Page 33 of Ripping the Odds
I wasn’t surprised the low-level soldier finally broke, especially given Mak’s penchant for interrogation. His tactics to withdraw information from unwilling participants was downright scary.
“Who?”
The three of them looked between each other, probably trying to decide who was willing to bleed if I went off the rails. Finally, Mak closed his eyes and said the words that froze the blood in my veins.
“Your uncle.”
“That motherfucker is not my family,” I sneered, launching the glass in my hand against the closest wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces, like my heart had twenty years ago.
Victor Volkov, my father’s half brother shared the same mother, but had different fathers. When my parents were murdered, I looked to Victor for guidance. Instead of helping, he tried––and failed––to usurp my position. By spreading a little cash around, he thought he could buy loyalty. But he thought wrong. Loyalty, like respect, was earned. I’d spent my entire life in the trenches with our men. They knew me, knew my character. My so-called uncle used his brother’s name to get what he wanted rather than lift a finger to earn it. After their funerals, I saw him for what he was—a coward, plain and simple. I stripped him of any power he thought he was entitled to. I should’ve known he wouldn’t disappear forever.
“Do we have his location?”
“No,” Mak went on. “But we were able to find out the identity of the other two men who escaped the warehouse.”
Dimi handed me a folder. “Oleg Danilova. Twenty-four years old. His arrest record reads like a criminal grocery list. Assault, armed robbery, drugs, burglary. You name it, he’s done it.”
“And the other?”
The second folder was thicker than the first. When I opened it, my molars ground together. Even though the picture was taken at a distance, there was no missing the jagged scar that sliced through half of the man’s face. I’d lay money down on the fact he was the man from Pru’s nightmare—the man who cut my woman.
“That nasty fuck is Isaak Sorokino.” Kas spat the name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “He’s been Machail’s lap dog for years, but take a wild guess who his cousin is.”
“Victor.”
“Ding, ding. You got it in one.”
“I want him found by any means necessary.”
“Dead or alive?” Mak questioned.
“No.” My voice turned ice cold. “Keep him breathing. His death won’t come quickly.”
Chapter 7
Raging Meant Caring
Prudence
We hadn’t been in the car long, maybe seven minutes, when Emil turned off the main highway, stopping in front of a large metal gate. After he keyed in a code, the gate slid open, allowing us to continue on our way. Crepe Myrtles, with deep purple flowers, lined either side of the paved driveway. Their presence gave the illusion of freedom while also providing a barrier to the outside world.
Cresting a hill, the driveway split off to the right, revealing a massive, sage-green Victorian just beyond the edge of the trees. It was a classic style, complete with warm ivory-colored shutters that looked freshly painted. Floor-to-ceiling columns were spaced evenly along the wrap-around porch.
I couldn’t imagine a more perfect place to sit and watch a summer storm rolling in. “Is this your home?”
“Yes.”
“It’s beautiful, but weren’t you taking me to look at another apartment?”
“Not exactly.” His expression remained neutral, eyes fixed straight ahead. Only when the SUV came to a stop on the north side of a teardrop shaped roundabout did his apprehensive gaze flicker to me. “Promise to hear me out before you completely shut me down.”
“Zakhar.”
“Please, baby.”
“Fine.” I rolled my eyes.
He lifted me from the car, carried me up four steps, then stopped to disengage the biometric locks on the front door with his thumb. Emil followed with my wheelchair. Zak lowered me into the seat and dismissed his driver with a backward wave of his hand.
