Page 52 of Sinful Embers

I glance at her. “But why? Why go through all of this?”

“Because he needed time to track Leigh without us getting in the way.” She leans back in her seat, stretching out her legs. “And maybe, just maybe, he also wanted to flush Oleksi out.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

She crunches on a candy before answering. “I think Nikolas knew Oleksi was playing both sides, but he needed proof. That’s why he insisted we bring Oleksi with us. If Oleksi thought we were clueless and distracted, he’d keep doing what he was doing—leaking our location, feeding Dmitri intel. That’s why Nikolas took his sweet time leading us nowhere.” She shrugs. “And when we got too close to figuring it out, Oleksi bolted.”

I shake my head. “That still doesn’t explain why Nikolas kept us out of Russia.”

Sabrina’s expression darkens. “Because according to the Alpha dickwads, we were being followed, and I guess while Dmitri’s men were following us it left Nikolas’s team able to scout out Russia. The classic illusion Mark would say. Keep the people looking here so they don’t see what’s going on behind them.”

We reach the ferry terminal with twenty minutes to spare.

I park the Beetle between two trucks and kill the engine. “This piece of shit is staying here.”

“Fair enough.” Sabrina grabs our bags. “But admit it. You’ll miss her.”

I stare at the car. “I’ll set it on fire first.”

She snickers.

We board the ferry as walk-ons, blending into the sparse crowd of late-night travelers.

I keep my hood up, my stance casual, but my eyes scan every face, every movement, every possible threat.

Sabrina does the same.

We don’t speak much as the ferry pulls away from England, crossing the dark waters of the Channel.

There’s too much left unsaid.

Too much uncertainty.

When we dock in Calais, we move fast. Sabrina pulls more cash from a hidden pocket in her bag, and we rent another car—a nondescript sedan this time.

We drive.

France to Belgium.

Belgium to Germany.

Germany into Poland.

By the time we reach our destination—a small border town with an under-the-table flight to Russia—we’re both exhausted.

“Last stop,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders. “If this plane is a piece of shit like that Beetle—”

Sabrina pats my arm. “Don’t worry. No Ice Ice Baby this time.”

We board a cargo plane with minimal security. Within a few hours, we’re finally in Russia—far from Moscow, in a small industrial airport where no one is asking questions.

The moment we land, I feel it.

Like a wire pulled tight inside my chest.

We’re here.

And Leigh is close.

---