Odin turns his gaze to the two men. “If he tries something stupid, put a bullet through his skull.”
“Yes, sir,” says the taller of the pair.
He turns back to me. “Don’t think of killing my men to escape unless you want to spend the rest of your life on the run.”
I bristle. “Noted.”
Odin turns on his heel and walks around the van. Two more men in black approach, leaving me outnumbered. I’ve faced worse. At least this time, we all have a unified goal: killing Crius Vanir.
I flick my head toward the van. “The pair I killed were following a peculiar route, but I expect the location of their hideout is programmed in their navigation system.”
“Already ahead of you,” says one of the men, who looks like a younger, blonder, and brawnier version of Odin.
I can only guess this is his eldest son, Thor.
The man who I assume is Thor gestures at the back of the van with his gun. “Drop your weapon and get inside.”
“I’ll come with you, but I’m keeping the gun.”
Thor grinds his teeth, the muscles of his jaw flexing in the same expression Odin used earlier. It’s a wonder that neither of them have fired on me yet, but nobody rose to such lofty positions of power being hot headed.
After two of the men drag the bodies into the back of the van, they walk toward the houses. I’m assuming they intend to threaten the residents that identifying anyone they see to the police will get them killed.
The other pair get into the van, while Thor and I walk to my car. He slides in the driver’s seat, making my nostrils flare.
“Mari?” Quinn asks.
“Now’s probably a good time to dispose of this burner phone,” I say.
Her end of the call falls silent.
Good girl.
“Girlfriend?” Thor asks.
“Someone who has no knowledge of this world.”
He snorts, but I don’t care if he believes me or not. By the time anyone thinks to trace that number, Quinn will have vacated the apartment she rented to carry out this mission and moved to the backup.
It takes a few minutes to line up the vehicles, but after some maneuvering, Thor follows the van through a less circuitous route.
“Get in.”
“You don’t look like Viktor Vanir,” he says.
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment,” Thor mutters as we turn into a dual carriageway.
As the men navigate the highway, I study Thor from the corner of my eye. He looks more like an athletic version of his cousin when he’s not pointing a gun, and I wonder how men like Odin sleep at night, dragging their sons into the world of chaos and death.
In that respect Odin is no better than Crius. He might even be worse, because at least Crius allowed his legitimate son a normal life.
“How would an eminent surgeon end up in an underworld prison?” I ask.
Thor runs his fingers through his blond hair. “Do you know Viktor?”
“No.”