I don’t defend Aaron. He did hit me, and he got brutal with me last night. It could have been a whole lot worse, but it stings. “Why do you care?” I ask.
I lift my umbrella higher to shield Mikhail and myself from the storm. It doesn’t matter. My clothes are soaked. My hair is wet and clinging to my body. It’s chilly, and I’m trying everything.
The only good news is that I have my suitcase from the earlier assignment and all my clothes are inside, upstairs. I can change if I need to.
“We may not be on the same side, but I don’t like seeing you hurting,” Mikhail says.
“Right, that’s why you put a gun to my head.” I don’t buy his line of crap for a minute.
He shakes his head and glances away. I have the ability to frustrate him, it seems. Good. He tears his gaze back to mine. “You put yourself in front of my gun, Kisa, to protect a monster.”
I don’t defend Aaron. “Maybe you should have shot him,” I mutter under my breath. I don’t mean it. I shouldn’t even say it to a man who kills people for a living.
Does he consider it a sport or a necessity?
I don’t ask. I don’t want to know how he can steal someone’s life and snuff it out.
“Come with me,” Mikhail says.
“The FBI knows I’ve been made,” I say. “If I go missing—”
“I’m not going to force you to come with us. If you’d rather get soaked in the rain, be my guest.” He stalks back toward the SUV.
I open my mouth. Part of me wants to go with him. I shouldn’t want to—he’s bad news, and I could end up losing my job by consorting with a criminal.
“This can’t happen, Mikhail,” I say.
He opens the door to the vehicle. “All I’m offering is a ride.”
I don’t believe him. It’s never that simple, not with Mikhail Barinov, and certainly not with the bratva.