A rare pause on my brother’s end. Maksim usually has a reply for everything. Not to mention, it’s a weekend, and he must be at Serebryanovo if he spoke to Misha.
“She’s strong, Lev. She’ll be fine.”
Those two sentences pummel me. The bizarre reversal of my little brother being the mature one. The reference to what Carina might be having to survive right now—possibilities I can’t allow myself to consider while remaining functional. The realization my brother called because of what’s happening, not because of poor timing.
“I’ll let you know if there’s news,” I say, then hang up.
I’m hardly holding it together as it is. I don’t have it in me to reassure Maksim, and nothing he can say will make me feel better. Finding Carina is the only thing that will accomplish that.
Enzo looks curious about the conversation, but he doesn’t ask, seeming to trust I’d share anything relevant.
“Some of Nico’s dealers hang around here,” he tells me, nodding to a building up ahead on the right that advertises a club. “I know a few guys who have bought from them. We could see if they know anything.”
I nod. “Pull in.”
The parking lot is empty. I let Enzo take the lead as we enter the darkened building. He has a rapid exchange with the beefy man who appears to be one of the club’s bouncers. Then we head back outside and around to the alley. Two men are astride motorcycles, smoking.
Enzo speaks first, asking if they’re selling.
One ignores him.
The other shakes his head, saying to come back later.
“Ask where they pick up Morello shipments,” I instruct Enzo.
The kid who stayed silent smirks. “Nico isn’t hiring?—”
Any patience implodes. I draw and fire, cutting him off mid-sentence.
The other guy is frozen, staring at where his friend’s head just was. A wet spot appears in the crotch of his jeans, steadily spreading. His gaze jerks to mine, eyes wide and terrified. All I can think about is that same expression on Carina’s face.
Frantic Italian pulls me out of that nightmare and back to the present.
“He doesn’t speak English,” Enzo translates. “He’s sharing addresses.”
I watch Enzo type them into his phone while the courier cowers on his motorcycle. I contemplate killing him once he stops talking, which must be obvious because the guy begins shaking. Then come up with a better idea.
“Have him tell his boss I’m looking for him.” I holster my gun and walk away while Enzo relays the message in Italian.
Morello already knows we’re hunting for him. But a phone call from a scared kid will annoy him. He won’t like that wetracked some of his associates down. Anything that rattles or annoys him could make him sloppier. Could help us.
“How many addresses are there?” I ask Enzo once he joins me by the car.
He checks his phone. “Six. But”—he hesitates—“Morello was so careful with the cars … I doubt he took her somewhere a low-level dealer knows about.”
I pull my lighter out of my pocket. “He wouldn’t,” I agree. “Send men to five of the addresses. Burn whatever’s there to the ground.”
“That’s going to seriously piss Morello off.” A smile appears, then quickly fades. “He could take it out on her.”
I flip the cap off and flick the flame to life, allowing it to singe my thumb for a few seconds. The pain centers me. “He doesn’t have endless resources. He might send men from wherever he’s hiding out. We can backtrack any vehicles that show up via cameras and try to triangulate a region to start searching.”
Enzo makes the call while we drive to one of the addresses.
I check my own phone obsessively, but Misha doesn’t call. I hope that means he’s working on cracking the encryption, not that he’s avoiding letting me know he failed. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it was related to Carina.
The address we arrive at is an abandoned warehouse. It’s empty, out in the middle of nowhere, and Morello likely won’t realize—or care—it’s been burned down.
We set it ablaze anyway, watching black smoke choke the sky and waiting to see if anyone besides local firefighters show up. No one does—another dead end.
