Page 3 of Twisted Enemy
“Kate,” Cole says, and I realize I said some of that out loud. Maybe all of it.
We’re in the living room. It’s decorated in ice blue and silver—a stiff sofa and two matching armchairs, end tables made of chrome and steel. A cold fireplace yawns between pairs of French doors that look out over the dewy garden. A painting hangs on the wall, acid greens and bold purples and heavy black outlines, a woman screaming at her reflection in a mirror. Cole told me once it’s a Picasso. I feel like screaming myself.
“Not her,” Cole says, and I realize he’s nodding toward Megan. “She doesn’t get to stay.”
He might be sending her away because she’s a lying, conniving thief who has bitten his feeding hand more times than he can count. Or maybe he’s trying to save her from whatever Tarasov has planned.
It doesn’t matter. The bratva kingpin merely laughs. “You do not set the rules today, Wolf.Ido.”
Pushing his gun closer to my head, Tarasov releases the chokehold of his arm across my throat. I feel his body twist, and I realize he’s reaching into his back pocket. I’m still remembering how to balance when he snaps a plastic ziptie in front of my face.
“Take it,” he says. I hear the words. I understand them. But I’m still working on making my body comply when he snaps, “Blyad!Take the fucking tie.”
I follow his order.
Tarasov steps away from me. The side of my head feels cold without the muzzle of his gun. But my thoughts start to clear with my first full breath.
“Put it on Wolf,” Tarasov commands, gesturing with his pistol.
I do, fastening the strip of plastic behind Cole’s back, tighter, more,more, because Tarasov says I have to. The dry shite produces a second ziptie and tells me to restrain Megan. A third tie goes around my own wrists, awkwardly, because it’s hard to fasten the plastic behind my own back. Ultimately, Tarasov yanks it tight himself.
“Sit,” the Russian orders, waving his gun to indicate all three of us should take the sofa. Cole sits in the middle. I’m on his right side, Megan on his left. I shift, trying to find a more comfortable angle for my shoulders. Thereisno comfortable angle when you’re bound before a madman.
Tarasov paces in front of us like a general reviewing his troops. He still holds his gun as if it’s soldered to his meaty fingers. Stopping in front of Cole, he says, “Now we can talk like businessmen.”
“What the fuck do you want?” Cole asks.
“You,” Tarasov says. And then he elaborates: “Working for me. Getting me into the Canton Crew’s computers.”
2
COLE
Kate answers before I do. “Go to hell, you motherfucking gobshite!”
I want to believe that’s a good sign. She’s recovered enough to understand what Pyotr Tarasov is demanding.
Or maybe she’s still stunned, still saying whatever she’s thinking, without appropriate fear of the murderous cocksucker who got the drop on us.
There’s a panic button wired into the fireplace mantel across the room—one tap and the DC police, my private security firm, and my well-armed chief of staff will be on their way. There’s a 44 magnum in my office, a double-barrel shotgun in the coat closet, and a Glock in my nightstand upstairs. There’s a panic room down the hall, across from my office, with concrete walls, independent air filtration, food, and water to last four people for a month, along with a small armory’s worth of firepower.
And none of it matters, because I’m sitting on my ass with my hands cuffed behind my back, praying my wife isn’t actually concussed and hoping I can keep from strangling my sister.
Because all of this is Megan’s fault.
She was raised by the same carnivore I was. She knows every con in the book. All her life, Megan has swindled men bigger than she is, richer than she is, and a hell of a lot more powerful than she is. She understands risk and reward because she was born into the game.
Along the way, she’s earned her share of bruises and broken bones. She’s served some time—a few months here, a year there—but she’s smart and she’s tough and she knows when to walk away from a grift that’s going bad.
But she didn’t walk away from Tarasov. She brought Tarasov to my fucking front door. She put Kate at risk. And for that, I’m cutting her out of my life forever.
Just as soon as I get us away from this crazy bratva motherfucker.
“The Canton Crew?” I ask, carefully sounding as confused as if he lapsed into Russian when he made his demand.
“Nice try.” He laughs as he juts his chin toward Kate. “You knew that tight little cunt was Crew when you married her.”
I sigh. With language like that, now I have tokillTarasov.
