Page 10 of The Bounty
“We’re not gonna do that,” Wags said, getting his feet back under him and his hands under the mobster’s collar, hauling him back and wrestling him to the side.
Righting himself, Wags grabbed Blaine’s hand, yanked him up, and turned—into Mr. Shattered Glass. He was bloody, and angry, judging by his hardened dark eyes, and more shouts and footsteps were approaching from inside. Wags worried for a moment how he was going to get them out of this.
Worry that ratcheted higher when gunfire popped behind them. He curved over Blaine, bending them at the waist, anticipating impact.
Only for the Sicilian to fall at their feet.
Wags whipped his gaze over Blaine’s head.
“Get out of here,” the elder Russian said from where he stood behind the woman with a still smoking gun. “We’ll cover you.”
As much as the detective in Wags wanted to ask why, the protector in him demanded otherwise. He nodded his thanks to their unlikely saviors, and then, arm still around Blaine, got them the hell out of there.
Eight
Wags leaned against the sink in the tiny hotel bathroom, phone to his ear, trying to speak quietly while still talking loud enough to be heard over the planes from the airport next door.
He and Blaine had escaped the church in Vienna, using the cover provided by the Russians to make a mad dash to the U-Bahn. They’d caught a train to the nearest rail station, then hopped on the direct express to Bratislava.
“Your ride is en route,” Mel said. “The plane was already in New York. It’ll arrive there tomorrow morning at eight and depart again at eight thirty.”
Wags pulled the phone from his ear and glanced at the time.
Nine hours from now. Nine long hours to keep Blaine safe. Nine even longer hours to keep his hands to himself. That look of fear in Blaine’s eyes at the church, the faith he’d put in Wags… He couldn’t abuse that trust, couldn’t take advantage.
“Did you get an ID on the bidders?” he asked Mel, distracting himself with the mundane. “The ones I didn’t know.”
Blaine had passed out against his shoulder not long after the train had left the station. Once the conductor had come through to check their tickets and passports, the Redemption fakes coming in handy, Wags had debriefed with Jax over their encrypted chat, getting down all the details he could while his memory was still fresh.
“We did,” Mel said. “Between your and Blaine’s accounts, all the players were identified.”
“The Russians?”
“Ours.”
He shot off the sink. “Yours?” And promptly ran into the opposite wall—definitely not enough room in the tiny space to vent his surprise.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“So Friday night…”
“They were acting independently then. They weren’t today.”
“Good God, woman, what kind of juice do you have?”
“The good stuff, Mr. Wagner.” And if she was tilting a glass of the very best champagne to her lips just then, Wags wouldn’t have been surprised. “I understand we have the diary.”
“We do.”
“And what does it say about Stewart Anthony?”
“I don’t know.” He pictured her lowering that glass and mentally cheered. “I thought it right to give Blaine some time with it first.”
“Fair enough.” The smile in her voice made him regret his momentary spite, and the tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying in his shoulders began to dissipate. He’d spent so long watching his back, working for people he didn’t trust, that the concept of folks using their power to eliminate threats to him, to do good, would take some getting used to.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”
“A long month, Mr. Wagner. You’ve done well. Get some rest, then be at the airport with Blaine and that diary tomorrow morning. We’ll get you home.”
