Page 62 of Guarding Grace

His phone rang, and he pressed a button to answer it. “Hi, boss. Grace and I are on the way to my place.”

Lucas’s voice came over the speakers. “According to chatter Jordy picked up, the buyer for the missing delivery is most likely Aren Marku.”

“Shit,” Terry swore.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means Elliot sure has dug himself a deep hole,” Lucas said. “Marku is the head of the Albanian mob here. They make the Italians look like choirboys.”

I shrank back in my seat.

“Does the chatter give us any idea what the package was?” Terry asked.

“Not directly,” Lucas said. “In addition to the normal shit, the Albanians are heavily into human and arms trafficking. Word is that they sold some missile tech to the North Koreans last year, so maybe there’s something similar in the case.”

“With all the sanctions?” Terry asked. “How would the North Koreans get the money to buy military technology?”

“Drugs, counterfeiting, and cybercrimes. They were behind all of the big crypto heists.” Lucas breathed heavily. “If they are the buyers and they get wind of Grace’s connection, we could have another set of players to watch out for. I’ll have Zane bring by the file on Marku.”

Fucking great. Elliot, what the hell have you gotten me involved in?

“I’ll keep her safe,” Terry promised.

“If the Albanians are involved, Grace, we may have no choice but to move you to the safe house in Fontana.”

With Peyton’s criticism fresh in my mind, instead of lashing out as I had before, I tried for something more conciliatory. “I have to run my business. We have a set of important clients coming up. People with families are depending on me,” I said calmly. “If things change, we can discuss the options, and I hope you’ll have something to offer me besides just locking me in a safe house and punishing my employees.”

“I understand,” Lucas said.

And I got the impression that he did understand. Why had Lucas gotten it so easily and Terry been so resistant? Did he regret our kiss?

After Terry ended the call, I asked, “How bad is this news? I mean, about the Albanians? And tell me the truth.”

“They’re bad players. Worse than the Italians.”

Shivering, I wrapped my arms around myself, not just because of that news, but because he’d been cold to me all afternoon. “What happened between this morning and now?”

“What do you mean?” He checked the rearview mirror.

“This morning, you told me you’d never disliked me, but that’s how you’re treating me now.”

“Quiet.” He rechecked his mirror.

Typical guy move, tell me to shut up when I want to discuss feelings. “No. We have to talk about this.”

“Not now.” He turned left at the next intersection. “I think we’re being followed.”

I turned to look back. This had better not be a ploy to avoid the discussion.

“Don’t look,” he said sternly.

It was too late. “Which car?”

“The red one. I think it’s a Maserati.” He made another turn.

I gulped. “They turned too.”

“Hold on.”