Viktor and I know the stories and the customs and all of that. We know who we are. Our enemies tried to prevent exactly that—they sent Viktor to an orphanage in Moscow, sent Kiro to be adopted, and hunted me. Put a price on my head.
But Dragushas are tough.
My old mentor, the man who saved me that bloody day in the nursery when they took my family, instilled appreciation for the Albanian customs in me. The honor of the Black Lion clan, the criminal empire we will be taking back for our own. And I taught Viktor once I found him.
“Showtime,” my guy Tito mumbles, adjusting his cuffs as we approach the end of the civilian dining area. Or maybe he’s touching the slim hilt of the blade he has under there. He likes to do that before a fight the way some people like to touch the hull of a plane before they climb on board.
Around the corner the light will grow dimmer, and the thieves will be thicker. Lazarus’s thieves. Lazarus’s hitters, all his made guys.
But we happen to know Lazarus is injured, laid up somewhere in a private facility with a lot of his guys protecting him.
We got word of his attack on some institute up north just an hour ago—the Fancher Institute. He fucking went after Kiro—we’re sure of it. We knew Kiro was in the system but notwherein the system. How did Lazarus find Kiro first?
The important thing, though, is that he didn’t get him. We’ve got a cop inside who described the scene, did some interviews, sent images. A lot of casualties, but none of them are Kiro. And if Kiro was dead, word would be out. Lazarus would see to it.
It’s bad, but not like it would be if Kiro was dead.
We’re heading up there. This is a pit stop. We’re here to mess up some guys and take some others for intel. We need to know what Lazarus knows.
We turn the corner, and there they are—a handful of tough guys from Lazarus’s crew drinking grappa and smoking cigarettes. Health laws don’t apply at Agronika.
They start shooting, but not fast enough. We gun down a few. Take the rest to shake down.
Chapter Sixteen
Ann
Murray has gottenus a room at the very end of a 1970s-era motorist motel, a small, low building with alternating doors and windows. I sit in the truck staring at Kiro, who’s utterly out. I look back and forth between him and the door of our room.
And sigh.
I like to think of myself as a capable woman. I definitely was before the kitten incident, but carrying a 200-pound unconscious man even ten feet isn’t—has never been—in my wheelhouse.
I shake Kiro.
I think of him as Kiro now. It’s a strong, fabulous, awesome, totally unique name, which suits him perfectly.
I shouldn’t be getting attached to him like this. I really shouldn’t.
I pat his cheeks. Nothing. I don’t like that he’s so deeply out. I grab the bag from the Holiday store and drink one of the waters while I think.
I get out and go into the room and look at what I’ve got to work with. Luck comes in the form of a chair with wheels. Can I get him into that?
As it turns out, yes—with his help. I pinch his cheek, and he wakes up enough for me to get him into the chair.
Ten minutes later he’s out cold on the bed, and I’m a frazzled, exhausted mess, running on fumes and no rest. It’s entirely possible I’m not making the greatest choices.
Kiro deserves somebody better to protect him. Somebody better than me.
But I’m what he has.
One foot in front of the other, I think. Just concentrate on that next step, which in this case is handling the vehicle. The Albanian mob is out there, probably with a network of cops on the lookout for the vehicle Kiro stole—probably one of theirs.
The SUV has to go.
I go out and take the license plates off of it and drive it to a vacant lot behind a shed in back of a 7-Eleven store a half mile down the street.
Then I jog back to the room, thankful to find him sprawled out on the bed. I didn’t think he had it in him to run, but you never know with Kiro.