Sold to the Hitman(59)

My face goes pale as I hear the piece of information I need to hear. It all makes sense now.

“So,” I say slowly, “Sergei Slokavich isn’t as much of a buffoon as he lets on — he’s the kingpin of the local sex trafficking ring.”

“Oh my god,” Jackson says, his head sinking into his hands, “I drove around the son of a crime lord?!”

“And he wanted you dead after he realized how much he’d said when he sobered up,” I explain before finishing my coffee and setting the cup down. “You’re very lucky to be alive, Mr. Jackson.”

“But for how long?!” he splutters, and I hold up a hand to silence him.

“Patience, Mr. Jackson. You’ve been a very great help to me here. I know what needs to be done now. I will contact you as soon as it’s done, but know that you’re going to help a great many people by your actions.”

Jackson looks at me for a long time, then nods slowly, sitting back on the couch and resting his head on the back of it. “That’s all I know. I swear.”

“Rest easy, Mr. Jackson,” I say, heading towards the door and starting on the dozen or so deadbolts, “your would-be killer is on your side, and the man who gave the order is dead — and what’s more, I’m about to pay the true mastermind a long overdue visit.”

But first, I think privately, there’s someone far more precious I must see to before putting myself in an incredibly dangerous position.





22





Cassie





In the three days I’ve spent in the safehouse, I have been surprisingly okay. Despite the looming fear of being found and the constant surroundings of an abandoned warehouse, Andrei has managed to keep me from going totally mad. He’s only left my side once, and not for very long. I did not ask him what he did when he left. It’s easier this way.

It turns out that he has always had some form of a back-up plan like this stored away for quick use, and therefore we are shockingly prepared for this kind of situation. From his Corvette, which he keeps under a black tarp outside, he retrieves a laptop with a built-in Internet access device, bedrolls, blankets, bottled water, non-perishable snacks, and a rudimentary hygiene kit. To his surprise and my infinite relief, we discover that the safehouse has a utilitarian shower stall in the bathroom. Thanks to the fact that Pavel’s sister stubbornly refused to let this building fall completely into disrepair and uselessness, the water still runs. It’s icy cold water, but it’s certainly preferable to going indefinitely without washing.

We have wiled away the time by watching soap operas (which I have grown very attached to) on his laptop, cuddling, and experimenting with trying to make palatable meals out of the basic foods Andrei’s kept stashed in his emergency rations. I have been increasingly hungry as time goes on, with the little life inside me getting bigger and bigger by the day. Sometimes my body hurts so badly that I want to cry, but Andrei comforts me, tending to my every ache and complaint like a trained nurse.

In the long, dull hours since we first showed up here, we have talked more and had deeper conversations than we have in the time we’ve been married collectively. He tells me about his difficult childhood growing up in the world’s coldest city, and I tell him about my own repressed youth.

Lying on our bedrolls, which we have lined up beside each other to make a sort of makeshift double bed, Andrei asks, “You never went to school like other children?”

“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “My parents… they insisted that public schools were dens of temptation and sinful thought. My father used to say that the Board of Education was staffed entirely by soldiers of Satan.”

Andrei laughs, a sound which I’ve heard more of in the past three days than I ever have before, despite the grimness of our situation. “I don’t know how public schooling is here in America, but back home it was one of the few places where I could feel safe. And warm.”

“I don’t know how you survived it,” I murmur, in awe of his tenacity.

“The streets of Yakutsk are not a suitable home for a young boy, it is true. But at least I did find a few people who were helpful. Sonya’s mother, the owner of the fish market, made sure that I ate on the coldest winter nights when I could not afford food. I feel guilty for stealing from her market, but she always knew that I did it. She watched me from a distance, and did not stop me when I stole fish or rabbits from her stands.”

“I hope that someday she will get to see Sonya again,” I muse aloud. “I know she must miss her daughter terribly. And Sonya is so wonderful.”