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My steps are weighted with indecision. Leaving Ada feels wrong on a soul-deep level. As much as I admire her reasons to stay, it doesn’t stop me hating them any less.
“Keep up,” snaps Valeriya.
“How much is Silas paying you for this?”
“Not enough.”
He has something big over this woman, but he won’t tell me what.Seems I’m not the only one with a talent for extortion.
She keeps her chin to her chest as she leads me down a hallway to a side door. “Wait,” she says suddenly, sticking out a bony hand. A second later, three of Semenov’s men pass by a window outside. She turns to glare at me like it’s my fault. “Move.” She jabs her hand to a concealed camera above my head and yanks me out of sight from the field of vision.
When she opens the door, I see a blue Mini parked beyond. She checks the coast is clear and then beckons me onto the back seat. “Keep your head down.”
I follow her lead, but I keep my gun drawn. I don’t trust anyone in this world except Ada, and maybe Viper on a good day.
Five minutes later, I’m climbing out next to my SUV.
I go to hand the woman a thick wad of notes to thank her, but she pushes them away and curses at me in Russian. I toss them onto the dash of her car regardless. “And here I was thinking you’d helped me out of the goodness of your heart.”
“You have no idea who you are dealing with,” she spits back. “Semenov is a-a-beast.” Tears start leaking out of her beetle-black eyes. She swipes them away angrily as I stand there, completely unmoved by her fanfare of fear.
Taking a spare matchstick out of my pocket, I slide it into the corner of my mouth and roll it to the other side with my tongue. “Yes, but I’m British, sweetheart,” I say, my voice several hundred degrees colder than hers. “We get a kick out of slaying all kinds of monsters.”
CHAPTER 34
FRANKIE
My heart is like lead as I drive to the hospital. All my walls are closing in on me.
I can’t stop thinking about the moment my father died, when the invisible flatline in the room pierced my chest and churned up all my hate like it was churning up mud.I’m thinking about another flatline, too. It’s with me in the car right now, driving deep into the same place, but all its churning up this time is pain and regret.
I’ve never allowed myself to grieve for my family. I sent their bodies back to Sicily as my father instructed, but I’ve never once visited their graves. It was almost as if I was ashamed of failing to carry out his final wishes, of allowing myself to be so controlled by the Red Compass.
When Ada and I take our son’s body home to join them, this war will be over. Then, I’ll set fire to the Irish flag over his bones and finish it for good.
As I approach the ambulance bay outside A & E, there’s some sort of commotion going on. Pulling out of the line of traffic, I do a slow drive-by to check it out, then regret it when I see six familiar black Range Rovers parked haphazardly across the portico and blocking the emergency vehicles in.
What the hell are Semenov’s Bratva boys doing here?
A couple of the drivers and hospital staff are standing by the roadside shouting at a group of stony-faced men and gesturing wildly. As I pull level, the shouting escalates until I see one of them reach into his back pocket for his weapon.
“Shit.”
Hitting the brakes, I watch in mounting fury as he shoots an unarmed driver in the head. My hand is flying to my gun to show the disrespectful bastard some manners when another bullet comes out of nowhere and hits the side panel of my vehicle.
“Motherf—”
Slamming the car into reverse, I travel at speed for a couple of metres before I’m pulling a tight one-eighty to the sound of screeching tyres. By then, another three bullets are bouncing off the boot and I’m really fucking mad.
Glancing sideways as I grab for the gearstick, I find myself staring into the cold ugly face of Kirill Semenov. He can’t see me through the tinted windows, but the way his expression switches to a snarl tells me he’s already guessed who’s driving.
You walked me into a fucking ambush, Ada. It’s a good job I love you.
As he raises his gun to fire at me, I press themetal to the floor, going from zero to fifty down the Fulham Road, his bullets skimming off the paintwork.
I’m weaving in and out of traffic with a black Range Rover on my tail until I run three red lights in a row and lose them around Earls Court. Skidding into an NCP Short Stay car park, I swing the damaged SUV into a spare space and yank my phone out of my pocket.
“Silas, get me a new ride,” I order, reeling off my location.
