Page 80 of Mercy (The Sins Trilogy 3)
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Anthony
I tap my fingers on the desk. The Friday morning meeting went well, and everything’s on target for the new club in Beijing.
Now if only wedding planning were that easy.
Ivy wants to get married in six weeks, so it should be done, but finding the perfect place to have our ceremony is a bit tricky. I don’t want a beach wedding—too open—and almost all the nice places are taken. I debate offering some couple twenty thousand bucks, or maybe two first-class tickets to the honeymoon destination of their choice, to move their date. Somebody would probably take the deal.
My mobile rings. A number I don’t recognize. I start to ignore it, but stop. It could be the police. Jim’s told his people to put in some extra effort, so hopefully they found the bastard who drove the SUV. Or better yet, the asshole fell into a ditch and broke his neck.
“Anthony Blackwood,” I say.
“Up for a lunch meeting?” comes a familiar voice, slightly rusty and icier than Arctic winter.
I arch an eyebrow. Despite the intonation, it definitely wasn’t a question. “We aren’t lunch buddies,” I say.
“Could be just for today. It isn’t like you have a prior engagement.”
How does he know that? I’m pretty sure Wei didn’t tell him.
“Unless you have a weak stomach. Then we could meet after lunch.” There’s a hint of derisive amusement in his tone.
“Are you feeding me a live octopus?” I ask, wondering what he’s thinking about. I saw people eating that once. It isn’t something you ever forget.
“How about a couple of homeless people instead? The type to loiter outside the foundation and misbehave.”
I suck in a breath, excitement zinging through my system. “You found the people who mugged Ivy?”
“So are we having lunch?”
“Hell yes. Where?”
“I’ll text you the address.”
As soon as I get the text, I forward it to TJ and let him know we’re going there. “For lunch,” I add, amused with Tolyan’s warped humor.
TJ plugs the location into the GPS of the Cullinan. “An empty lot?”
“I guess. We can pick up a couple of burgers on the way back.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Fast food?”
“Yup.”
The address from Tolyan leads us to a sad, weed-infested lot an hour and a half away. Dried-up weeds are growing through cracked, uneven asphalt. The fences around the space are so old and rusted that I feel like I’m getting tetanus from just looking at them.
A single nondescript semi is parked there, its sides grimy white. A squat, one-story russet-colored brick structure looks abandoned and neglected, the walls cracked and mortar crumbly. No sign of the Russian, though. Isn’t this the place? He doesn’t strike me as a man who’s habitually late.
I text Tolyan. Where are you?
The door to the abandoned brick building opens, and the Russian sticks his head out. Dark sunglasses cover his eyes, and he’s dressed in a suit like he’s meeting us for a billion-dollar deal.
“Here,” he says. He glances at TJ as we walk over. “Is he coming too?”
I nod. I don’t think it’s a trap, but I prefer to have an extra set of eyes and ears. Can’t miss any clues.
Tolyan shrugs and lets us in.
