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“The good news.”
Above all, Nico needed hope, and right now, he didn’t have much of it. The getaway vehicle, a black SUV, tilted at a steep angle in a ditch on the wrong side of the road, the front wrapped around a tree. Blood covered the bark, and a pair of elk antlers stuck out beside a wheel. Oregon wildlife: one, Mafia: nil. The driver had been thrown halfway through the windshield in the smash.
“Both of the hostages are still alive,” Deck said.
Thank goodness. “And the bad news?”
“There are two males, and they’ve split up. One has the woman, one has the kid.”
“We have to go after them.”
“Yeah, I figured you’d say that. Which one d’ya want? Or do you wanna flip for it?”
Nico had made a thousand tough decisions in his life. Some were financial, some were personal, some were life or death. But this was the toughest. Nico wasn’t a fool, and objectively speaking, Deck was the most likely to bring back a hostage alive. Based on his performance so far, Nico could easily imagine him being the Bad Samaritan. The ultimate vigilante. Nico gave himself a much smaller chance, both of survival and of a successful rescue.
He hated himself for the choice he was about to make.
“Go after Kaylin.”
If they could only save one of them, it had to be her.
“The asshole with the kid went west. Stay safe, buddy.”
Deck melted into the trees, leaving Nico on a possible suicide mission. The faint sound of breaking twigs came from the left, and he thumbed off the safety on his pistol.
Lev Belinsky had been an avid hunter. Deer, wolves, bears, leopards. Sometimes humans. From a young age, Nico had accompanied him, not by choice but out of obligation. The first time he’d killed a deer, a large buck, he’d spent hours tracking it through the forest, his footsteps quieter than his thumping heart. His father had painted its blood on his young son’s cheeks, then made him drink a cupful and laughed when he vomited.
Nico had hated those trips.
But now he was grateful in a small way for his father’s bloodlust because it meant he knew how to track. He could follow a man through a forest quickly and silently. His opponent? The bastard moved like a wild hog, crashing through the undergrowth in leather-soled shoes. Matty’s endless sobs didn’t help either. Nico heard them grow louder as he gradually closed the distance to his prey.
And there he was. Cesare. But he was carrying Matty, and there was no clear shot. The Bad Samaritan could undoubtedly hit a dime, but Nico was out of practice, and when it came to shooting, accuracy was like a muscle—use it or lose it. Nico was confident he could hit centre mass, but he didn’t dare to risk a headshot.
Matty looked back over Cesare’s shoulder through teary eyes, still clutching his favourite toy. So near, yet so damn far. If Nico had a working phone, he could have messaged Emmy and asked for one of her famous tornados, but he was shit out of luck and alone with a madman.
Two fast gunshots echoed through the trees, and Cesare whipped around. Nico only just had time to duck back behind a tree as Cesare stood motionless, nose in the air like a dog searching for scent.
Sweat trickled down Nico’s spine, every sense heightened. Death was close. He heard a soft whistle up ahead, but it didn’t sound like any bird he was familiar with. Cesare heard it too and turned, only for a black-clad figure to materialise at his side, seemingly from thin air. The whistle was followed by a crack as the wraith head-butted the asshole, and she caught Matty neatly as Cesare crumpled to the forest floor.
Yes, she. The wraith was a woman. She wore leather and a motorcycle helmet, but she couldn’t hide her figure.
“Amateur.” Nico felt rather than saw her gaze zero in on him. “You can come out now, Nicolai.”
Her sing-song voice was confident, almost playful. The thought of facing Cesare had been bad enough, but Nico knew instinctively that the wraith was a hundred times more dangerous than the Mob boss. But she had Matty, which meant he had no choice. He stepped out from the safety of the tree trunk, holding his gun on her, but she had a weapon too. And probably better aim.
“Put it down.” Now she spoke in Russian, which was the last thing Nico had expected to hear. “I’m not going to harm the child.”
“Who are you?”
“Your friends call me the Bad Samaritan. It suits me, da? An oxymoron. A contradiction. I help people, but I also do things that many find distasteful.”
“You’re a woman?”
“What gave it away? Was it the breasts? The hips? The voice?” Matty’s sobs grew louder. “Do you know how to shut him up? This is annoying.”
“Give him to me.”
Nico took a chance and lowered his gun, then let out the breath he’d been holding when the Bad Samaritan followed suit with her own and stepped forward. A mirrored visor hid her features, but Nico estimated her height at five-eight or five-nine. A few stray strands of blonde hair had escaped from underneath the helmet. Her posture was a mix of regal and defiant, and after consideration, Nico was glad she’d hidden her face. If he couldn’t identify her, there was no reason to kill him. And he didn’t doubt that she could.
