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Dimitry

“ D imitry!” Leon Volkov answers on the first ring. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Hold on to that thought.” I lean on the veranda railing, adrenaline coursing through me like a dark thrill. “You might feel differently after I explain the reason for my call.”

“And now I’m intrigued.” If anything, he sounds mildly amused. “Do tell.”

“I’ll need to be quick.” I launch into a brief explanation of what I need, leaving out any extraneous details and with one eye on the time.

We’ve been standing still too long. I can feel the danger stalking us. And now that I have a plan, I want to move.

But the plan rests on Volkov. And I’m more than aware he has no reason at all to help me.

Which makes his ready assent, when it comes, all the more surprising.

“I’ll catch the next flight.” He cuts me off before I’ve even finished my explanation. “How do I contact you?”

“Take down this number.” I reel off Luke’s digits.

“Give him the details, but do it on a secure line. And delete any record of this call.” After years of watching Roman’s geek squad at work, I don’t trust digital communication of any kind, military-grade encryption notwithstanding.

The minute this call is done, the phone is going to be dismantled and consigned to the mud at the bottom of the Gulf of Thailand.

Then Abby and I will be getting as far away from it as possible. At speed.

Well, as much speed as the boat offers, at least.

“See you soon.” Volkov ends the call before I can. I pull the phone apart and crush the SIM card inside it, then throw the pieces into the river. I turn to Abby, who is standing next to our lone bag, which is already packed.

“Let’s go,” I say.

Night is falling as the boat putters through the mangroves.

Instead of heading out to the gulf, I turn the boat eastward, toward the main canals.

Abby is back beneath the canvas, me beneath my hat.

I’ve swapped the fisherman’s pants for a sarong and loose shirt that covers my ink.

It’s not going to fool anyone who gets close.

And using the same boat is a risk I wouldn’t normally take.

But we’re less conspicuous on water than we’d be on land, and right now, it’s the best we’ve got.

“Are we going to talk about this?” Abby’s face might be hidden under the canvas, but there’s no mistaking the edge to her voice.

After our initial conversation this morning, when I briefly explained who Volkov is, she’s been uncharacteristically quiet. I suspect she was reserving her questions until after I actually spoke with Volkov, possibly because she thought he’d dismiss my request out of hand.

I’m also pretty sure that’s what she hoped would happen .

The last thing Abby wants is for me to go after the same people she’s spent so long running from. I understand why, given everything she’s been through. I know that her fears are entirely justified.

I also know that if we allow them to dictate our plans, those fears will get us killed.

Turning the hunt around is the only chance we have of surviving this situation.

I stand and fight. It’s what I do. I’m incapable of doing anything else. And if a life of blood and violence has taught me anything, it’s that the best time to start a fight is when your enemy is busy looking the other way.

“Of course we can talk, Skip. Just hold on until we’re out of the mangroves and into the canal proper. Voices carry out here.”

I sound calm enough. But the truth is that my mind is already fifty paces ahead, doing what I do best: making battle plans.

And you love it just a little too fucking much, don’t you, Dimitry?

I shift uncomfortably, moving the tiller from one hand to the other, trying not to dwell on that thought.

The fact is that these moments are where I’m most at home. Action, violence, outsmarting the opposition; this was how Roman and I won, way back when he first took over the Stevanovsky clan.

Back then, we had a clear division of labor. Roman was the front man. He had a vision, the money to make it happen, and the balls to give hard orders.

I was the sword at his back who worked out how best to execute those orders. How to outsmart the fuckers who got in our way.

I made sure we both survived. No matter who the fuck came at us .

But part of doing that job properly meant that we got the business to a place where my particular skill set became less important. Other people do the clan’s killing now, except for those times when it’s necessary to make a point. And for the most part, that’s a good thing.

Except that if you’re being honest, Dimitry, you’ve been bored shitless for a long time.

Not because I miss the blood and violence, though I have to admit, in measured doses, that kind of workout does have a way of making a man feel alive.

It’s more that I miss war itself. I miss the intrigue.

The exhilaration of discovering an enemy’s weakness and exploiting it. Taking a problem and breaking it down to its parts, then devising a strategy to deal with each, until I’m grinning down at whichever fucker thought they’d outsmart me.

The actual war is almost irrelevant. By the time the enemy is on their knees, I’m already having a vodka and thinking about the next game.

Or at least, I used to be.

The truth is that since Roman launched Mercura, it’s his cyber geeks who fight the wars, deep in their underground bunker.

I know that giving me the responsibility of tracking down the owners of the Naryshkin treasures was Roman’s way of acknowledging my skill set. Of giving me something of my own. And I loved the job, more than I expected to.

But it’s only now, putting down a dark canal with little more than my mind to use as a weapon and in the face of seemingly surmountable odds, that I can admit to myself how much I’ve missed this.

I don’t know what that means for my future. I just know that this feeling is something I need, almost as much as I do Abby at my side .

It’s what I was made for. It’s what I do.

Unfortunately, I have a hunch Abby might not quite see it that way.

“Are we there yet?”

Her sarcastic question brings me back to the present.

“Fire away, Skip.” I go for a lighthearted note. I suspect I’m going to need a lot of humor to get through this particular conversation.

“Fancy sharing what, exactly, you plan to do with this Fabergé egg you’ve magicked up?”

“Straight to the point, huh, Skip?” I find myself smiling, despite the audible edge to her voice. “Let me put it this way. The egg is a trojan horse, of sorts. I’m going to use it to go straight into the belly of the beast.”

The ensuing silence speaks volumes. I can sense the fury and tension radiating from the still figure beneath the canvas.

“If you’re going to talk about Greek mythology,” she says finally, “then I’m going to remind you that not only did the Greeks leave the wooden horse outside the gates of Troy, they also had an entire army hidden inside it.”

I grin. I’ve always loved this kind of banter with Abby. Even during our worst arguments, we were only ever one good joke away from a fit of laughter.

Or bed.

Or both at once.

It’s why she’s fucking unforgettable. And why I’m going to fucking win this thing, whether she likes it or not.

“My point is that the Greeks used the gift horse as bait. The Trojans opened the gates and dragged that wooden fucker right inside their city. The Greeks hid inside it until their enemies were sleeping, then emerged and took the city before anyone knew what was happening.”

“And again,” Abby fires back the moment I stop speaking, “I remind you that the Greeks had an army. Which we do not.” She pauses, but I can tell she isn’t finished.

“You don’t even know who you’re looking for.

” Her voice changes, the dull resignation in it piercing me more painfully than any of her anger does.

“And I’m not going to help you find out, Dimitry.

Rodrigo Cardenas we can plan for. We might even have a chance of getting to some kind of deal with him that will leave us alive.

But not this man. I don’t know what you think you’re going to do, even if you can find your way into that compound.

But I can guarantee that no matter how capable you might be, when it comes to Mr. Kingpin, as you call him, whatever you’re thinking of is doomed to failure. ”

I swallow a very powerful instinct to rip the canvas off and kiss the fight out of her.

Or back into her.

Snarky Abby might drive me crazy at times. But defeated Abby makes me want to kill everything in my fucking path.

“Here’s the thing, Skip.” I struggle to keep my tone light.

“My point is that we have the advantage of the unexpected. If my memory of that Greek myth is accurate, it was the abduction of Helen, the famous beauty, that started the war in the first place. And if Mr. Kingpin is as all-seeing as you claim he is, then right about now he’s starting to suspect that is exactly what’s happened—that Rodrigo has disappeared with you. ”

To my relief, that elicits a reluctant snort of laughter.

“Apart from the fact that one day you’re going to need to explain to me exactly how you know this much Greek mythology,” Abby says dryly, “and your ass-kissing attempt to equate me with the most famous beauty in history, we’ve still got the same problem with your analogy, muscle boy.”

I grin as I steer the boat. “Enlighten me, Skip. Or should I call you Helen?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

The return of Abby’s native potty mouth makes my grin even wider. That’s my girl .

“My point is,” she says with the long-suffering air that always makes me laugh inside, “that if you’re right, then from where Mr. Kingpin sits, Rodrigo has abducted me from his city.

So right now he’s amassing a fucking army to get me back.

For all I know, he set Rodrigo up to kidnap me in the first place, as an excuse to wage war on the Cardenas cartel and take it over.

I hate to wreck your myth, muscle boy, let alone your ego, but you don’t even play a part in this story. Nobody even knows you exist.”

My grin fades to a slow, calculating smile. I let the silence stretch out, and I wait.

Come on, Skip. Remind me why I love you so fucking much.

“Holy shit.” She barely breathes the words. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? That’s exactly what you’re banking on.”

There you go. I nod in the darkness, tension ripping through me. Bring it home.

“Mr. Kingpin is going to be looking for Rodrigo,” she says slowly.

“Rodrigo will be avoiding him like hell, because he wants the information only I can give him, which means there’s no way he’s going to mention my disappearance.

Mr. Kingpin will suspect that I’ve leaked his identity and joined forces with Rodrigo, which will send him hunting Rodrigo.

And meanwhile, neither of them know you even exist.”

You’re still missing the point, Skip.

“They don’t know I exist,” I agree quietly. “You’re right about that. But there’s something else they don’t know.”

I wait, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“They have no fucking idea what I’m capable of.” For once, I don’t soften the raw edge in my voice. “And with the greatest respect, Abby—neither do you.”