“It’s Markus,” his uncle said as he drew away.
That threw him, but it also brought a load of relief crashing over him. News about Markus wouldn’t be Tarasov related. It would be business. But that grief…
“What about Markus?” he asked slowly.
“He’s been shot.”
“What!” His knees just about gave out. “When? Where? Who the fuck—? Where have they taken him?” he demanded as he jammed his feet into the shoes he’d left under the coat tree. Before he could grab his keys from the table, Vasily put a hand on his arm. He was shaking his head.
“Where have they taken, him?” he demanded, deliberately ignoring that gesture. “Which hospital?”
“It was too late for a hospital.”
He sucked a breath in through his teeth and everything stilled for a suspended moment.
“No,” he murmured. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt a slice of happiness leave his world. “Aw, Jesus Christ, no. Don’t fucking tell me that.” He felt flames come to life beneath his lids. “Don’t tell me that. Not about him. Not that fucking kid.” He threw his head back and walked away. “Where? What happened?” he choked out.
Vasily exchanged a furtive look with Dmitri and Anton before scrubbing a hand roughly over his jaw.
“What.”
“It was a couple of hours ago. In the parking garage across from your office.”
He tried to keep up. Markus didn’t keep normal hours, so him going to work in the middle of the night wasn’t the problem with that statement. “Why was he in the garage? He gave up his car last year.” Relief began to seep in. This must be a mistake.
“He was found next to the Range Rover.”
The air squeezed from his lungs as one of the ten conversations he’d had with Markus that day came to him. Your secretary got another call about your truck taking up space at the convention center. If you don’t have time to get it, I’d be happy to swing by and pick it up for you. I still have the fob you gave me last month when I took it to Connecticut.
“Oh, fuck, Markus, what did you do?” he whispered. “Tell me.” He rounded on his uncle. “Tell me what you know.”
Dmitri was the one to speak. “He was hit in the back of the neck when he stepped out of the SUV. No evidence of a scuffle, nothing stolen. The police think the shooter was waiting for him.” He shoved a hand through his hair and looked as if he’d just swallowed a mouthful of glass. “We think the shooter was waiting for you.”
A quiet gasp on the stairs had them looking over. They watched Sacha slowly lower herself so that she was sitting on the third step. She pressed her fisted hands to her lips. The monitor hung from her pinkie, as always. She was staring right at him, Alek noted in a distant part of his mind. He held that gaze, finding strength in it.
“We should get to the morgue.”
He coughed through the jarring pain that statement brought with it, and he wanted to punch Dmitri in the face for delivering it. “Go upstairs,” he said to Sacha instead. “Grigori will be here with you and Lekzi. Lucas is patrolling the grounds.”
She nodded and stood. But instead of going up, she came down the remaining steps and came to him. Her hug was brief but heartfelt. “I am so, so sorry,” she whispered with a lingering kiss to his jaw.
He pressed his lips to her hair and had a hard time letting her go.
“Yuri and Aron will also be here,” Vasily said, and as though they’d been waiting to hear the Pakhan say their names, both clearly heavily armed men appeared; one in the doorway of the living room, the other in the hallway coming from the kitchen. Both were already in the zone, their expressions blank, eyes intent yet emotionless. “There’s a heavy presence around the house,” his uncle added, still speaking to Sacha. “So don’t be alarmed if you hear groups of voices. If you go anywhere downstairs, Grigori is with you, no exceptions.” He went to the door but turned to look at Yuri, Aron, and Grigori, who was now on the stairs with Sacha. Vasily held each of their eyes long enough to communicate the gravity of what he was about to say. “If Sergei Pivchenko shows up; shoot him dead on sight.”
Shockwaves swept through the foyer, because the order meant the casualties had just become more important than any personal satisfaction Vasily might have gained from ending this by his own hand.
♦ ♦ ♦
Lucian Fane put his empty glass down and looked closer at the set of plans for a textile factory one of his companies was building. His advisors were right. This could work, he thought as he compared this design to one for a factory the same company had built only five years ago. Could be they’d make a dent in the U. S.’s efforts to supply manufacturers with an option that didn’t include out of country purchasing.