It was clear Simpson wanted to say more and he actually appeared as if he felt bad, but Roman didn’t care. No one was innocent or a non-threat as far as Taylor was concerned. Right now the only goal was to get her to the police station unharmed.
* * *
Neal stepped out of the small bathroom of his forty-foot cruiser. As boats went this was a decent sized one. Some called it a yacht, but to him, only cruisers over sixty feet should be designated with that title. While he might wish for something flashier and bigger—which he would get one day—for now this boat did its job of keeping him safe and under the radar.
No one knew he was here and he had enough food to last for a week without having to leave the marina. He’d chosen this particular one because it was mid-sized. Not so small that he would have regular neighbors who paid attention to him and not so large that he wouldn’t see or hear if the police were coming for him. Or the Russians. That was key right now. He was still waiting to hear back from his contact who’d arrived back in town not long ago. The guy had said he might have news about Taylor.
All this waiting was making him fidgety. He needed something to take off the edge. When his phone buzzed across the built-in teak dresser of the master stateroom, he snapped it up.
It was a text from his contact. She’s on her way to the station.
Stop her, he texted back furiously.
His phone buzzed again with a new message. Cant. Protected. No way around it.
That was annoyingly cryptic but Neal understood the need for it now. He still wasn’t sure if the police had anything on him and he hadn’t been able to check his personal bank accounts. He couldn’t use his phone because if he did and the cops were onto him, they’d be tracking him. And if he logged on to an account they were watching, he was certain they’d be able to track him. As soon as he could sneak away, he’d be calling his regular bank and checking his funds there.
What do they know? he texted.
No news yet.
Damn it. He tapped his finger against the dresser for a moment, raw energy humming through him in jagged spikes of panic as he tried to think about his next move. He could ask his contact to check his accounts for him, but if he did that it could be bad for multiple reasons. Neal didn’t want to risk giving his personal info to the man and if the accounts were being watched, he didn’t want to reveal his link to his best source of help right now. He let out a savage curse and texted back. Keep me updated.
Fuck it. He should just cut and run. His gut told him to get out of town. He had a couple burners and could check his accounts from one of them or from a local coffee shop. They all had free Wi-Fi. Even if he was being tracked he’d be able to get in and out of a coffee shop in no time, especially in a crowded shopping area. Yes, that was exactly what he’d do.
Shoving his phone in his pocket, he grabbed his ball cap and ascended the short set of stairs from the stateroom into the galley.
And froze at the sight of the tattooed man leaning casually against the long, narrow island.
Neal swallowed hard, but pasted on a smile as he stepped into the brightly lit room. It attached to the living room and even with all the blinds drawn, there were so many windows that the afternoon light streamed through the cracks, illuminating everything. “Alexei, surprised to see you here.” Neal wondered if that was even the Russian mob enforcer’s name. The first time he’d met him had been six months ago. The man had said to call him Alexei, not that it was his actual name. Then he’d broken Neal’s pinky and ring finger just because he could.
The man didn’t move, just watched Neal with those creepy, green eyes that reminded him of a deadly predator. “You have a payment coming up.” There was just the slightest accent in his voice, barely discernable, as if he was trying to lose it.
“Thursday, I know.” Which was why he needed to make a decision fast. Stay or leave. It was Tuesday afternoon so there wasn’t much time.
“Thinking of leaving town?”
He made a scoffing sound. “No.”
“I hear your partner is dead and that you killed him.”
Neal could feel the blood drain from his face. “What?”
“Hmm.” The Russian made the non-committal sound as he reached for one of the knives in the Cuisinart knife block set on the island. Instead of pulling one out, he just ran a finger—a gloved one—along the row of handles. “We do not care about your problems. All my boss cares about is what you owe him. He has been very generous giving you a payment plan.”
Neal had the irrational urge to snort in derision, but he wasn’t suicidal. The plan was anything but generous. He was getting raped on the interest. The only reason the Russians had agreed to let him have a payment plan—because they did nothing without getting something.