Chapter 31
LUKE
“There’s no need for you to come with me, old cock.” Paddy shoots me a curious glance. “Thought you’d have something better to do than reconnaissance in a muddy ditch with me.”
“It’s my fucking job, isn’t it?” I raise the binoculars to my eyes, ignoring his critical gaze. “Where is this fucker going,” I mutter, watching Bogan Kozlov speaking on the phone as he gets into his car. “Isn’t he usually sleeping at this time of the afternoon?”
“That he is. Something’s up, for sure, and for once it isn’t my cock.”
“For Chrissakes,” I growl. “Shut up about your fucking cock. Nobody gives a shit.”
I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth, knowing they give me away.
Paddy, wisely, doesn’t bite.
“You want to tail him?” he says instead. “Going to look a bit off if we both get after him.”
“Yep. I’ve got it.” I slide back down the embankment and pull my helmet on as I straddle the bike and turn the power on. On a screen in front of me, the transponder I stuck under Kozlov’s car bursts into life. “Got him,” I say.
“I’ll head back to the club for shift start, make sure everything’s tickety boo,” Paddy says. “But remember, we’re due to meet the boys at eight, so if Kozlov starts heading up to fucking Scotland, don’t go following him.”
Fuck. I forgot about tonight’s reunion with our old SAS troop. And after almost a fortnight of being all but locked out of Zinaida’s life, it’s the last thing I’m in the mood for.
“I might not make it,” I say tightly.
“The fuck you won’t.” Paddy shoots me a warning glance. “It’s the Sandman who organized it, and we both know he’ll kick your ass if you don’t show.”
The Sandman is what we all called Ian Welch, our instructor during selection. After we all passed, he told us to call him Easy, even though he’s a hard bastard who is anything but.
“Fine.” I kick the bike into life to stop any further conversation. See you there, I mouth as I pull out after Kozlov.
I normally look forward to the reunions, even if they mostly consist of endless ribbing backed up by lethal quantities of alcohol. But ever since I overheard Zinaida talking to Rhys Stewart, my mood hasn’t been particularly inclined toward easy socializing.
Confronting Alexei Petrovsky in the Quartier didn’t help matters, even if the bastard did try to make good by having a brand-new Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle delivered to my home the following day, along with an exceptional bottle of Scotch and a note bearing the single word, Sorry.
The only reason I didn’t give Alexei up to Roman was because the day after the unfortunate encounter, a pale-faced, red-eyed Ofelia assured me that whatever might have existed between them is over for good.
She also mentioned that it was Zinaida who’d helped her see the futility of chasing a connection with Alexei.
Normally, I’d have been impressed by Zinaida’s powers of persuasion, not to say more than a little relieved at avoiding what I know damned well would have been a horror show with Roman.
Unfortunately, it appears Ofelia wasn’t the only one to harden her heart that night.
“Luke is a nice handbag, Mr. Stewart, nothing more.”
I thought Zinaida’s words were nothing more than her usual mask, the game she plays to throw predators off the scent. I even admired her callous delivery and planned to laugh about it with her later.
Except that later never came, and now I can’t help but wonder if maybe there was more truth in her words than I realized at the time.
“I’d have thought you knew better than to concern yourself with my affairs. As everyone knows, they never last for very long.”
I’ve always believed I can see past Zinaida’s facade, that the woman I know is far more complex than her psychopath reputation.
I still believe that.
But for some reason, and despite all the moments of connection that I thought had broken down her defenses, now she’s retreated so far behind her mask that I don’t even know how to fucking reach her. And I’m certainly never given the opportunity.
For over a fortnight, Zinaida has communicated with me via email and text and has me update her the same way.
She goes to the office early and goes back to her Lowndes Square apartment late.
I have to assume she goes home alone, since unfortunately, my own personal code of honor won’t allow me to spy on her.
No matter how much I’ve been fucking tempted.
She hasn’t so much as been in the same room as me since the night of Ofelia’s performance, let alone allowed me close enough to touch her.
I’ve spent so much time in the boxing ring the security team have begun avoiding it at all costs, and even Anatoly has begun dropping less-than-subtle hints about me easing up on the young recruits. I’ve gone from easy banter with the staff to them eyeing me warily and staying out of my path.
And even though I’m damned sure we’re getting closer to discovering who is behind the assassination attempts on Zinaida, I find myself terrified of actually getting to that outcome.
I’m horribly aware that the moment I do, whatever fever dream this has been is going to disappear as quickly as it arrived, taking with it a future I’ve only just discovered I desperately want.
“Fuck,” I yell at the wind, slipping in and out of traffic behind Kozlov’s car, keeping it at a careful distance.
Fortunately, and before I’m identified as a security risk by passing traffic, the dot on my screen ducks down an exit, leaving the motorway in a part of London not far from Sophie’s House.
I trail at a safe distance down a series of ever smaller roads, until finally Kozlov pulls the car to the curb near a small suburban park near a school, where kids play on swings and kick a soccer ball over the muddy ground.
Christ, I think, gripping the handlebars tensely. Please tell me the sick bastard isn’t a kiddy fiddler as well.
Given the kind of mood I’m in, I’m not sure I’d be able to restrain myself from killing the man if he is.
Kozlov steps out of the car and looks around warily before crossing the street and heading toward a bench seat beneath an old oak tree at the far end of the park.
A slender woman in jeans and bundled beneath several layers is sitting alone there, reading a book. A knit hat covers her hair, and a broad scarf is wrapped around her face against the cold, so her features are impossible to make out.
I pull out my phone and zoom in, snapping several pictures before I switch to video. I can’t get any audio from this distance, but every clue helps.
Kozlov frowns as he talks to her, his expression growing darker and his words more animated as time goes on.
I can’t lip-read, but it’s clear he isn’t happy, and when he puts a fat hand over her thigh and grips it hard enough to make her wince, I have to restrain myself from storming across the park and planting my fist in his face.
Clearly terrified, the girl shrinks away from him and into herself, shaking her head as if protesting against some kind of accusation. Glancing briefly around the park to make sure nobody is watching them, Kozlov thuds his fist heavily into her belly, causing her to double over, gasping for breath.
Then he does it again.
Fuck this.
I’m already crossing the street when I see him stand up and walk away. I veer slightly off course and turn down a side street before he sees me. A second later his car has done a U-turn. I watch the transponder for long enough to know he’s taking the return route back to the warehouse.
The girl on the bench has straightened up, though she has her head in her hands, and even from here, I can tell she’s crying.
I debate with myself for a whole ten seconds. The smart thing would be to follow her, unnoticed, gather as much information as I can.
But fuck the smart thing.
She looks up as I approach, and then her entire body goes very still.
I falter for a moment.
Then I approach the bench and sit down at the opposite end.
“Eva,” I say gently, “why don’t you tell me what is going on?”
“What’s going to happen to me now?” Eva stares dully at the ground in front of the park bench.
Her story has taken us into the dim gloom of the late afternoon, and the park is deserted.
I could have taken her to a café, somewhere warm and comfortable, but some stories need to be told in places where they can’t be heard, and Eva’s is definitely one of those stories.
Thin strands of brown hair have escaped her knit cap, and the winter damp has plastered them to her forehead.
Her dark eyes are bloodshot from crying and faded with exhaustion.
During the time we’ve spoken, I’ve seen the telltale signs of long-term stress that I should have noticed far before now: the trembling hands, nervously plucking at a loose string on her sweater; fingernails bitten down to bloody nubs; red patches of skin where she’s rubbed to self-soothe.
Maybe I did see some of those signs, but just dismissed them as the aftermath of previous suffering.
Now I feel only shame that I never understood the pressure she was still under.
“We need to tell Zinaida the truth,” I say gently. “I know her, Eva. She’ll understand.”
“I betrayed her.” She shivers involuntarily, kicking the ground beneath her feet. “Hacked her schedule, told Kozlov her plans. We both know Zinaida has killed people for less. There’s no excuse for what I’ve done.”
“Kozlov gave you no choice. And Zinaida might be ruthless, but she’d never kill someone who was a victim themselves. I can promise you that, Eva.”
Hunching her shoulders, she turns to look away from me. “I need time to think.”