The sound freezes me in place. Deep. Low. My whole body goes tight, every muscle remembering exactly what he did to me last night.
My heart jumps up into my throat. “Y-yes?”
“Get ready.” His tone is clipped, businesslike. Nothing in the background, just silence and command.
I clutch the phone tighter. “For what?”
A sigh, short and sharp. “I told you. You’ll need self-defense skills.”
“Yes. Self-defense,” I repeat like I’m ordering coffee.“One self-defense, please. Extra shot of not dying.”
My stomach twists. “And… I…”
The words stick in my throat. What I really need to say is:“Can we pop by the nearest pharmacy for a little thing called Plan B? Maybe grab a croissant while we’re at it?”
“Dima’s coming to pick you up. Twenty minutes.”
I shut my mouth. Right. Of course. No time for awkward morning-after conversations.
“What kind of self-defense?” I manage.
“Just get ready.” Like that explains everything. There’s a pause. “And don’t eat anything yet.”
A bead of sweat starts building at my hairline.
As if on cue, my stomach rumbles so loudly I wince.
“Twenty minutes, Mary.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone. Great. So, I still need to figure out the whole Plan B situation on my own.
Gordo slow-blinks at me from across the room.
4
Anton
Concrete sweats down here. The walls bleed damp, the floor smells of piss, and the single bulb overhead flickers just enough to make a man think the dark is about to swallow him whole. Appropriate, considering who’s sitting in the chair.
Viktor Kozlov. Accountant. Middleman. Thief.
Igor gave me forty-eight hours. That was Friday at noon. Which means the clock’s already bleeding out. We bagged Viktor before the deadline, hours ago, but walking him in now would be suicide. Timofey would carve him up before he opened his mouth. I need what he knows before anyone else does. Which means I need more time.
I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over the encrypted line.
Second lie. That’s all it is. Another crack in the leash.Still tracking him. Need another day.The words punch out flat, clipped. I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
The reply comes fast. Too fast.
Igor:Sloppy, Anton. You’re losing your edge. Monday. No later.
My jaw grinds. My thumb digs into the phone so hard the plastic creaks. Losing my edge? After everything I’ve cleaned up for him? After the bodies I’ve burned, the messes I’ve buried?
I shove the phone back in my pocket before I crush it.
I drag my gaze up, fix it on Viktor sagging forward like dead weight.
