Page 81 of Savage Hearts

“Moscow is huge. It could take you ten years to search. We don’t even have a starting point. It would be like looking for a single grain of sand on a beach.”

“Aye,” says Spider, nodding. “So the sooner we start, the better.”

I don’t like the look in his eyes. There’s an uncharacteristic defiance there. A hint of mutiny.

I hold his rebellious gaze and say firmly, “The answer is no. I’m not sending you. It would be a death sentence. I’ll arrange something else.”

Breathing shallowly, Spider stares at me. I can tell he’s strugglingto control his emotions and carefully choose words that will change my mind.

Finally, he gives up. He stands and walks to the door.

Before walking out, he turns back to me. Holding my gaze, he says softly, “I’ll not stand idly by while that Russian son of a bitch does whatever he likes to the lass, Declan. I’ll not stand idly by.”

He leaves, closing the door softly behind him. Two hours later, he texts me from LaGuardia.

My flight is about to take off. I’ll call you when I have her.

“You barmy son of a bitch,” I say aloud to the empty room, astonished. “You’ll get yourself murdered.”

Then I pick up the phone and call the only person in the world who can help me now. A man who knows everyone and everything, even though he died more than a year ago.

Killian Black.

TWENTY-FIVE

RILEY

I lie still for a long time, staring at the wall. My vision’s blurred without my glasses, but I can tell the wall is made of logs.

I’m bedridden with a gunshot wound in an assassin’s log cabin in Russia. I’ve been unconscious for a week, and parts of me have been removed.

I’d laugh if I didn’t already feel like crying.

I need to use the toilet, so I gingerly swing one leg over the edge of the mattress. Minutes later, when my breathing has returned to normal, I swing the other leg over and sit up.

The pain is so intense, my eyes water. I think I might puke. Malek appears in front of me and takes me by the shoulders.

I get the sense he wants to shake me in anger, but he doesn’t. He growls at me instead.

Panting, I say to his feet, “I have to use the bathroom.”

“You need to stay in bed.”

“I need. To use. The toilet. You can help me stand up, or you can get the hell out of my way, but I’m not peeing in this bed.”

Silence. A dissatisfied grunt. Then he gently lifts me up by myarmpits and stands there holding me as I groan and sway and struggle to get my balance.

“Fuck.Fuck!”

“Focus on your breath, not the pain.”

I grip his corded forearms and drag in deep breaths until the worst of it has passed.

I read somewhere once that a gunshot wound is more painful than childbirth, and I remember laughing at that. Like how can pushing a human through your cooch hurt less than getting hit by a bullet?

This is how. This right here.

Childbirth only rips your vagina apart. A bullet rips up your whole body.