Page 79 of Savage Hearts
“He’s a slippery motherfucker, that’s how. And the Canadian border is notoriously porous.”
Canada. He went north. Fuck.“Go on.”
“He stole a truck, changed the plates, and smuggled her though the border near Niagara Falls. Smart move, considering the amount of daily tourist traffic they get. The truck was found abandoned near a small airfield in Hamilton, Ontario. They flew out from there.”
“The final destination?”
“Malek’s hometown. Moscow.”
Moscow. One of the largest cities in the world, with over twelve million people. And not a single one of them willing to help us find Riley.
“So she was alive when they left the States.”
“Yes. Though from what I’m told, barely.”
This just keeps getting better and better.“And now?”
“No idea. His trail is dark. Nobody knows exactly where he lives, and nobody in Moscow was willing to talk to me.”
I snap, “You should’ve offered them money!”
He chuckles. “Oligarchs aren’t interested in bribes.”
“What are they interested in, then? What can we offer them to get them to help us?”
After a pause, Kazimir says, “I agreed to help you in return for a valuable favor. A personal favor. That doesn’t extend to the rest of the Bratva. If you want to make a deal with Moscow, contact them yourself.”
This smug prick.Infuriated, I snap, “I’ll tell them about Maxim Mogdonovich.”
“And I’ll tell the Mob about your extracurricular activities as a spy. Checkmate.”
“It’s not checkmate, you dryshite. It’s stalemate at best.”
“Agree to disagree. The point is, I got you the information you were looking for. Now you owe me a marker. You’ll hear from me when I need to cash it in.”
He disconnects, leaving me shaking in rage. Riley’s in Moscow.
How the bloody hell am I supposed to tell that to Sloane?
“Where did he take her?”
I turn at the sound of Spider’s voice. He stands on the other side of the desk in the office in the safe house, staring at me with haunted, feverish eyes.
He arrived in New York from Boston two days ago. Since then, he hasn’t slept, showered, or eaten, as far as I can tell. He merely paces the length of whatever room he’s in, then turns back and paces the other way, grinding his teeth the entire time.
He looks like seven shades of shite. The two inches of stitches crawling down his temple from where Malek bludgeoned him don’t help.
I tuck the cell phone back into my shirt pocket, fold my arms over my chest, and look him up and down. “You need to get some rest.”
He insists, “Where did he take her?”
I’ve known him long enough to know that he’ll keep badgering me with that question until he gets an answer. So I give him one, though I’m not confident his reaction will make me glad I did.
“Moscow.”
He stands stock-still for a moment, processing it, then says gruffly, “How is she?”
“Barely alive, from what Kazimir said.”
