Page 66 of Mile High Heist

“You know who I work for,” Kuro said.

“Dr. Z.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not a secret.”

He turned to me, shaking his head. The knife was gone, but that didn’t soothe my anxiety. I edged myself further back, away from him and his attack dog.

“And I know the man who owns you,” Kuro said, sounding delighted by the knowledge. Owning human beings was a common practice in Dr. Z’s crime syndicate. He ran many sordid operations, including the trafficking ring that had kidnapped Molly.

But he wasn’t talking about Dr Z.

“Preacher doesn’t own me,” I said. But the doubt in my voice betrayed me.

“Just because he doesn’t put you in chains doesn’t mean you are not enslaved.”

Something in my face made his smile widen with satisfaction. He was toying with me. I knew he was.

So why was I hanging from his every word?

“Have you ever wondered why?”

I edged back a little further, not that I had anywhere to escape. The distance was a fake comfort, like holding a knife in a gunfight. “Why what?” I asked.

“Why he took you.”

“Preacher didn’t take me. I found him.”

Kuro laughed. It was a deep, dark sound that made me shiver for a whole different reason.

“Is that what you think?” he asked once he’d recovered. “Oh, you poor child. You are playing with thieves and killers, and still, you are led blind to the slaughter.”

The plane jolted suddenly, as if it hit a mid-air pothole. I stumbled, grabbing onto the nearest container. Typically, neither of the Vipers moved an inch.

Stupid, graceful, rambling killers.

“You do not find men like them,” Kuro said, his voice dropping. “They find you. And Preacher found you for a reason, even if he led you to believe otherwise.”

I shook my head, thinking back. When Molly disappeared, I’d spent months hounding the police, staking out her last known locations, and speaking to everyone she knew. All of them led to dead ends except…

Except when I got that call from that police officer that I’d bribed for information. A dirty cop, with apparently dirty connections.

“I know someone,” he’d told me quietly. “He can help you find your sister.”

I’d jotted down the address and driven over to the church the next day.

Had Preacher been surprised to see me? I couldn’t remember. I’d been so blindsided by his whole schtick—the white suit and giant, bedazzled cross and the smooth, British accent. Then it was his sincerity when I explained my situation, his willingness to help when no one else could.

Oh god.

What if it had been planned? A giant setup?

But why?

I was nobody to him. I had money, but he had more. I wasn’t a trained killer. I wasn’t a thief. I could barely swindle a man into handing over his watch without nearly being raped and killed.

I was useless, because I was normal.