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My hands loosened their grip on Orlov without my awareness, terror dragging over my skin like the sharpened edge of a knife. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Orlov slumped over, his energy for rebellion clearly spent. “It was always planned for tonight.”
“Why the fuck did you tell us it was Tuesday if you knew he’d ship her off to fucking Colombia today?” I roared in his face.
His body stiffened and his expression changed once again, bitterness, spite, and grim satisfaction easy to read on his disfigured face. “You want to know why? Because fuck you, that’s why. If I can’t have her, I’m not letting you have her either, you dumb prick.”
My brain exploded and though I wanted to bathe in Orlov’s blood right now—and I fucking would—I was a dumb prick for just believing anything this motherfucker said. We trusted this asshole and it might cost Emmy everything—might cost me everything because my life was fuck all without her.
“Did you get anything from the tap in Armstrong’s office?” I snapped out at Drago.
“Anya has been keeping us informed, but we thought they were moving on Tuesday, so we weren’t looking for specific references to today. They mentioned where they were doing the exchange and meeting with Martinez at the hangar in Wheeling, but nothing about it being today.”
“Are we ready to move on them? Do we have the people on standby?”
Drago had a lot of soldiers, but we’d planned for this to go down on Tuesday. To pull off a stealthier operation like infiltrating the airport and getting Emmy back, we’d need men with experience and training, which is where Mikhail was meant to come in. He was to send us more highly trained men on Sunday so we could be ready for Tuesday, but Tuesday was all of a sudden right fucking now.
And Mikhail just threw down this fucking ultimatum about going to Moscow.
“We have some ready to go, but we definitely need Mikhail’s men as back up given the short notice,” he said, turning to look at Mikhail, obviously having no idea of the conversation Mikhail and I just had.
Rage and frustration were burning in my veins like jet fuel. I had to get to Emmy, I had to get her out of there. Just thinking about her terrified, possibly hurt, made it hard to breathe, to think. I knew what I needed to do, but it was tearing me apart.
I stared at Mikhail, my voice cracking with desperation. “I’ll do it. I’ll go to Moscow, just fucking help us right now.”
Mikhail gave me that hard, dark stare, but slowly nodded his head.
I had to save her, even if I had to leave her to do it.
Chapter 52
Emmy
Approaching Thomas Armstrong’s limousine, I was relieved not to find my mother’s dead body on the sidewalk. I paused at the door, knowing this would be my last safe moment for a while, maybe forever.
A lump formed in my throat as I stared briefly up at the apartment I’d shared with Ivan for one short week, sorrow and barely suppressed hysteria nearly choking me.
As if sensing I may spend the rest of the evening standing in front of the closed door, Thomas opened the door himself. “Did you forget how to work the handle of the door?” Armstrong asked sarcastically as he gestured me inside with the gun he was holding.
“Pardon my lack of enthusiasm,” I replied sharply.
Thomas was seated facing the front and my mom was across from him. She looked terrible. Her face was puffy and tear-streaked and loose strands of hair falling out of her low ponytail. Her hands were knotted in front of her as she wrung them anxiously.
When I sat down next to her, she grabbed onto my hand, probably to give her own a break. “I’m so sorry, Emmy. I can’t believe this is happening. I never wanted you to be affected by my choices and look at what I’ve done.”
I gripped her hand back, remorse and compassion flooding me. “Mom, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. I’m so sorry for what I said earlier. I didn’t mean it.”
“Oh, no—”
“This is touching,” Armstrong mocked from his seat across from us. His comment drew my gaze, though I found myself resisting. I didn’t want to look at him, but I had to. He was hard to predict and utterly ruthless. As the biggest threat to my mother and me, I forced myself to stay focused on him and whatever crazy thing he might decide to do.
“What is this all about? Why did you force me to come with you?” The car suddenly started to move, and a new level of anxiety was unlocked.
He reached for a tumbler of some amber liquid—bourbon? Whiskey? Who knew given my incredibly limited knowledge of alcohol. He slowly brought the glass to his mouth, taking a measured sip, then casually lowering the glass as I stared at him with barely leashed impatience. He was dragging out the process of telling us, and clearly finding great pleasure in our distress. It was hard to fathom that this odious asshole was my father. The truth left a sour taste in my mouth.
He continued to pause until I thought I’d go crazy.
“Well?” I finally snapped.
