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True to form, her blanket slipped seductively down to show off the outfit. Classic Penthouse Pet material: naked tits, clingy transparent fabric clinging to tight nipples, dark muff. Her hand was like ice when she grasped his. Her legs shook under her like a newborn foal’s.
“What now?” she asked. Her voice was husky and raw from the wind.
He yanked the blanket away from her and wrapped her up like a burrito, then scooped her into his arms. She protested and wiggled, but she was effectively neutralized, swaddled in the blanket.
“We’ll talk in my truck,” he muttered.
“Your truck?” She stiffened in his arms. “Wait! Aren’t we going to the police? We have to tell them what happened, don’t we?”
He nuzzled her fragrant hair, noticing at random that she still smelled faintly like violets, though she tasted like salt. “In my truck,” he reiterated. “Where we won’t be seen or heard.”
“But I—but we—”
“And after we talk, if you still want to, I swear I’ll leave you at the local cop shop,” he lied. “Cross my heart.”
That calmed her down, and he made good time through the walkways of the deserted marina. The darkened shopping district was quiet too. The empty street outside the gate was dotted with pools of orange light at regular intervals. Nobody in them. He hurried to the long, graveled strip along the water that functioned as marina parking.
There was a bar up the street. Nick saw the flicker of a large-screen TV, heard a guttural roar of male voices crying out in unison. Some big sports event—that explained the deserted streets. He had no clue what the sport might be. He’d been out in orbit for too long.
There was his truck, waiting where he’d left it some days before. Not stolen or vandalized. One advantage of living in Nowheresville. Except that he’d grown up in a place like this, and he’d been the kind of no-good punk who’d have made sure that any abandoned truck was properly fucked up before its owner came back to claim it. At the very least he would have slashed the tires. They must sedate the teenagers in this town. But he’d take any luck he could get, however undeserved.
He bundled Becca into the passenger seat without ceremony and got that sucker fired up with a roar of the motor, spattering gravel. Becca braced herself on the dash and gave him her owl-eyed look. She fumbled for the seat belt.
He dragged his cell out of his pocket, and punched in a number.
An irritated female voice answered in Ukrainian. “Who is this?”
“Milla. It’s Arkady,” he said rapidly in the same language. “It’s all gone to shit. My cover’s blown. So watch your back.”
“What? What? He will kill me now! You asshole! You fool! How can you do this to me?”
“Just thought I’d warn you,” he said evenly. “Good luck.” He hung up over the woman’s shrill protests. There was nothing else he could say.
Becca gazed at him. “And the police?” she asked.
He chose his words carefully as he stepped on the gas. “This is the deal with the police,” he said. “If you tell them what you saw, they’re obliged to investigate. A lot of things might happen, all of them bad. Most likely some locals will be killed before they get wise to exactly what they’re dealing with. As in cold-blooded murder, film at eleven. And no, I’m not being sarcastic.”
“But isn’t that just what we’re going to tell them?” Becca forced the words out from between her chattering teeth. “Exactly what they’re dealing with, I mean.”
“We can tell them anything we want,” he said. “Men and women with families will still get killed. It’s a statistical certainty.”
“Ah.” Her throat worked. She put her hand up to it, massaged it.
“And there’s another thing, too,” he went doggedly on. “Right now, he doesn’t know anything about you. Not your name, your address, your work, nothing. You have no idea how fucking fortunate that is.”
“Oh, but I do,” she snapped. “Since you never miss an opportunity to remind me of my great good fortune.”
He was relieved to hear that snippity tone. A woman in shock would not be giving him hell. She was so much tougher than her sex bunny looks would suggest.
He found his train of thought. “What I’m saying is that if you blow the whistle on Zhoglo here, that gives him a place to start when he comes looking for you. And he will come looking for you. Count on it.”
“Is that his name?”
Nick slammed a hand into the steering wheel. “Yeah.”
“But the police would never give him my—”
“You have no idea how powerful this guy is,” he said. “He’s got a reach you cannot imagine. Info can be accessed on shared databases, Becca. It can be hacked, stolen, bought. Everything is for sale. He’s already corrupted the feds. He’d get around the local law.”
