Ciaran (Bourbon & Blood)

Chapter 2

Two

L oralei opened her eyes through the haze of pain medication. Something felt very wrong. With her arm in a sling and a heavy bandage on her forehead, she struggled to recall everything that had happened. When the memories did come, it wasn’t in a trickle but a flood. Disjointed images of an angry man, the gleaming arc of the knife as glass shattered around them. Everything was there but jumbled and out of sync.

Reaching out, she grasped the bedrail, attempted to pull herself up. She had no destination, no notion of where she was going. But panic had her in its grip, and she could only think of one thing—run.

The machine beside her beeped as the sensor pulled loose from her fingers. The IV line tangled between her fingers. She felt trapped, and the breath caught in her lungs.

“Settle down, milish . You’re safe here.”

The soft brogue could only belong to one man. Even in her present state, it cut through the panic, through the violence and ugliness of her day. It stilled everything inside her but the beating of her heart. Even that was different when he was present. “What are you doing here, Ciaran?”

He leaned forward from the shadowy corner where he perched. “I’m here to watch over you while you sleep.”

She snorted then. “You’re no guardian angel.”

“Even Lucifer had wings once upon a time. Sleep, love. You’ve nothing to fear.”

Except for you. She didn’t say it, but it hovered on the tip of her tongue. Ciaran would never harm her physically, but there was no one on earth who could do more damage to her emotionally. “You should go. I’d rather take my chances.”

“It’s not really up to you. I’ll be watching over you, whether I do it from in here, out in the hallway, or with a rifle and a scope from the parking garage across the street. You’re in over your head, mavourneen .”

“I always am with you,” she said. Her eyes had adjusted enough that she could see him clearly. His jaw was dark with several days’ growth of beard, and his curly hair that never seemed to tame for more than a minute at a time was wild and disheveled. He had dirt on his clothes, and she was pretty sure she could smell the whiskey on him. “You look like hell.”

“You’ll turn my head with such sweet talk,” he said with a quick grin.

God, that grin hurt her to her soul. As her aunt would have said, that man could have sold coal to the devil. Charming, too handsome for his own good, and with just enough darkness in him to set every good girl’s heart beating a bit faster, he lured her, seduced her, made her yearn for things that could never be, and he could do it all without even a touch.

He rose and moved toward the bed, coming to stand over her. Loralei looked up at him and felt herself slipping, falling back into the same desperation that had plagued her during the few short months when she’d thought he might possibly love her back. His hand closed over hers, gently guiding it toward him.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

With his other hand, he pressed the call button on her bedrail. “Making sure you can’t cancel the request. You need pain medication…and possibly a sedative.”

“I do not!”

He shook his head. “You’ve white lines around your mouth, a sure sign you’re hurting. And I can smell your fear, Loralei. Tomorrow is soon enough to face it all. Trust me on that.”

“I can’t trust you on anything!” she snapped. “Just leave. Please!”

“I can’t. I won’t. I made a promise,” he said.

“Like those mean so much to you.”

“I never promised you anything, Loralei. Not once. Maybe I should have.”

He was right. She knew that. It was her own foolish hopes and expectations that had broken her heart. “If I take the drugs from the nurse, will you go?”

“No. But you won’t even know I’m here. So take them anyway and escape it all for a bit…even me.”

It didn’t matter anyway. He was on her mind all the time whether he was present or not. Her friends had pressured her into dating again because she’d become a hermit since things had gone south with Ciaran. It clearly had not gone as planned. Now he was not only on her mind but back in her life, and there wasn’t a hope in hell she’d come out of it unscathed, even if he did manage to save her life. “I’ll know,” she said softly.

The nurse entered then, a hypodermic needle in her hand. She fiddled with the IV a bit, but before she’d even finished, Loralei felt the wave take her. Her vision blurred, and the last thing she saw before the blackness claimed her again was Ciaran’s face.

Ciaran watched her sleep, the pain medication having eased some of the tension from her face. She looked like hell. A dark and ugly bruise had taken shape on the crest of her cheekbone. He’d taken enough punches to know that the bastard had landed one or two on her. Her hands were torn up, scraped and bloody. He knew from the nurse that she had three knife wounds, one in her shoulder that was serious enough to require monitoring and two minor wounds at her ankle and thigh respectively.

Everything he saw told him one thing and one thing alone. She’d fought like a demon when the bastard cornered her. He might have gotten in a few good licks, but he was fairly certain Loralei had gotten in a few of her own. That appeased him somewhat. It wouldn’t stop him from gutting the bastard, but it helped.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Even banged up, bruised, and bloodied, she was perfect to him. Just looking at her was like a punch in the gut. He leaned forward and, with only one finger, gently traced one of the scrapes that ran from her wrist up her arm, nearly to her elbow. It wasn’t right that she had to fight so hard. It wasn’t right that he hadn’t been there to protect her.

That thought had come unbidden to his mind. He’d been running since the day he walked out of her house. Even before then, he’d been revving the engine and looking for an exit.

It wasn’t just that he didn’t want a relationship. It wasn’t even that he was terrified of commitment, though that was probably true. The intensity of what he felt for her had rocked him to the core and left him shaking like a scared boy. She made him yearn for things a man like him shouldn’t want, and she’d given him just enough hope to make it utterly terrifying. So, he’d picked a fight. He’d behaved like a jealous prick, and then he’d walked out on her because it was better, he’d reasoned, to at least have it end on his terms rather than have her reject him when she finally figured out what he was really worth.

He’d made a mess of it all. A dozen times—hell, a hundred times—he’d picked up the phone to call her, to try to explain. Every time, he’d hung it up before even letting it ring. That ugly voice inside his head would rear up and tell him all the ways he wasn’t good enough, all the ways she deserved better. Looking at her, he realized he didn’t care. No one else would love her as well or fight for her as hard, and no one else would protect her the way he would. He’d just have to convince her of it.

The door opened, but he didn’t bother to get up. He knew who it was.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

Ciaran didn’t take umbrage at the rude tone. Matt had a right to be suspicious. He was Loralei’s brother, after all, and being confronted with the sight of the man who’d broken his sister’s heart, or at the very least, taken a healthy chunk out of her pride, was enough to put any man on edge. “I’m looking after her…or didn’t Grant bloody Ashworth share that bit of info with you?”

“He did,” Matt agreed, depositing a takeout bag and his laptop on the bedside table. Empty handed, he turned to glare at Ciaran. “I just didn’t expect you to be hovering over her like some tragic hero…which you’re not, by the way. Neither tragic nor heroic.”

Ciaran grinned. “I never claimed to be either.”

Matt shrugged out of his jacket, and his tie followed. “What about a lying asshole? Did you ever claim to be that? You might have a case there.”

“I never lied to her,” Ciaran said. “I won’t deny being an asshole, but I never lied.”

Matt studied him for a moment. “So what happens now? You come in, play the hero, fuck with her head again, and then you’re out the door?”

Ciaran looked up at the other man but didn’t answer immediately. He paused long enough that the silence grew taut and uncomfortable before stating emphatically, “That’s not a discussion I mean to have with you. Any discussions about what’s to happen between Loralei and myself will take place between Loralei and myself. You’re entitled to have any opinion on it if you wish, but you’re not entitled to participate.”

Matt shook his head. “Get out. I’ve got her for tonight, and maybe by tomorrow I won’t feel quite as shitty about sticking her with you. But I warn you, Darcy, you hurt her again, you bring one more tear to her eye, and I swear to God, I will end you.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Ciaran said easily as he rose from the hard plastic chair and headed for the door. He’d come back the following day when Loralei was released. It’d be best to get rested up and prepared for whatever might be coming their way.

“You’re an asshole,” Matt said.

“Yes. I am,” Ciaran agreed as the door closed softly behind him.

The following afternoon, Loralei sat perched on the edge of her hospital bed, dressed in black leggings and a flowing tunic. In deference to her stitches, bandages, and the fact that she felt like she’d been hit by a truck, her fashionista status had been forfeited for the time being.

Kaitlyn, Grant’s gorgeous wife who had somehow taken on the role of her best friend when no one was looking, had done her makeup, which meant she was wearing far more of the stuff than she was comfortable with, though to be fair, she looked like she’d thrown a fight and probably needed it. Since Kaitlyn’s go-to method of dealing with long hair was to simply whack it all off, Loralei had eschewed her assistance there. With a great deal of difficulty, she’d managed to pull it back into a low messy bun. It was a look, overall, but not necessarily a good one. Of course, she reasoned, she’d been stabbed and beaten. She was entitled to look like hell.

Matt paced the length of her hospital room as they waited for the doctor to come and discharge her. “You have to, Loralei,” he finally said. “I don’t like it either, but it’s the best option.”

“The hell I do,” Loralei responded sharply. “I’m not bringing him into my house!”

“No,” Matt agreed. “You’re not. Your house is too difficult to secure. Small backyard with lots of bushes and shrubs for people to hide in, too many windows and doors to be effectively secured. It’s a goddamn logistical nightmare.”

Loralei would have rolled her eyes, but her head already hurt badly enough without fueling that fire. Instead, she leveled a baleful stare at him. “Stop being so damned literal. You know what I meant!”

Matt stared back at her, unflinching. There was no give in him, no softness. This wasn’t one of those times when she could bat her eyelashes and soften up her big brother.

“You’ll go to the farm with Darcy,” he said firmly. “And for the record, I don’t like it, and I don’t like him. But I looked at his service history, Lor, or at least the part of it that I could see. He’s got skills you need.”

Ciaran had a lot of skills, and most of them meant trouble for her. Of course, that was the last thing Matt would want to hear from her. But she knew about Ciaran’s service record or at least had some vague notion. He had never been especially forthcoming about his background, but he had told her he spent almost a decade in the Irish Special Forces.

Memories of their first meeting in the darkened dive bar just a mile from Grant and Kaitlyn’s home swept through her. The brawl had broken out near the pool tables but had soon swept up every patron. Some man three times his size had sent Ciaran tumbling halfway across the barroom where he’d landed face down in her lap. He’d gotten up with a cheeky grin and a filthy comment and had jumped right back into the fray. When it was all over and done, he’d bought her a drink, put her in a taxi, and somehow charmed her phone number from her. His aim had clearly been more than a phone number, but he’d settled for that graciously enough.

She’d like to blame it on the whiskey she’d been drinking that night, but the simple fact of the matter was, she would probably have given it to him anyway. Ciaran was beautiful in the way that only Black Irish could be. With his charming accent, perfect smile, and his body which was utter perfection, it would have taken a stronger woman than her to resist him.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re all overreacting to this anyway. The attacker won’t come back,” she insisted. Even to her own ears, it rang false, but it was the version of the story she preferred.

Matt glanced at her, his expression firm. The worry and stress had left its mark on him. Matt had been blessed with a baby face, but for the first time in their lives, he looked older than his years. “Don’t be stupid. We both know that’s not the case. Men like this don’t just go away. He’s former Russian Mafia, for fuck’s sake! If he’s been ordered to see you dead, he will kill you or will die trying.”

“He said he had a message to deliver. It’s delivered. It’s done!”

“The hell it is!” Matt shouted. “They did this to you to get to me…as long as I’m working this case, they know you’re my weakness. I can’t do my job and protect you! And in case you didn’t stop to think about it, let me sum it up for you. These fuckers are cruel…vicious, brutal, and colder than anything you can imagine. There are things worse than dying, Loralei, and they’ll put you through every damn one of them!”

That scared her. Terrified her actually. Matt was always one to gloss over details and tell her things would be fine. The fact that he actually wanted her to be fearful was a new and truly terrifying experience. “Fine. But does it have to be him? Can’t you put me in protective custody in a safe house with a couple of cute, uniformed officers at the door?”

He didn’t bat an eye. “There’s no money in the budget for a protective detail for you. For once in your damn life, just listen to me and let me keep you safe.”

“This is Lexington! We don’t have Russian Mafia!”

Matt sat down in the same ugly chair Ciaran had occupied for most of the night. “No. We’ve got the assholes they didn’t want…a bunch of fucking Mafia rejects who would rather shoot you, stab you, and rape you—and quite possibly in that order—than look at you. This is big, Loralei, and if I don’t stop it now, this city is going straight to hell.”

“What is this really about, Matt?” she demanded.

“You’ve heard of Krokodile?”

“It’s a drug, but I didn’t think we had it here,” she answered.

“We do now. Drug dealers are ambitious, Lor, and they’re always looking for new territory. I busted one two days ago, and not small time, either. He was carrying enough of this to supply the city for a month. He’s also selling out his friends like it’s a damn auction. Good for me, but bad for you. Less than twenty-four hours later, one of them was at your door. They want to make an example of me. This, everything that happened to you, is my damn fault.”

She could see how worried he was, and she could see the guilt that was eating at him over it. “It isn’t your fault.”

“When I booked this guy, he told me they’d be coming after mine, and I just blew it off,” Matt added. “Please, Loralei, I have to nail these guys, and I can’t do that until I know that you’re safe.”

She shook her head. “I don’t like it. I don’t want him back in my life, Matt. I was finally getting over it…over him. I can’t do this again.” It humbled her to admit it, made her feel weak and needy.

“I know he hurt you…and he’s not a long-haul kinda guy. But right now, if I have to choose between having you alive and brokenhearted or tortured and killed because of me, it’s a damned easy choice,” Matt stated. “Besides, he’s on his way here now.”

Loralei rolled her eyes heavenward. “So asking me if I’d be willing to let Ciaran look after me was really just to humor me? Once again, my life choices were made via royal Crawford decree!”

Matt ran his hand over his face in an expression of frustration. “It’s not like that…this isn’t Mom monitoring your calories and bitching about your weight! You are the only family I have, or at least the only family I claim. If keeping you safe means stepping on your toes a little, well tough shit.”

“I can come back after you’ve resolved your family crisis.” The charm of the Irish accent was overshadowed by sarcasm.

Loralei looked up to see Ciaran standing in the doorway, holding a pet carrier that rattled with familiar snores. Her heart melted a little at the sight of Churchill and at the sight of the man carrying her precious, and somewhat challenged, pug. But she had to admit Ciaran didn’t look much better than Matt. He had dark circles under his eyes, he was unshaven, and his curly hair was wild. But his jeans were clean and well fitting. Lord, did they fit well! The white T-shirt with a plaid shirt open over it was his standard uniform, as were the battered cowboy boots on his feet.

“The truck is out front if you’ve been sprung,” he said, depositing the pet carrier on the bed beside her. Immediately, she unzipped it and reached inside for Churchill. His squirmy little body torpedoed into her as he began his enthusiastic, happy dance all over her thighs. She winced when his paws came down on her fresh stitches. Immediately, Ciaran swooped him up. The damn traitor collapsed in his arms in a boneless and ecstatic heap, tongue lolling out and panting.

“Not yet,” Matt answered for her. “Waiting on the doctor. Should be any minute.”

Ciaran nodded. “You think you could give us a minute here?”

Matt narrowed his eyes at him. “That depends on what you’re going to do with it.”

Ciaran ducked his head, and his lips quirked upward. “I’d hardly have anything other than conversation in mind given her current condition…and her lack of inclination.” He gave the dog a pat on the belly. “Besides, we’re well chaperoned.”

Matt huffed out a breath. “Fine. I’m going to go see if I can’t move this doctor along. Why the fuck they think no one else has anything to do but wait on them I’ll never know.”

When Matt left, Loralei looked at Ciaran and steeled herself. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

He shrugged as he absentmindedly scratched the dog’s belly and set the pug’s back leg to trembling furiously. “Then you can listen to what’s been on my mind…I owe you an apology.”

She looked away. “You don’t owe me a damn thing, and even if you did, it’s way too late for an I’m sorry.”

He moved closer, seating himself on the edge of the bed next to her. “You can hate me forever. You’re entitled. But you have to know I didn’t mean to hurt you. That was always the last thing I wanted to do.”

“Is that why you blow hot and cold? Because you’re trying not to hurt me? It’s a piss-poor strategy.”

“No,” he replied. “I’m not good at relationships. Never have been. I should have stayed in the damned army. I’m not fit for much else. But when I met you, I thought…no. I didn’t think. I wanted, and I took, and then I ran. I was a coward, and I’m not proud of it. But, right now, there are more important things. I’ll keep you safe, mavourneen. You might not trust me for anything else, but you can trust me for that.”

“You said that last night.” Her voice was soft, pitched low. When she’d woken this morning, she thought perhaps she’d dreamed the whole thing, until Matt had begun outlining his plan for her continued well-being. Just as before, Ciaran’s words left her off-balance and uncertain, but then he had always been good at keeping her off balance.

“I meant it then, and I mean it now. All this, me and you, it’s just until you’re safe. Then everything goes back to the way it was. You’ll be shed of me for good if that’s what you want.”

Loralei shook her head. “I don’t think I can do this.”

He reached out and traced one of the long scrapes that covered her hand. “I don’t think you have a choice. He targeted you, love, specifically. They want your brother’s focus on you and not on them. Until he’s finished with this, you’ll not be safe. The Russians don’t fuck around. They are brutal and effective, and if they want you dead, they’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen. And if they don’t want you dead, they might make you wish you were. They’re set to make an example of your brother, and they’ll do that by going after what he cares about the most. Right now, that’s you.”

Loralei shuddered. She didn’t want to recall just how brutal they were. It had been the element of surprise that saved her the day before. He hadn’t expected her to fight back, and if he cornered her again, she wouldn’t have that advantage. “Fine.”

Just as she capitulated, the doctor walked in looking harried while Matt strolled in behind him looking victorious. The doctor frowned at the dog, but after a surreptitious glance at her less than pleasant-faced brother, wisely said nothing. “Well, Miss Crawford, you’re free to go. The nurse is preparing your discharge instructions. You’ll need to return in a week to have the stitches removed. You were very lucky.”

“If I were that lucky, I wouldn’t have needed stitches,” she replied drolly.

The doctor’s frown deepened. He clearly did not understand humor. “The nurse will be in shortly.”

It was only a moment later that the nurse shuffled in with a wheelchair. “Oh, no,” Loralei said. “I’m not going out in that.”

The nurse shrugged. “You can go out in the chair, or you can stay here. It’s up to you. Either way, that creature goes. He’s drooling.”

Loralei glanced over at Churchill, who, sure enough, was in fact drooling. She knew just how skilled Ciaran’s hands were, and for just a moment, she was jealous of the dog.

“Get in the damn chair, Lor,” Matt said. “I’m sick of this shithole.”

Loralei rose from the bed and then climbed into the wheelchair. It offended her to the depths of her soul. “Fine.”

“I’ll get the truck,” Ciaran said, handed her the dog, and walked out.

“I don’t like this,” Loralei said to Matt as the nurse pushed the chair down the hall. She cuddled Churchill close and tried to figure out how the hell she was going to get through this.

“I don’t care.”

“Asshole,” she said bitterly.

“Yep.”

Ciaran walked around the truck and opened the door. He didn’t have to help her in. Her brother would do that, but there was no point in giving the man even more reason to despise him. It had rocked him to see Loralei in such a condition. Even with the pound of makeup Kaitlyn had slathered on her face, the bruises were glaring on her pale skin.

Her injuries, all things considered, weren’t that severe. A total of twenty-seven stitches between the wound at her shoulder and the ones on her thigh and her ankle, but no one had to tell him how much worse it could have been. She’d been damned lucky to have gotten by with such minor injuries, and if she faced off against the bastard again, the outcome would be very different.

Taking the dog carrier from her, which was empty of course, as the damn dog was cuddled close to her chest, he placed it behind his seat. She loved the thing though it had less than two brain cells to rub together. It had driven him crazy the way she carried on over the little beast, but at the same time, he’d found it endearing. Her need to rescue animals and the way she melted at the sight of any baby animal had charmed him. And he’d almost lost her.

That thought kept running through his mind, but on its heels came another thought. She wasn’t his. She could have been, would have been, if he hadn’t been such an asshole, but he’d blown it. All that was left was to keep her safe and do his best to convince her he wasn’t the worthless shite he’d behaved like.

So, he stood there like a third wheel, looking like a dumbass, as Matt helped her from the wheelchair and into the truck. When the door closed, Matt turned to him. “Your job is to make sure no one else hurts her. My job, if you hurt her again, will be to make your life hell. We clear?”

“Crystal,” Ciaran replied with a nod. It goaded him, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t earned their distrust. Walking back around the truck, he climbed behind the wheel and met her questioning gaze. “Your brother doesn’t trust me,” he said.

“Should he?” she asked skeptically.

Ciaran smiled. “Probably not. Let’s get you home and settled. You look like hell.”

She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. “Where’s that silver tongue now, Irish?”

“Ask me when you’re better, and I’ll demonstrate,” he shot back.

“Oh, no. That’s not happening. Not ever again.”

We’ll see, he thought, and turned the key in the ignition.

The ride to his farm wasn’t a long one. They managed to avoid the worst of the day’s traffic. Heading out of town toward the horse country that spanned Fayette and Woodford Counties, it was only twenty-five minutes before he was parking the car in the driveway in front of his small house.

He’d bought the small farm that butted up against Grant’s property not long before their breakup, if it could be called that. Since then, Loralie had been noticeably absent from Ash Grove farm and had visited Kaitlyn DuChamps-Ashworth much less frequently. He knew because he’d been watching for her small car every time he’d heard one pass his house.

Kaitlyn had gathered clothes and toiletries for Loralei earlier in the day and dropped them off, along with her own dire warnings and threats. It had been something akin to peeling his testicles like a grape. He hadn’t said much in return. She was Loralei’s friend, and given what a shit he’d been, she was entitled to hate him. Not a one of them could loathe him as much as he loathed himself. Hurting Loralei out of his own stupid pride and petty insecurity had been one of the lowest things he’d ever done.

No changing the past, he reminded himself as he took the keys from the ignition. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. The place hadn’t changed much since she’d been there last, but he’d managed to add a bit in the way of furnishings. He’d bought a new bed, mostly because he couldn’t bear to sleep in the one he’d shared with her.

“It’s never been the lap of luxury, but it’ll do for the time being,” he said.

“I liked your house, Ciaran. I liked it then, I like it now. The house was never the problem.”

He tried to see it through her eyes. Compared to her home, it wasn’t just modest but poor. Loralei had inherited her house from an aunt, and it was prime real estate in the downtown area and reflected the difference in their social status like nothing else. “Don’t lie. It’s a shit hole.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “No. I don’t say things I don’t mean, Ciaran.”

It was a direct hit, piercing the skin and digging deep. He’d meant everything he said to her except for the hateful words that had escaped him during their last argument. But those were the words she’d always remember. The minute he’d uttered them, he’d seen the hurt in her. He’d wanted to stop, to apologize then and try to repair the damage, but that ugly voice had been whispering in his head, end it now, walk out on your own terms before she dumps you for someone else, you’re not good enough . It wasn’t the first time those thoughts had pushed him into acting like a total shite.

“Come inside, then. I did at least shovel the dirty clothes out of your way,” he said, his voice gruff with things he couldn’t quite bring himself to express. Loralei had no idea just how special she was, and the worst part of it was, he’d done nothing to show her. If she doubted where she stood with him, he had no one but himself to blame.

It was mid-afternoon, and the bar was nearly deserted. Only a few patrons nursed their drinks, heads bowed over them. A few women danced on the stage, none of them making much effort. The people who were there wouldn’t tip anyway. No one made eye contact with anyone else.

Sergei entered and immediately moved toward the only occupied table. In the back corner, two men sat at the table watching him approach. Their partner had instructed him not to kill the cop’s sister, but he was not the only man Sergei answered to. Others had said she should die, and he feared them much more than the dirty cop.

Nervous, he touched the claw marks on his face and neck, courtesy of the fat bitch of a sister. Eliminate the woman, make it ugly enough to shift the cop’s focus and teach him a lesson. Now, not only was the sister not dead, she was a witness who could tie it all together.

“I hope that dead bitch is lying in the morgue without her fingers,” Ivanko said. “DNA evidence fucks everything up.”

“She’s not dead,” Sergei admitted, taking the last remaining chair at the table.

Before he could seat himself fully, it was kicked from beneath him, and he sprawled on the floor. “Bastard!” Ivanko shouted.

Dimitri spoke then. “Enough from both of you! We did not come to this town to make spectacles of ourselves and act like fools for the locals. We brought our product here because it is an untapped market. All this is still true, even with the minor obstacle we have encountered. You have twenty-four hours, Sergei, to make this right. That is all our policeman can provide us. Twenty-five thousand does not buy loyalty, only rents it.”

Sergei righted the chair and took his seat. “I will get her, Dimitri. I promise.”

“I know you will. Now go and get yourself cleaned up.”

Sergei rose and walked away. As he left, Ivanko looked at Dimitri. “That’s it? You’re going to just let him walk away? This could fuck us, Dimitri!”

Dimitri sipped his drink and paused thoughtfully. “No. Sergei is a threat now. He must be eliminated. I know where the girl is. Our rented policeman has been thorough. You will go with him. You will be certain the job is done. When you drive him out to the country, you do not drive him back. Understood?”

“And the girl?” Ivanko asked.

Dimitri shook his head. “We don’t have time for dramatics. Make it quick. Just put a bullet in her with Sergei’s gun. We’ll let Crawford stew in his grief and guilt because he failed to protect his sister.”

Ivanko smiled. “It has been too long since you got your own hands dirty. You could come with us.”

Dimitri took another sip. “I take no pleasure in the killing, only the spoils. Get it done, Ivanko.”