It took an hour to get a shot that good; for all his male-model looks, my former employer sucks at posing.
Yan looks at me, then at the picture and back at me. I stare back at him stonily. Can he tell that the “blood” is ketchup mixed with a lot of dirt, or that the missing half of the skull is Nora’s skilled Photoshopping? I know the picture is fake, so it’s hard for me to be objective.
To my relief, Yan hands the phone back to me without saying anything, and Ilya turns away, focusing on transferring the bribe to the Serbian air controller’s private bank account in Switzerland. It’s how we get in and out of that country—and many others, US included.
It’s tempting to talk to my guys and tell them the real plan, but I refrain. I can’t take the risk that they might balk at the last minute. We’ve built a lucrative business on the strength of our reputation, and what I’m about to do—double-cross a paying client—more or less ensures there will be no further job offers.
We’ve talked about retiring one day, but I don’t know if they’re ready for that day to be now.
In any case, if all goes well, my team won’t suffer financially. In addition to Novak’s hundred million—half of which is already in our bank accounts—we’ll have the seventy-five-million payment from Esguerra. Even if we don’t get the other half from Novak before I nab him, we’ll have enough for the rest of our lives.
All we need is to get through this.
A few more days, and I’ll have Sara.
I can’t fucking wait.
Ilya and I meet Novak in his warehouse just outside Belgrade—as per his request. As usual, he arrives with a full contingent of mercenaries and enough firepower to level a small building.
“Where are they?” he demands as soon as he sees us standing there. “You said you had them. Where are they?”
“Safe and secure with my team,” I say and pull out the guard’s phone to show him the photos we took an hour ago. They’re of the surrogate Nora and her infant, surrounded by my men and looking all bruised and fragile.
He snatches the phone from me and studies them with undisguised lust before looking up at me. “Is Esguerra—”
“Here.” I take the phone from him and flip through the “Nora” photos to the one of Esguerra in a puddle of ketchup. “Head blown off.”
Novak’s pale eyes glint. “Good job. I knew I could count on you. Now take me to Nora and the child.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Payment first.”
That fifty million might not be necessary, strictly speaking, but it would definitely be nice to have.
Novak’s mouth thins, but he picks up his phone and calls his accountant. “Make the transfer,” he orders in Serbian, and I wait until he nods at me, then check the account on my phone.
“All good,” I tell him and glance over at Ilya, whose lack of expression still somehow manages to convey disapproval.
Novak must notice it too, because he smiles again. He likes the idea of us being on the outs; he thinks it makes us vulnerable, easier to control.
“Let’s go,” I tell him, pretending to be oblivious to all the undercurrents. “I’ll take you to Nora and the baby.”
Ilya and I head briskly toward the exit, and Novak hurries to catch up to us. His guards rush to form their usual protective circle, but the three of us step outside first.
It’s just for a couple of seconds, but that’s all the time I need.
Grabbing Novak by the arm, I yell, “Duck!” and dive behind a dumpster, shoving Ilya in front of me.
We hit the pavement hard, skidding on our stomachs as Esguerra’s men open fire, riddling the warehouse and all of Novak’s guards with hundreds of machine gun rounds.
38
Peter
The rest of the takedown is lightning fast. Within moments, we’re surrounded by three dozen of Esguerra’s men, and I tell stunned Ilya to drop his weapons as I do the same. Novak hit his head on the dumpster, and he looks dazed as I tug him to his feet while our captors cuff him and systematically pat him down.
While I’m handing Novak over to them, Ilya clambers to his feet beside me. His incredulous gaze swings from me to the men dragging Novak away and back to me. “Did you just—”
“Yes. I’ll explain everything in a moment. For now, call Yan and tell him we’re coming. Make sure he and Anton stand down—we don’t want anyone hurt.”
Ilya hesitates, clearly torn, then takes out his phone. I leave him to it and follow Novak to a black SUV.
The Serbian is coming out of his daze and starting to realize what happened. His gaze lights on me with dawning comprehension; then fury contorts his pale face. “You fucking—”