Page 42 of Brutal Secrets

“Why?” I regard him over the knife blade. “What’s so funny?”

“Come on. It’s absurd. You’ve got to see the funny side.” He’s still chuckling to himself as I glare at the table.

“And if I get my own daughter killed? I stayed out of their lives to prevent this kind of shit from happening. Now that I’m back, it’s exactly as I predicted.”

“Only because you decided to go and play savior.”

It’s my fault. Yet again, my best intentions are warped by the world we live in.

Sasha senses my anguish and grips my shoulder, giving me a shake. “We’ve put men on them, and so far we haven’t seen anything. Get them to a safe house outside the city. If it comes to it, grab a go-bag and a suitcase of cash and take them on a road trip.”

“Kesera said she had a place we could use in upstate New York. One of our guys is seeing how well we can secure it. Perhaps a couple of days on the road wouldn’t hurt.” I’ll pick her up in the morning and text her with the new plan.

I listen for the sound of a truck door slamming and the Chinese pulling out with the guns.

“Can we get out of here?” I say. I feel itchy and when I get that feeling, I know it’s time to move. Listening to my gut has saved me on more than one occasion.

“Give me a second. I’ll just check the guns are gone.”

Sasha strolls out to the dock and looks at the concrete. I follow him, and it’s empty. I breathe a sigh of relief, but before I can ask my best friend about the safe house, a screech of tires breaks the soft slap of the tide before a burst of gunfire rings out. He’s scrabbling for his gun as he runs out and ducks behind my Mercedes, frantically looking around for the source of the shots.

Exactly how vulnerable I am hits me like a fist to the gut. Because I’m not helping my friend shoot the intruders. I’m fishing in my pocket for the Nokia, trying to reach the woman I can’t stop thinking about. I lie on the floor, one hand on my gun and the other on my phone.

Come on. Come on. Pick up. Don’t mess about now, I pray.

Her soft voice comes over the line as another crack of bullets rings through the twilight.

“Kesera. Take the kid and Nona and go to the deli across the street. Don’t wait. Take what you can carry and look for the kid with the spider tattoo. It’s not safe. You need to get out of the house right now. Andrei will get you out of town.”

The sound of shooting drowns out her reply.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I’m done. Done with taking orders from men who don’t have my welfare at heart. Fuck that shit. The only people I can seem to trust these days are the people on my payroll. It sucks that it’s come to this, but I will not blindly follow orders from a man who says he doesn’t want a relationship with his own daughter.

I look at the bags stacked by the door. I inhale deeply, willing myself to be calm after hearing gunfire on the other end of the line. “What have we packed?”

Nona picks up a list and starts counting off everything she’s prepared. “Passports. Money. Phones. Nadia’s asthma medication. Clothes. Cards from your Japanese bank account. Harder to trace.”

I smile at Nona. Always five steps ahead, whether she’s making dinner or packing to go on the run. God knows, she’d be the CEO of something if she hadn’t had to flee a war when her kids were young.

“Okay. Let me call the security guys from the last tour. I need someone I can count on,” I say.

I stroll into the bedroom and pick up the phone. Nadia’s making a video in her room as she chatters to her dolls. One minute she wants black contacts and the next she’s playing with a dollhouse and wanting me to rock her to sleep.

Taking a deep breath, I dial Double Canopy, the ex-military guys who ran security for my last tour. Dex served with my dad in Okinawa before he set up his own gig. If I trust anyone’s advice, it’s his.

“Double Canopy,” the deep voice booms down the line.

The tightness in my shoulders softens when I hear his voice, and I’m centered once again. Even if he can’t run security for us right now, he’ll know what to do.

“Dex. Thank god you answered. I’m in a pickle.”

“How serious? Cornichon or cucumber?”

I snort. I don’t want to start thinking about penis-shaped vegetables. “Well, it’s a kind of Russian pickle. Remember I told you about Nadia’s father?”

“What? You found him?”

---