time for dinner. Sasha’s going to be busy with meetings all day, so he won’t be around to notice.”
“I’ll text her tonight,” I say. “She’ll be down for meeting anywhere.”
He shakes his head. “No. I will text her, make sure she understands the rules and the stakes. Then I’ll get back to you. I supervise planning.”
Part of me wants to argue, but the bigger part is just happy he’s going to go along with it, so I just nod.
I can already see the checklist forming behind his eyes—route, car, backup, possible venues, exits. To be honest, it’s comforting to see that kind of competence at work.
“Okay,” he says. “Get some rest. We’ll talk about it more in the morning.”
“Got it. And thanks, Bogdan.”
He grunts in response. He’s not thrilled about the whole idea, I know, but he’s seeing reason.
I head to my room, excited for tomorrow.
CHAPTER 27
SASHA
The pub smells like wet wool and whiskey. O’Riada’s has always been that sort of place—cigarette-smoke-tinged oak walls, a low fire crackling in the grate, daylight filtering through frosted glass.
I’m not here for a pint and some cottage pie—I’m here to meet Ruth.
The bartender looks up at me as I step into the dimly lit place, shrugging the dusting of snow from my coat. He doesn’t ask what I’ll be having—he knows who I am.
“Ruth’s expecting me,” I say. I cast a glance down the bar. A couple of regulars are there with pints of dark beer and plates of food in front of them. Cheerful Irish drinking music plays low on the speakers.
He jerks a thumb toward the backroom. “She’s in the snug. And no steel.” He flicks his eyes to my blazer, the exact spot where I keep mysidearm.
“I’m not here for any of that,” I say. “And I’m not disarming myself.”
“Sorry, Mr. Orlov—you know the house rules. No one brings arms into a private meeting. Been that way since this place opened.”
The Irish and their traditions. It’s not worth a fight. I reach into my jacket and take out my Glock, setting it on the bar. The bartender quickly takes it into hand, stashing it under the bar.
“I’ll keep it safe.”
The clock over the bar reads 10:58—late enough for whiskey, early enough for a day that could go in any possible direction. I step around the bar, noting the hulking men here and there, doing poor jobs of looking like inconspicuous patrons.
Ruth never travels anywhere unchaperoned, except for in my offices; no goons allowed there.
I consider our alliance as I make my way down the hall to the snug. Alliances are like any other thing—they’re born, they die. And I have a feeling the alliance with the O’Donnells is inching its way closer to death, which is the purpose of this meeting. Things have been tense between the Orlovs and the O’Donnells since the meeting with Ruth in my office. Part of me wonders if Ruth is thinking the cold war with the Morozovs is about to get hot again and is wondering what her move in that scenario would be.
Another guard stands by the entrance to the snug, sweeping his hand toward the entrance.
Ruth is seated in a plush chair by the fire, red lipstick contrasting with her pale skin. One leg is crossed over the other, a glass of whiskey close at hand. She’s dressed more casually today, patterned slacks and a white blouse, her hair slicked back and tucked behind her ears. At the office, she’d been dressed for seduction. Now she’s dressed for hard business.
Her eyes flick to me as I enter. She doesn’t stand. “Sasha.”
