“I’m fine,” I grunt as I scrub the blood from the side of my face and various gashes with something Kelly got from one of the paramedics. I can’t get it all off, but it’s the best I can do for now.
“And tell me again how you know my captain?” Kelly gasps and adds, “Is he on your payroll? Is hedirty?”
“Not at all.” I pull my gun from its holster and check the magazine, ensuring it’s fully loaded. “I don’t pay him a dime. He helps me with things—legal things—every once in a while. In return, I find people who may be of help to his cases.”
Kelly’s expression twists at the gray area CaptainQuinn is skirting, but her phone rings before she can keep the conversation going.
“Speak of the devil,” she mutters under her breath before answering. I only hear one side of the conversation, and I’m not surprised when she hands her phone to me.
“Matvei, what the hell is going on? My officers are calling me frantically in the middle of the night, giving me some crazy story about a bad accident, someone missing, and that the guy in the accident took off from the scene. Shouldn’t you be in the fucking hospital?”
“I’m fine,” I reply bluntly. “The less you know, the better. I need you to look into the guy who owns the old green Buick. That’s the car that hit mine.”
“Interesting you say that.”
“Interesting isn’t the word I’d use.” My tone is sharper than intended, but I’m running on adrenaline and a pain and fear so intense it’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
“Look, something didn’t sit right with me after that.” His voice is gravelly, like he’s still fighting sleep. “I looked deeper, and the owner of the car is a Dylan Jones. He’s in the wind.”
“Was anyone else involved?”
“Some guy namedAnthony Demetrio.”
“Demetrio has ties to a disgraced faction of the Genovese family,” I tell him. “Mudak.”
I wave away Evgeny’s questioning look.
“You know the guy?”
“Unfortunately, I know him well.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!
“Okay, well, that’s all I have.”
“That’s all I need. Thank you,”
“It’s Samson,” I tell Evgeny as soon as I’m off the phone. “Tony Demetrio is in on this.”
“That fucker?” Evgeny’s mood, already dangerous, sours further, the lines on his forehead growing deeper with his frown. “I’ll make the call.”
It only takes a few minutes to learn where Anthony Demetrio is hiding out.
“Where are we going?”
I take the backup pieces from the glove compartment, checking the magazines before handing one to Evgeny and tucking the other into the waistband of my pants, which I realize are stained with blood.I have to stifle a groan, as I’m one entiremassof pain that I need to stuff down as far as possible so I can do what needs to be done.
“A mechanic shop,” Evgeny replies. “On the South Side.”
Kelly takes off as much as she can that identifies her as a cop, leaving on her bulletproof vest over her undershirt.
The mechanic’s shopislocated down a one-way street in a seedy block of businesses and apartments. It’s dark and quiet, and at first, I think no one is there.
Evgeny takes the lead, moving like a shadow against the high chain-link fence, his gun held low. Kelly is on my right. I know the look on her face; she’s operating entirely on adrenaline and the singular, terrifying thought that Sonya and the twins are in danger.
Both wait for my nod to move, and I watch as they slip around their respective corners. I stand with my back against the walland turn the knob. I ease the door open as slowly as possible, testing each inch for acreakthat, thankfully, doesn’t come.
I creep through the dark garage and the bulk of machines, carts, andtools situatedbeneath shadowy behemoths of half-finished cars on raisedliftslike giant, spectral trees in a misshapen forest. I see a blue glow off to the side. The sound of a pneumatic drill punctuates the loud hum of an air compressor, and I follow the high-pitched rumble to a bay tucked away from the main area.
