Cole clamps his hand on my wrist. There’s nothing to be gained by my destroying his computer. But backing off is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life.
“You have RedBear,” Cole says to Tarasov. And he ends the call.
I pace his office, rounding the corners in a fruitless attempt to shake off the fury in my blood. “He’s a fucking menace,” I say.
“He is.”
“He’s an animal.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll kill him while he sleeps.”
“You’re never getting that close to him.”
I freeze. “You can’t promise that,” I finally say.
“You will not marry Nikolai Tarasov.”
I want to believe him. I want to feel his certainty in my bones. Maybe then, I wouldn’t feel like my brain is about to combust.
I take a deep breath, letting some of Cole’s glacial calm settle through my body. I shake out my hands, bleeding off more of my rage. I toss my head, because I know this isn’t over. It won’t be over until one of us is dead—Tarasov or me.
But I’m finally calm enough to say, “We can talk about this later. We have to get going to New York.”
Cole’s bark is honestly amused. “You’re not going to New York.”
“Think about it,” I say. “One of the men guarding this house is a traitor.”
“That man might be coming with me.”
“You’re taking a team of what? Four? Odds are, he’ll be here.”
“Kate. I’m going to a sex club.”
“All the more reason for your wife to come along.”
He sighs with exasperation. “This is a business trip. You know I won’t be playing.”
“I won’t be either.” I wait, but he gives no sign of budging. I have to set down my trump card. “You just hung up on Tarasov. Do you really think he’ll take that sitting down? He can have an army of bratva thieves here by supper. I’ll be safer with you in New York.”
As Cole stares at me, I wait for him to tell me I’m wrong. I don’t know which of us is more surprised when he finally sighs and says, “Pack an overnight bag. We leave for the airport in half an hour.”
22
COLE
Some men facing potential bankruptcy would fly commercial to New York. But I’m so deep in a financial hole that one more private flight is a rounding error. I own a fucking plane. We use it.
The flight up to Teterboro is uneventful. My pilot makes good time, touching down almost fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.
Jacobson orders Kate and me to wait in the cabin with Drew Cameron while he and the two other men secure our ground transportation.
Cameron maintains his watchful stance by the door. It only takes a few minutes for him to get his signal from Jacobson. “Let’s go,” he says. “Stay close. This place is busy.”
A Cadillac limo is parked about twenty yards from the stairs, flanked by two SUVs. The Sawgrass men walk fast enough that Kate has to skip to keep up. Jacobson spreads a hand over her head as he hurries her into the back seat, then he stands atattention until I’m safely beside her. I nestle a wrapped gift on the floor by my feet, a presentation box of the MacAllan 84. It’s an absurdly dramatic offering that I hope will build goodwill before Fournier and I begin our real negotiations.
Once Jacobson is in the front passenger seat, he introduces the man behind the wheel. “Larson’s from our New York office,” he says. “Same as the drivers for the lead and tail cars. Our DC team will ride with them.”
