Page 61 of The Russian's Forced Bride
“The picture was staged,” I explained to Maxim, who briefly glanced my way through the rearview mirror.
“Think about it,” I urged, tilting my head to his. “The clues to her location were somehow so convenient for us to find. The bastard aimed to blindside us.”
He was still trying to play mind tricks on me, so that by the time we finally figured out where she truly was, we’d be too mentally exhausted to put up a good fight. That way, I assumed Joaquin thought it was his perfect opportunity to use Arlette’s life as leverage or kill me on the spot since I’d be too tired to fight him.
“And somehow you think that your childhood home is where they’re keeping her?”
“I’m certain it is,” I replied, staring straight ahead at the slightly busy road. Dawn had already broken forth, and people had started crowding the streets.
I didn’t just think Arlette was being kept at that particular property. I was sure that was where the bastard had her.
When I had played the recording of my call with Joaquin, a familiar, haunting, mournful wail that had almost turned me away from the Lake Forest house could be heard in the background.
It was the sound of the foghorn at the lake, its echoes following a familiar pattern.
And then again in the distance was the sound of metal bars clanging, and then a sharp grind like stone against iron—a particular sound which resonated from the boathouse just behind the old property.
I knew those sounds all too damn well. Those sounds had always haunted me as a child, and I grew to resent them. So much so, I had almost disobeyed Matvey’s orders about settling down at the house he picked for Arlette and me.
With his eyes still on the road, right as the car dipped into a tunnel, Maxim asked another question that seemed to be bugging him from the expression on his face.
“And if you’re right, how do we know exactly where he took her? It could be inside the property or near it. And in case you’ve forgotten, that property stretches across acres. We need an exact location.”
Maxim was right. The Kamarov property was indeed large. But prior to getting into his car, I had already informed Matvey of the situation. He had promised to send as much help as possible, and I’d already told them the location Arlette was at, but I didn’t want to have to wait on Matvey before I acted.
I was getting sick and tired of waiting for his go-ahead for anything. It was what landed me in this situation in the first place.
All because I wanted to be a good foot soldier.
But Matvey was the least of my problems right now.
Knowing Joaquin, a part of me was worried that I could’ve had it all wrong. And the longer we stalled, the more dangerous it was for Arlette and my child.
They probably didn’t care that she was pregnant, and even if their goal wasn’t to immediately kill her, she could die from a bunch of other things. The interrogation rooms at that property were brutally built to weaken and kill victims in all ways possible.
The familiar fear began to wash over me as I imagined Arlette’s pale body, but I drew in a sharp intake of air. I had lived in that mansion for far too long to mistake what I had heard. I spent my childhood there, was initiated into the Bratva there.
There was no mistaking it. I had the right location in mind.
But just in case—
“We have to wait on Matvey’s team to give us a precise location before we storm in,” I told Maxim, who nodded, swerving into a lane that inched us closer to the property.
After a few more minutes of driving, we finally arrived. From the car, I could clearly see the cathedral-like building, entrapped in vines, peeking from over the black iron gates in front of it.
There were also men, donned in black suits, wearing headsets and holding thermal signature trackers as they roamed the environment, adorned with lush, vibrant grass.
Maxim’s car then suddenly came to a halt right before the men. Their vans and trucks were littered all over the place likea crime scene being investigated, but I could tell they were from Matvey.
He really did come through.
With a shared nod between Maxim and me, we stepped out of the car, the cool summer air blasting across the razor blades of grass that my feet dug into as we made our way toward Matvey’s team.
The men at work seemed engrossed in their activities, oblivious to Maxim and me as they communicated amongst themselves, using code words that sounded like Greek to me.
We approached one of them, who seemed to be overseeing the operation as he stood at the center, arms crossed with thick, dark sunglasses perched atop the bridge of his nose.
Upon recognizing me, he took off his glasses, his hand outstretched for a handshake.
