Page 7 of Baby Bump for the Mafia Boss

And Volk seems to have tried to kill us.

I take a deep, steadying breath.

There’s one room, with an open fireplace. No electricity. The floor is stone, but there are a few wooden chairs, and an old table. A shelf holds a folder, a blue plastic box, and a pile of blankets. Another has some tinned food with labels I recognise, firelighters, and a box of sticks I assume are kindling. In thecorner, there’s a stainless-steel sink with a single tap, and beside it a green-painted wooden door.

Mr Bridger strides over and opens it to reveal a toilet straight from the 1970s. Avocado-green. A stone floor. Cobwebs. It’s old, and basic. Hardly the level of luxury I associate with my boss.

“Civilisation,” Mr Bridger says dryly, and closes the door.

“This is great!”

He meets my gaze, and his expression says I’m over-enthusiastic. An opinion he frequently has about me.

“It’s dry, there’s a loo, and presumably water. And there must be some wood.” I point towards the fireplace.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asks abruptly. “Did Volk get to you too? Injuries? Your vision, is it clear?”

“Just because I appreciate plumbing doesn’t mean I’m drugged.”

He growls with irritation. “You haven’t got any symptoms?”

I do a quick mental check of my body and shake my head. “I don’t think so. I feel like I was in a helicopter crash and am at risk of freezing to death, but other than that, okay.”

He’s so serious and intent as he looks me over, brushing glass and snow from my shoulders. He’s swaying slightly though.

“Are you okay?” It’s not something that I usually ask Mr Bridger. He’s in control of every situation. He’s fourteen years older than me, powerful, and exudes charisma. “Did they get you?—”

“I’m fine now,” he cuts me off, but there’s tension in the lines of his body as he straightens. “I’m going to get firewood.” He stomps back out of the cottage, effectively closing the conversation about whether he was poisoned.

But he said fine now? He’s recovered, but he was drugged. The fear of anything happening to him sits heavy in my stomach.

I glance around and the only thing that isn’t totally functional without any question of its use, is the folder. I pick it off the shelfand open it. A piece of white paper has been stuck to the front, and reads,Boulders Bothy.

I raise my eyebrows. Sounds like slang for toilet.

Opening it up, there’s a page of text.

Welcome to Boulders Bothy!

A bothy is the name for a Scottish cottage or croft house that is in a remote location and is unlocked and free to use.

There are grid references for where we are, notes about the emergency services (or lack thereof), and other useful information. Or it might be, if it weren’t snowing, and getting dark outside. It’s January in Scotland, and that means the sun goes down early.

The explosion makes me shriek. And jump.

In seconds, I’m at the door to the bothy, looking out at the blazing helicopter. Mr Bridger is stomping away, the fire behind him casting him into shadow. I stare in horror.

There were two men in that helicopter, and Mr Bridger is kicking his way through the snow like it’s nothing.

I’m trembling by the time he approaches. His silver eyes flash gold with the fire, and he scoops up a pile of logs from the doorstep.

“Get in.”

I scramble to obey, and he slams the door behind us.

“Why did you do that?” I whisper. Something about the brutality of burning the helicopter sits badly with me.

“Volk will send someone to check their plan worked. If they see the helicopter on fire, that’s more likely to convince them they don’t need to immediately come to finish us off. The fire will mean they can’t check that we’re all in the helicopter, or get the black box. With luck, by the time they look, our footprints in the snow will be covered over by more snow. They were probably hoping we’d go down over the water, but this will at least slow them down.”