21. Bomb Baby
CHAPTER 21
Bombshell Baby
ALISTAIR
My phone buzzes. I hesitate to take the call as I don’t want to be late for dinner. My mother abhors tardiness, and it’s a trait I’ve inherited.
BLACKWOOD, says the caller ID.
“Sorry, Ivy, I need to take this.”
Ivy, mid-lipstick application, motions her approval.
“Mr. Ravenscroft,” says my intelligence agent. “The funeral is today.”
I have a pang of regret in my chest. All I can think of is Mariya, but Blackwood wouldn’t be calling me about that. “Whose funeral?”
“One funeral, four coffins.”
“Ah, okay,” I say. Elena Kuznetsov, the Mirror Baron’s wife, and their three Slavic brats: Dmitri, Yuri and Anya.
“They kept it low-key. No one seems to know it’s happening.”
“But you do.”
“Well, I’ve been watching Mikhail like a hawk. There were a few subtle clues.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.
I hear Blackwood make a vague grunting sound, as if to convey “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Mr. Ravenscroft. I strongly suggest that you move on this today.”
I don’t reply.
“Sir,” he presses. “You can’t afford to be on the defense in this situation.”
“Are you saying that I should be giving the order today?”
“It’s an elegant solution,” says Blackwood. “He’s infamously hard to pin down, but today we know where he’s going to be. You may not get another chance like this.”
“He hasn’t shown any signs of retaliation.”
“Yet,” says Blackwood.
I’m hesitant to give the order. “I just…” The truth is, I’m not vicious enough to take a man out on the very day he’s mourning the death of his entire family. A family who is dead because of my bloody hand.
“Sir. I understand your reservations. I also know that the death of the Ivanov woman weighs heavily.”
“Mariya,” I say. Not that Ivanov woman. Mariya, mother to baby Alex.
Mother no more, because of me.
Orphan Alex, because of me.
“You didn’t kill her,” insists Blackwood.
“And yet she is dead because of me.”
“These things happen,” Blackwood says. “You know this as well as I do.”
But I refuse to think of Mariya as collateral damage, like litter blown away in the wind.
“I can’t give the order,” I say. “This feels rushed. I need to think about it.”
“You’re the boss,” says the intelligence agent. “But for the record, I think that you’re making a mistake. A mistake that could cost the safety of your family.”
Anger rises inside me like a plume of dark smoke. “Blackwood,” I bark. I’m tempted to remind him why the Moscow mission was compromised in the first place. “Keep your eyes on Kuznetsov. I want to know everything. If anything he does so much as hints at the idea that he’s planning retaliation, let me know.”
“There is no reality in which he will not retaliate, sir.”
I know he’s right, but I don’t have an answer for him. I end the call.
“Everything okay?” asks Ivy, putting earrings in. She’s wearing a long button-down dress that I would love to … unbutton.
“It is when you’re around,” I reply, pulling her toward me and kissing her. “I love this dress.”
“Thanks! I picked it up for two quid at a charity shop.”
“There’s one slight problem with it.”
Ivy steps away from me. “What?” She looks down to scan the fabric and then feels the back for an imperfection. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem with wearing fantastic clothes is that it makes other people want to take them off. Which kind of defeats the object of wearing them in the first place.”
Ivy’s eyes sparkle as she grins. “I see.”
“You’re lucky we’re almost late for dinner, or I’d show you exactly what I mean.”
“More like unlucky ,” she replies. “Any chance you’ll show me your childhood room again?”
My cock twitches. “If you insist.”
Ivy adds a cardigan and some jangly bracelets to her ensemble. “Let’s take the limo.”
I laugh out loud. I can’t help myself. I shake my head at her. “ ‘Let’s take the limo’ ? What’s next? Buying bespoke blood diamond-encrusted designer handbags? Who are you even?”
Ivy joins in the laughing. “God, no,” she says in a put-on posh accent. “That’s sooo arriviste.”
“‘ Let’s take the limo’ ,” I say again, shaking my head and chuckling.
Ivy stops smiling. “But of course, dah ling. How else am I going to give you a blowjob?”
Unfortunately for me, and through no fault of Ivy’s, the cunnilingus doesn’t materialize. Mother texts me just before we leave to insist that baby Alex come along. She literally goes as far as to call him “her beautiful grandchild”. Brumilde agrees to join us, so instead of a blowjob on the way to dinner, I have the company of my insta-family. The scary thing is that I don’t seem to mind. Perhaps Ivy has changed in the last few weeks, but I’m not the same person she first met, either. We’re good for each other in so many ways. I look across at Alex, securely strapped into the hastily-sourced Russian car seat we got in Moscow. He’s just woken up from a nap and is all smiles and shiny cheeks.
Ivy catches me smiling at him and winks. It’s a bit of a saucy wink as if she’s thinking of what she’d be doing to me if we didn’t have company, but it’s affectionate at the same time. Brumilde, holding some kind of baby rattle, is rather dreamily looking out of the window. She’s definitely happier having a baby in the house.
I feel a weight slowly lifting off my shoulders. Perhaps this could all work out after all. Ariana’s situation remains a challenge, but there is hope that she’ll come back to us. Even the bombshell baby news doesn’t seem that bad anymore. I allow myself my own daydream of the two children growing up together, not quite family, but intimate siblings nonetheless—like Henderson and Ariana were.
“Goo-goo gaga,” says Ivy.
I raise my brows. “I beg your pardon?”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” she smiles, and turns back to Alex to play peekaboo.
“Apparently,” Brumilde says, “babies don’t understand object permanence. That’s why peekaboo is so much fun for them.”
When we both look at her blankly, she explains. “If a baby can’t see something, they think it no longer exists. So peekaboo is like seeing things pop in and out of existence.”
I know she means well, but I can’t help experiencing another pang of regret for Mariya. Out-of-existence Mariya. I push the feeling away.
My phone rings, and I inwardly roll my eyes, thinking it must be Blackwood trying once again to persuade me, but I’m wrong.
“Henderson.”
“We’ve got a tail,” he says. Quick, but calm.
I turn to look at the rear window. “You sure?”
I see him in the car behind us, as usual. Lucky is driving.
“Hundred percent. Black SUV, no plates.”
“Fuck,” I say.
“And not subtle, either. Driving erratically. I’m expecting some trouble.”
My stomach knots. When cool-headed Henderson expects trouble, there’ll be trouble.
“My family is with me,” I say, reminding him how high the stakes are.
“I know,” he replies. “We’ll keep them safe.”
Just as Henderson says that, Lucky swerves, and I see the ominous vehicle trying to push them off the road.
“Go!” yells Henderson.
Macavoy sees the red alert on his device and he puts his foot down. We’re swerving in and out, trying to get ahead, while Lucky tries to block the offenders and give us space to disappear. Cars around us hoot in annoyance, then pull aside when they realize the danger. We get stuck behind a truck, another hemming us in, and we lose our advantage. I tear my eyes from the road to look at Ivy, who looks wild with fear. She’s grasping Brumilde’s hand. They’re both watching Alex, who has stopped smiling.
“We’ll be okay,” I tell them. There’s never been a tail that Henderson hasn’t lost. But these guys are more than that. They’re not here to merely follow us. I swallow hard.
I hear the machine gun before I see it. The passenger-seat gunman is sitting on the rolled-down window, pointing his automatic Kalashnikov at Lucky.
“No!” I shout, making everyone in the limo startle. I reach under Macavoy’s seat and grab the pistol I keep there for this kind of emergency. A Glock is no match for an assault rifle, but it will have to do.
“How many in the SUV?” I ask Brumilde.
“Four,” she replies. “That last round?—”
Ivy gasps as the SUV smashes into the side of the Jaguar, sending Lucky careening into another car. Metal screeches, rubber burns. He manages to regain control. I gesture to Brumilde to trade places, so that I can get to the window. We quickly swap while a strangled-sounding Ivy murmurs comforting nonsense to the baby. It’ll be over soon, I want to tell her, but there’s no time. I ready my gun while Brumilde finds Alex’s earmuffs and quickly puts them on his head.
“Get down,” she tells Ivy, while she covers the baby with her body. Ivy hesitates, not wanting to be safely tucked in the footwell when everyone else is in danger.
“Now,” I tell her, and she does.
I take aim at the driver. My shooting is usually accurate, but we’re all speeding and swerving, so it’s not going to be easy to get the shot. The armed passenger catches sight of me leaning out the window and showers us with bullets. I pull inside just in time, and we only lose a wing mirror. I try again, but I’m rushing, and the shot doesn’t come close. Lucky sees what I’m trying to do, so he distracts their driver by trying to run them off the road. When the passenger turns his AK-47 on Lucky, it gives me the second I need to aim properly and fire.
The gunshot is so loud inside the cabin. Alex screams in terror. But it was worth it, because I got the guy in the shoulder. He almost loses his seat on the rolled-down window, swaying way out of the car before levering himself back in. He tries to lift his barrel at me but the pain makes his grip unsteady, and the next rounds he fires don’t come close to us. I take the opportunity to shoot at him again, and I clock him with my third bullet. His body turns limp and slumps into the road. Keeping focus despite the banshee in my ear, I’m able to shatter their windscreen with my next round. I aimed for the driver, but I can’t see through the silver spiderweb of glass whether I got him or not. When the SUV starts swerving to the side of the road, I know I’ve hit my target.