Page 77 of My Wild Horse King

“Jean.” I pause to make sure she heard me.

“What?”

“You’re going to have to trust me. What I’m doing? It’s our only play.”

“I’m pregnant,” she whispers. “I just told Javi about the baby, and we’re really excited. I need things not to fall apart.”

“Jean,” I say again. “No matter what happens with Trifecta, you will be just fine. Don’t work more than ten-hour days. Do what you can, celebrate your baby with your husband, and I’ll be back as soon as possible.” I hang up.

“We really need to find these journals,” Kris says.

The understatement of the year for me.

“We don’t have an address,” Kris says, “but in a town of four hundred, I bet someone can tell us where she lives.”

Only, predictably, when we park in front of the local grocery store, which appears to also be a hardware store, and walk inside, the people are a little less than forthcoming.

“No,” Kristiana’s saying. “We’re not mobsters. A few of us are from Russia, yes, but I went to school at Oxford, which is a prestigious university in a town about an hour outside of London. Trust me, we don’t mean anyone here harm.”

The woman behind the counter folds her arms and scowls. In spite of her irritated demeanor, I know she’s trying to do the right thing, because in front of her face, there’s a mask of swirling little golden lights. “Amanda’s tough, no doubt, and I’m not sure she’d be scared of you folk, but I’ll tell you this.” She plants her hands on the top of the counter and leans forward. “If you want some snacks or maybe a frozen pizza, I’m happy to help. But if you want personal information about one of my friends, I ain’t playing.”

“We just need to ask her?—”

The woman sighs and straightens. “I’m more afraid of her than I am of you, so I’m not about to send you out there.”

“Out where?” Kris asks. “As in, outside of town?”

I’ll give my sister this much—she’s determined.

Aleksandr plonks a stack of cash on the counter. “We mean her no harm, but it’s urgent that we speak with her.”

The woman knocks the money off the counter without even looking at it first. Bills flutter down and all around, coming to rest in little piles all over the floor. “Offering me cash just confirms that you folks aren’t savory.” She glares.

The door jingles as someone walks in. “Well, Venetia, I reckon you did the right thing by calling me over.” An older man with grey-streaked but otherwise dark brown hair saunters into the already crowded entry. His right hand’s resting on a gun where it sits in a holster. “I’m the sheriff in this tiny town, and think I speak for everyone when I say we don’t want no trouble.”

“We don’t either,” I say, stepping around Kristiana. “My name’s Daniel Belmont, and I’m actually a business owner back in New York City, and?—”

“I watch the news, boy, and I know your city’s a mess.” His face is mostly light, with just small streaks of dark appearing now and again.

“It’s not my city.” I frown. “I’m in the middle of an IPO for my company, and I’m not even supposed to be here right now. Believe me when I tell you that this is a very bad time for all of us, but we need to talk to Amanda Saddler urgently. Once we’ve spoken to her, we’ll leave peacefully and amicably.”

The man scowls, the darker patches flaring a little more often here and there.

“You could come with us,” I say. “To watch and make sure we honor our word.”

“I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve gone my entire career without shooting a single human being.” He sighs. “I’d rather not change that today.”

“We’re on the same page,” I say.

He’s thinking, but he hasn’t made up his mind.

I whip out my wallet and drop it on the counter. “Look here.” I pull out my driver’s license. “Daniel Belmont, just like I said. The address listed is for my apartment in New York. I own it outright—I’m an upstanding citizen. You can run my license and see that I don’t have so much as a parking violation outstanding.”

Kris chokes, and I realize that someone in law enforcement running my ID would lead Leonid right to us, assuming he’s looking, which I think is a fair assumption. I hold my breath, wishing I could kick myself for my own idiocy.

But the old man just bobs his head and says, “Alright. Let’s mosey.”

Mosey?

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