Page 133 of Lethal Torture
“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 betweenthem 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 apartmentlate. 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.
