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“What’s this place?” I point at the destination location. It’s not one of the two places provided by the guy we caught at our warehouse.
“An abandoned paper factory,” he chokes out.
“Security?”
“Four people. Armed. Two more at the gate.”
“Your men or contacted personnel?”
“Mercenaries.”
I nod and look up at Iliya. “Call Filip and tell him there’s been a change of plans. We’ll wait until the truck reaches the destination and hit them there.”
“How many people do you need?”
“I’m going to head over and have a look at the building. I’ll let you know once I have a better idea. Have someone get the body we stashed in the fridge and bring it over there tomorrow.”
When Iliya takes out his phone to make the call, I turn back to Mircea, who’s staring at his bloody hand with wide eyes.
“Where’s your boss hiding?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I swear I don’t know.” He whimpers.
“Too bad.” I take out my gun. “Head or heart?”
The man’s eyes flare, nearly bugging out of their sockets, and, for a few seconds, he simply gapes at me. Then, he jumps off his chair and starts pulling the lodged knife out of his hand.
“Head it is.” I cock the gun, butt it against his temple, and pull the trigger. Mircea jerks and then his body slumps forward.
“That’s for our driver.”
Chapter 18
Something weird is going on.
My eyes wander over the people sitting around the dining table. Everyone is silent, focused solely on their lunch. There’s no chatter, no laughter. That never happens. Meal times are always a cacophony of activity, making it impossible to hear your own thoughts over all the noise. Right now, I bet I could hear a pin drop. Aside from the occasional clutter of utensils, the only sounds breaching the stifling stillness in the room are the voices of the security guards coming through the two-way radio Mirko has set out on the table in front of him. He’s been carrying that thing with him since this morning.
“Gate—all clear.”
“South wall—all clear.”
“Checkpoint A—all clear.”
“Naos—all clear.”
Keva comes up to Mirko and places a plate of food in front of him. He starts eating without uttering a single complaint. Definitely not normal. Mirko always whines about the low-cholesterol diet Keva has him on, but now doesn’t say a word about being served grilled chicken instead of pork chops like the rest of us.
I look at the empty chair to my left. Drago was away most of the day yesterday and returned home well after midnight. I waited for hours, unable to sleep. The images of that stubborn boar—hurt or worse—flooded my mind. My hands were shaking. It started as a tiny tremor in my fingers, but as time passed, it got worse. When the bedroom door finally opened, and he stepped inside, I wanted to run and jump into his arms, hug him as hard as I could to reassure myself that he was safe. I didn’t, because it would mean that I care. It would mean yielding to those dangerous feelings that have been brewing inside me for quite some time. So, I stayed in bed, pretended I was asleep. Those feelings that threatened to burst from my chest? I pushed them down. Pushed them deep, deep down, burying them so they wouldn’t be able to come out.
A woman’s angry yelling explodes in the foyer, pulling me out of my thoughts. All heads snap in that direction, but no one makes a move. I look at Jelena, who’s holding a fork in the air, halfway to her mouth.
“Drago went to get Tara,” she mumbles. “I guess she’s not happy.”
The shouting continues. I get up and dash across the dining room. When I reach the foyer, I find Drago heading toward the stairs, holding a screaming black-haired woman over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. She’s hitting his back with her fists, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He lowers her down at the foot of the stairs and barks something I don’t catch.
“I don’t give a fuck,” she snaps in Serbian and pins me with her gaze. “I’m not spending a minute in the same house with her.”
Drago looks over his shoulder at me.
