22. Good Shot
CHAPTER 22
Good Shot
IVY
“Pull over, Macavoy,” yells Alistair.
The driver does as instructed, and we gratefully glide to a stop a safe distance from the traffic. I haul oxygen into my lungs, not knowing how long I’d held my breath. I rush to unclip the hysterical infant and tuck him into my body as close as I can. I zip up the jacket Alistair puts over me, so that Alex is pressed into my side, in a safe, dark little cave. I rock and shush him. Brumilde offers his pacifier, which he hungrily accepts. Finally, he is silent.
Lucky and Henderson pull in behind us, still on full alert.
“Good work,” says Alistair, which I think is his way of saying thank you.
“Good shot,” replies Henderson.
“Were we expecting that?” asks Brumilde.
“Yes and no,” says Alistair. “Not this soon, anyway.”
“Bratva?” I ask. They looked Slavic to me, but what did I know? It’s probably the caricatures of the James Bond villains in my mind that make me think that.
“It appears so,” replies Alistair. His face is pinched with regret. “Blackwood was right. I should have moved when I had the chance.”
Henderson nods. “Pre-emptive strikes are always best.”
“Fuck,” spits Alistair, with more venom than a viper. “This is my fault.” He interlaces his fingers behind his head and looks up as if searching for some kind of answer in the sky.
I want to argue. I want to comfort him, but I know it’s not the time. I’m also angry at the men who tried to run us off the road, who tried to shoot us. I feel fiercely protective of Alex—he’s already lost so much.
Alistair puts his phone to his ear, but doesn’t talk. He curses again. “Blackwood’s phone is off.”
Henderson’s jaw muscles ripple as he clenches his teeth. He’s not happy.
“I’ll keep trying him,” says Lucky.
“Fuck!” yells Alistair again. I get the feeling he wants to kick something.
“It’s okay,” I mumble nervously. I don’t want him to shout at me again. “We’re okay.”
Alistair’s expression is so pained that it hurts me. He pulls me in and rests his mouth on the top of my head. “I can’t lose you,” he says.
“You won’t,” I reply.
“Poor baby,” he says of the bundle I’m holding close. “This can’t go on. I should have listened to Blackwood. I should have given the order and now it’s too late.”
We both look at Lucky, but he shakes his head. Still no answer.
“Call my family,” Alistair barks at him. “Warn them. They need to get out of the house right now.”
Alistair’s phone rings. I see his screen: unknown caller with a plus seven dialing code.
“Russia,” thinks Alistair out loud. He motions for Henderson to come closer.
Oh shit. My anxiety ramps up again.
He answers, putting it on speakerphone. “This is Ravenscroft.”
A small voice, nervous, with a local English accent. “Mr. Ravenscroft, sir.”
“Who is this?”
The man hesitates. “Blackwood told me to call you if there was a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” demands Alistair. “Who are you?”
“Max. Max Brodie. I’ve been working with Blackwood for the last six years.”
Honestly, he didn’t sound old enough for that to be true, but what do I know?
“Intern?” asks Alistair.
“He used to call me his protégé.”
Alistair’s expression turns stony. “Why are you using past tense?”
Max doesn’t answer.
“Brodie,” says Alistair in a vaguely threatening way. “You said he used to call you his protégé. Tell me you got a promotion. Or that you quit, or something other than what I’m thinking.”
Still quiet. Henderson looks down at the ground, unblinking.
“Sorry,” says Max, his voice thick with emotion. “Blackwood’s dead.”