Page 164 of Cruel Demands

A voice moves beyond the plastic sheeting ahead. “You should already have them downstairs.”

Orlov.

A second man answers too quietly for me to understand. Orlov’s voice sharpens. “I do not care what happened. Which ambulance?”

He does not know whether they have Taylor. But he knows where they are supposed to take her. That is enough.

I raise my weapon and step through the plastic. The first man turns with his gun already coming up. I fire. The shot takes him high in the chest and throws him backward into the unfinished wall. The second reaches beneath his jacket. I fire again. He drops beside an uncovered drain, his weapon skidding across the concrete.

Orlov does not run. He’s standing inside an unfinished treatment room beyond them, waiting for me. I point the gun at his chest. “If you shoot me,” he says, “you do not find her.”

My finger tightens against the trigger, my thoughts racing. “I have a feeling you will not tell me where she is anyway, Orlov.”

He looks at me simply, plainly, devoid of feeling. “Are you willing to risk it?”

“Where is she?”

“I do not know.”

“Where is she GOING?” I growl, lunging toward him, feeling my control slip. My trigger finger is sweating.

He looks at me. “My nephew used your routes, and you killed him. Blood for blood, Mikhail. You know this.”

“He stole from me, Orlov. He knew the rules. YOU know the rules. He was greedy, and he paid for it.”

“He moved drugs through your territory.”

“On your orders, I suppose. So all this is because you feel guilty? Is your sister angry with you?” I ask. He glances at the gun in his face, and a muscle in his cheek twitches by his lip. “I did not kill your nephew.”

“No, I know that. You never get your hands dirty. But you had him arrested, and you knew the street would take care of the rest.”

I smile at him, a sheen of sweat falling over my lip. “Not entirely true. I killed that young man you had taking photographs of my mother.” I jut out my chin. “Your nephew just was not worth it to me.”

Orlov gives a short laugh. “Do you think your American is worth it to me? Or will I let someone else kill her for me? Maybe I will look away and let them do what they want with her for a few minutes first.”

My nostrils flare, rage blanking my mind, but he moves first. He catches my wrist and drives it hard into the edge of a metal cabinet. Pain flashes through my fingers. The gun falls from my hand and strikes the concrete, sliding beneath a plastic-covered cart.

Orlov drives his shoulder into me. I hit the wall hard enough to knock dust from the unfinished plaster. His fist catches my jaw.

I catch his coat and drive him backward into the cabinet. He grabs at my throat. I strike him once in the ribs, then again. His elbow catches the side of my face. I hook my arm around his and wrench until he loses his footing.

We go down hard. He tries to roll away. I catch him by the back of his coat and drag him upright. There’s a heavy chair against the wall, left behind by one of the construction crews. I throw him into it.

He kicks at me. I catch his ankle and wrench it sideways until he curses and folds forward. I drive my knee between his legs and pin him there long enough to grab his tie. Orlov catches my wrist immediately. I drive my elbow into his face. His grip loosens. I rip the tie free, wrench both of his arms behind the chair, and bind his wrists to the frame before he can recover.

He jerks against it, still dazed from my elbow. The chair scrapes across the floor. I tighten the tie. “Where is she going?”

He spits blood onto the concrete beside my shoe. “You always were impatient.”

I hit him. His head snaps sideways. “Ambulance number.”

He smiles through the blood. “You have men everywhere. Surely the great Mikhail Korolev can find one American girl.”

I grip his hair and pull his head back. “I am certain that I can. But if my men find her before you answer me, there will be nothing left to keep you alive.”

His breathing changes. Only slightly.

“Are they still inside the hospital?”