Page 23 of One Last Stand

Tomas smiled, snuffed out his cigarette. “Because I used to work for the Bratva. Accounting. And of course, back then I was younger and weaker, and Laney was beautiful and very,verygood. And now they want their money, or they want me dead. And Laney is going to fix that.”

“She’s not coming, man. So just let me go and let’s be done with this.”

“You think I’m going to kill you.”

Shep refused a response.

Tomas shook his head. “I’m not going to kill you, Shep. You’re far too valuable to me for that.”

Shep glanced around the room, searching for something—a pin, a paperclip, a piece of wire—but nothing.

Tomas looked at his watch again. Stood up. “Two hours until nightfall. I suppose I need to get ready.”

Ready?

And all sorts of questions stirred inside Shep.

Except . . . “If you’re leaving, how about those eggs?”

“Hmm.” Tomas considered him. Then nodded and set the bowl and a fork down at the end of the sofa. “This will all be over in a jiff.” He walked away. Stood at the door, looked at Shep. “You’ll see.”

Shep couldn’t stop the shake of his head.

“Really. Sit tight and watch. You’ll see that your London is very much alive.”

And for a second—a very long, brutal second—Shep wished Tomas were right. That somehow London—or Laney, or whoever she was—would show up out of the night, alive and beautiful, and he didn’t care in the least—well, mostly not—what she’d gotten herself into.

He just wanted her alive.

And maybe—a close second—in his arms. But he’d be okay with just alive.

Then Tomas grabbed his jacket and a small backpack and left, the door closing with a soft click and a bolt turning.

Time to escape.

* * *

Maybe she should have dressed warmer.

London crouched in the woods, just below Moose’s massive timber home, darkness seeping out of the two-story picture windows off his deck, the place quiet, eerie, and maybe a little haunted by the memory of a man she’d known as Hawkeye.

Behind her, the Knik River rushed, gray and frigid, lethal chunks of forming ice jockeying their way downstream. A mist lifted into the night and slid under her black thermal shirt, her gloves. She wore the wool hat too, boots, a small notebook in her pocket, along with her night-vis monocular, and she held a KA-BAR. She couldn’t believe she’d left so many of her tools behind, but frankly, she’d left a lot of herself behind when she’d followed Ziggy that night over a month ago.

She’d really had no desire to retrieve her bag of Laney’s goodies. She’d had to swing by her old digs, wait for Boo to leave, sneak in, and retrieve them from her bedroom.

But here she was, back in the game.

For now.

Boo hadn’t touched her belongings. She didn’t blame her—who packed up their dead roommate’s things? Maybe Boo had been waiting for Shep to make that move.

London’s throat tightened.

Please, Tomas, don’t hurt him.

She’d hiked in from where she’d parked, a mile downstream, in a closed-for-the-season glamping campground. The soggy riverbank pressed moisture into her boots, and her feet chilled despite the wool socks.

She shivered. But this would be over soon. She’d driven past the Tooth and seen both Axel’s and Moose’s trucks parked in the lot, along with Boo’s Rogue. Flynn would be at work, a detective in the Anchorage Police Department. And Oaken was probably in his studio.

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