Clara nods, her eyes unfocused as though she’s somewhere far away.
I feel a blinding rage as my mind catalogs the facts. A package that somehow found me in a random place on a random night. What must have been a pressure-sensitive device meant to detonate immediately upon opening got dislodged by the delivery method.
It was an act designed not just to kill, but to send a message, a statement, a declaration of war and dominance. And all before tonight'sbratvaconvocation.
“You're good to go, sir.”
I realize the paramedic is speaking to me.
“Pardon?”
“You're good to go.” The EMT begins packing up. “Just some superficial wounds that needed patching up. If you start feeling strange, dizzy, headachy, or woozy, go to the ER immediately.” I give the young guy a nod of thanks before slipping off the bench and striding across the short distance between Clara and me, except I'm not the only one with her. The ambulance door had hidden the arrival of Emily and Michael. I have no idea how or why they're here, except perhaps Michael heard something on the radio again, or maybe Clara called them to let them know she was okay, in case they heard anything and they were close enough to come by. That seems more likely, knowing how fiercely Clara protects those she loves and those she believes deserve protection.
Both Emily's and Michael's eyes follow me as I come to stand beside Clara, my hand finding hers, her skin warm and soft. She squeezes my hand, like I'm her anchor.
“I'm fine, Em, really. Just shaken up. The EMT just confirmed it. Dmitri was able to get us behind the wall in time to save our lives.”
Their gazes slide my way again, Emily's wide andred from tears, Michael's narrowed and thoughtful.
“Who was the package for?” he asks.
“It was addressed to me. The courier tracked me down here.”
“Sounds like it needed to get to you in a specific amount of time.”
Michael jumped right to the heart of the problem, and I wonder if he knows where I was headed after this.
“And you just happened to jump away just in time?”
Neither the question nor Michael’s suspicion irritates me, though Clara’s hand jerks with a spasm within mine.
“The messenger jostled the package when he pulled it out of his bag. It was oddly shaped, and I heard the noise. I threw it away before we dove for cover, and it is on me that I didn't throw it far enough.”
This time, Clara squeezes my hand, and when I look down at her, tears shimmer in her eyes. She can hear my remorse and my frustration. This war is between Andrey and me; I did not want that innocent messenger to die doing his job.
Michael must hear the remorse,too, because his suspicion eases, and so does his stance.
“The local agencies are going to be tied up in this mess. Bomb techs, the fire marshal, local PD—it's a jurisdictional nightmare. What they'll see is a high-profile target and a PR crisis. But I see an escalation.”
I don't react, giving the federal agent a chance to finish what he's going to say before I decide whether to trust him.
“The Bureau has no active investigation into the Smirnov Corporation or any of your interests, Dmitri,” Michael continues. “I'm doing this as a favor to Emily and Clara, off the books. I have resources thatcan trackthat package, the origin, the shipping manifest, and the materials used faster than the local agencies, who will bury it in bureaucracy and pissing contests. I can help you figure out who tried to kill you and your family.”
Your family.
Michael's choice of words is strategic, hitting me where I'm most vulnerable.
My eyes flick to Clara, resting briefly on the place where our child sleeps, before snapping back to Michael.
“A favor,” I repeat, my words edged with carefully honed steel, a warning but not a threat. “And what do you want in return for this favor, Agent Hunt?”
“Nothing but the safetyof thetwo women I care about,” Michael says simply. “I want this war stopped before it gets worse. It's an easy trade for me. You get the name of the sender, I get to sleep at night knowing Clara and Emily are safe.”
Michael pulls out a business card and hands it to me. I accept it, holding it loosely between two fingers before I reach into myjacket's inner pocket and produce my own card—thick, heavy stock,embossedwith the Smirnov Global Corporation’s simple, elegant logo. We exchange a brief nod, sealing a pact between two men who fundamentally despise everything that the other stands for, all for the sake of the women sitting between us and the city we live in and love.
The irony is not lost on me.
“I need to make a call,” I say, turning away abruptly and ending the conversation. I give Clara’s hand one more squeeze before stepping to the side of the ambulance, where it's quieter and darker.
