It rings. And rings. And rings. I cancel the call.
“Hey, Siri, call John.” My voice goes up a notch, desperate.
“Helllllo,” he answers immediately. Thebling-bling-blingof coins being collected by Mario fills the background.
“Do you have someone who can track a cell phone?” A long pause. He’s not paying attention. “John?” I snap. “Answer my question.”
“Uhhh…maybe? Why?” His words come out vaguely annoyed, like I’m interrupting. “I fired you, remember?”
“Put your game controller down and talk to me or I’ll come to Columbia, Missouri, and put a bullet through you.”
“Shit, Nadia.” From his tone, I imagine him sitting straight up, dropping the damn thing, suddenly focused. Then, in nearly a whisper, “How do you know where I live?”
“Because I’m not an idiot.” I huff a breath. “Can you track a phone? Yes or no?”
“I mean, I know a guy, but he’s probably sleeping right now—”
“Wake him up. I need you to trace Ian’s number.”
“Wait, did you sayIan? Aren’t you like BFFs or something?”
“I’ll call you back. Find him. Or else.”
He always stays at the same Marriott hotel near the airport. Of course, he wouldn’t take Brianthere. And yet—what else do I have? Nothing.
I text John Ian’s phone number, even though it’s probably untraceable. Then I add Brian’s—because if Ian didn’t think to toss it out, his likelyistraceable. And as I go to the text thread to copy and paste his number, my eyes skim over those last messages—the ones where he claimed to be excited to be coming home to me—and something twists inside my gut.
I’m a killer.
But Ian—he’s ruthless. He asks no questions. He will accept any job regardless of sex or age or circumstance. And he’s betrayed me.
Not to mention I have no doubt that he will kill Brian. And soon.
Chapter Forty-Four
In a hotel, people assumeyou belong until you make it obvious you don’t. It’s important you at least pretend to know where you’re headed. Thankfully, I do.
Ian claims the Marriott is nice enough that he doesn’t have to check for bedbugs but not so nice as to garner attention. And he always stays in a suite, the sort with a separate bedroom, a view of—well, the highway, since we’re so close to the airport—and a small kitchen.
I skip the bank of elevators and pace myself going up the staircase—he stays on the tenth floor, so it’s a bit of a climb—then step out into the hall. Horrible carpet, worse abstract paintings on the wall. God, whoever designed this place should be fired. A camera looks right at me and I keep my hat on, my gaze lowered, my gun at the small of my back.
His room would be the one on the end, assuming he’s staying here. If it were me, and I planned to betray my friend, I’d switch things up. But Ian’s a man of routine. And aman, period, meaning he assumes invincibility.
Blowing out a breath, I approach the door. Brian might be hidden behind it, gagged, drugged. Or he’s already dead. Or they’re not here; they could be far from here. One last glance at my phone, but nothing from John.
I step to the side, out of view of the peephole. I knock gently.
Five seconds pass. Then ten.
I knock again, count one, two, three…
The door opens. I whip around, shove inside, pushing through the door and smashing the person who opened it backward. They go down with a yelp, and half a beat later, I’ve kicked the door shut, whipped out my gun, and have it held in a two-handed grip, pointed at their chest.
It’s not Ian.
It’s not Brian.
It’s a woman.
