He panicked.
Heran.
Smart boy. Too smart. He saw the message, connected the dots, and decided the safest thing he could do was get as far away from me as possible.
But he has no idea what he’s running into.
He has no money, no ID, no safe contacts left. The city is crawling with eyes right now—Volkov, Galkin, Armenians, Italians, every crew waiting for the other shoe to drop. A lone boy with Galkin blood in his veins? He’s a walking target. One wrong bus stop, one overheard conversation, one photograph snapped on a phone, and he’s dead.
I grab my duffel, shove the phone in my pocket, check the magazine in my pistol, and sling the bag over my shoulder.
I’m out the door in seconds—down the stairs, past the dining room where Mike is setting out silverware and Gary is flipping pancakes.
“Everything okay?” Mike calls.
“Emergency,” I say without stopping. “We’ll settle up later for the tip. I give you my word.”
I don’t wait for an answer.
Outside, the morning is brighter now—crisp, clear, the kind of light that makes everything look deceptively peaceful. I scan the street in both directions.
Left: toward the center of town—bakery, hardware store, a few shops just opening.
Right: toward the highway—the bus stop we passed on the way in last night.
My boy is smart.
He won’t go deeper into town where people might recognize him or where cameras are more likely. He’ll head for the first way out.
The bus stop.
I sprint to the Accord, yank the door open, throw the duffel onto the passenger seat, and slide behind the wheel. The engine roars to life and I peel out of the B&B’s small lot, tires chirping on gravel, and gun it toward the highway.
My mind is racing faster than the car.
He’s scared. He’s hurt. He thinks I was going to kill him. That everything—the waterpark, the bookstore, the bedtime story—was a long con to keep him docile until the order came through.
He’s wrong.
But he doesn’t know that.
And right now he’s alone, on foot or on a bus, with no money, no plan, and a target on his back the size of the city.
I have to find the boy before Viktor’s people do.
Beforeanyonedoes.
Because if they get to him first, they won’t hesitate.
They’ll make it hurt.
And I won’t be there to stop them.
I slam the accelerator harder and the speedometer climbs.
The small town shrinks in the rearview. And all I can think is one thing, over and over…
I’m coming, baby.
