Page 49 of Poison Evidence

As much as Curt had thrived on his job, he looked forward to leaving the late-night emergency meetings behind as he and Mara started their family. Rudy’s situation was a prime example. This life was hard on families, hard on relationships.

The analyst continued as if there’d been no interruption, making it clear Fredrickson didn’t rank high enough to warrant starting over. “Our source believes Sophia Veselov is Dimitri Veselov’s sister.”

“Sophia Veselov is an assassin too?” Curt asked.

“No. Sophia Veselov had accused the victim of raping her. A few weeks later, the guy was found in a river, bullet through the brain.” The man cleared his throat. “But this time, there were other wounds. Notably, a hockey puck in the man’s mouth, held in place with duct tape. The victim’s teeth were cracked from biting down. But most notably, a ball peen hammer was lodged in the victim’s anus.”

Several men at the table shifted uncomfortably, and the man Rudy had called Pfeiffer cursed.

“Sophia Veselov had an airtight alibi for the time of death. Our source said rumor had it ballistics on the bullet matched a hit made by the Hammer. Worth noting, the governmentdidn’tput forth a statement that the Hammer did it. But then, this guy wasn’t Bratva, like the others. He worked for the government—and some suspect he was affiliated with GRU.”

At last, there was that GRU connection. But not in the way they’d expected.

“So either it was a copycat, or it wasn’t a sanctioned hit,” Rudy said.

“Exactly.”

“If it was, indeed, the Hammer,” General Ellis said, “we can conclude Veselov cares about his sister.”

“Agreed,” the analyst said.

“How long ago was this?” Curt asked.

“About five years.”

“So where is the sister now?” Pfeiffer asked.

The analyst shrugged. “We’re looking into it.”

With each fact that had been laid out, Curt swallowed bile. It appeared he’d told Ivy to cooperate with a Russian assassin.

Chapter Seventeen

Water splashed over the bow of the inflatable boat, soaking Ivy and her backpack of clothes. The cases that housed CAM and RON were airtight and waterproof, a necessity for this type of job, or she’d be thoroughly freaked out as they navigated between islands.

At last they reached Dimitri’s destination, an S-shaped island, steep on the opposite curves with a saddle in the middle connecting the bowed rises.

They unloaded the boat, then Dimitri pulled it up onto the beach and into the woods, while Ivy hauled the cases two at a time up the narrow, steep path. By the time she had all six cases, her wet backpack, and another backpack full of assorted guns, Dimitri had the boat well hidden in the vegetation.

He donned the gun-filled backpack, picked up four of the cases—two in each of his large hands—and nodded toward the steep, vine-covered slope. “Follow me.”

She settled the wet pack on her back and grabbed the two remaining cases and followed. He had no trouble navigating the thick foliage and steep slope of the mushroom-shaped mound. Ivy wasn’t quite so agile and cursed as vines caught on her ankles and branches whipped her cheeks.

It was humid, and her shirt, already damp from the boat ride, quickly soaked through with sweat. She didn’t pause to complain. She found she was strangely grateful to be off the water and enclosed in the canopy. No longer exposed. She’d feared coming across a yacht full of terrorists intent on taking her and CAM while they were on the inflatable.

They’d crossed paths with scant few other boats in the two hours they navigated the narrow waterways between islands, and those were either dive boats or kayakers enjoying an afternoon in paradise. It was hard to believe there were people living normal lives, on vacation, enjoying the beauty of the Rock Islands, when her life was in utter disarray.

She’d seen happy couples kayaking, and she’d envied that they didn’t know about terrorists and spies and missing AUUVs and how long it took for grey reef sharks to smell blood in the water.

Sweat dripped into her eyes, and she brushed it away.Focus on something more pleasant.Like Dimitri’s ass, which she was dutifully following up the steep slope.

His army-green, quick-dry hiking pants hugged his butt, reminding her how his glutes had felt under her fingers. She was about to spend an unspecified amount of time on a deserted tropical island with a man who had awoken her libido and more than delivered on the sexy promise of his body and words.

But he also was a spy and had abducted her.

Since then, he’d saved her a second time, and she was starting to believe she would be sympathetic toward his reason for abducting her.

Jesus. She was mentally making excuses for him. Was that libido or honest assessment?

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