Page 93 of Brutal Vows

I hold the envelope out, arms away from my body to show the guy I’m not armed as I stalk toward him. I’ve always trusted Ben. It won’t pay to doubt him now.

When I stop a few yards from where the man is leaning against his car, just outside of the ring of light, he tosses his cigarette butt to the ground and kills it with his heel.

The crunch of boot grinding against gravel irks me.

“Saint Benedict?” he asks.

I nod.

“Welcome to Saint Petersburg.” He nods toward the envelope.

I lift a hand, indicating that I want the goods first.

He unzips his jacket and pulls out a brown envelope similar to mine, except it’s padded. There’s no telling what’s inside. He isn’t pointing a gun at me. Not yet.

Maybe not today.

I breathe. “On the hood.”

Car lights beam down the road. Milana. Fuck. The man shifts on his feet, puts the envelope on the hood. He raises his hand, beckoning with his fingers for me to hand him the cash.

My gaze flits to all the dark places where someone could hide, where bullets could come from.

Nothing.

I home in on my sixth sense. Nothing.

It’s now or never.

I walk over, hand him the envelope and palm my guns and satellite phone in the padded envelope just as Milana pulls up right next to us.

“Great doing business with you,” I say.

He smirks as he checks the cash. “Nervous American,” he says, his accent thick and guttural. “As you should be.”

I’m hardly in the car when Milana pulls away, tires screeching, and I fumble for the composite gun that’s poking my ass in my back pocket.

In my head, I hear his maniacal laugh following us.

As you should be.

Fuck.

44

MILANA

We’re back on the road, my chest tight. Luca is buckled up beside me and pulling two semi-automatics from the brown envelope. They look like the one I fired back in Boston, heavy and menacing. Now he holds a small phone in his hand, also from the envelope.

“What’s that?”

“A satellite phone, one authorized by the Russians. You can’t just waltz into this country with any old shit and think it’s going to work; they block your signals. Benedict is connected to us via a string of other apps that can’t be traced, or so he says. Let me send him a message to see if it works.”

We continue in silence as he connects with Benedict. It’s almost eight o’clock. Annushka could be in bed. I haven’t contacted Masha yet, but she knows we have a ‘rehearsal tonight at eight.’ Some of our arrangements have been clear, some hazy. Ever since we left Boston on this rescue mission, my messages to her have been coming from my old phone, now in Benedict’s hands. We did everything we could to make sure if someone is tracking me, they won’t suspect the status quo has changed. Nobody knows I’m here.

Thank God.

“There,” Luca says, shooting me a smile. “Now he can track us. We won’t get lost.” He puts the phone in the center console between us. “Don’t lose that, okay? Keep it in your coat pocket or slip it in the baby bag as soon as you can.”