Page 196 of Dirty Damage

I hang up. Artem is giving me a look. “He just called to goad you,” he says.

“I’m aware—which is why I didn’t rise to the bait. Fucker can crawl up his own ass and die before I give him so much as the lint from my fucking pocket.”

“Right, but… do you think that the thing he said about Sutton is true?” Artem asks tentatively.

My heart is thudding unevenly, telling me that maybe this one piece of information, I can trust.

Or maybe I’m just hoping I can trust it.

No. It’ll be easier for everyone if it’s not true.

That’s what Ishouldbe hoping for.

“Make a call to Vegas,” I growl. “If Anton thinks he can fuck with me without any consequences, he’s got another thing coming.”

“Holy shit,” Artem exclaims, ignoring me in favor of his phone.

“What now?”

Artem lifts his eyes to mine. “Ilya texted. He just picked up some pings from Sutton’s phone.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “She’s at the boatyard.”

58

SUTTON

Houston, we have a problem.

All I’ve been thinking is that I’ll be safe once I’m stowed away on one of Oleg’s yachts.

I haven’t thought about how I’m actually going to get inside them.

If the seven-foot-high fences walling the yard off aren’t enough, there are also floodlights every few yards, cameras in between, and an army’s worth of security patrolling the area on foot.

You’d think I was trying to get into the White House.

More like the Morally Gray House, if we’re being honest.

Still, I’ve come too far to give up now. I might as well exhaust all possibilities before I call this quits and find a shelter to hunker down in for the night.

Just the thought of going to a shelter again after all this time makes me feel sick to my stomach.

That can’t be how my child’s life begins. I’d rather find a quiet bridge and a dry spot under it to take refuge.

I walk around the boatyard, hugging the chain-link fence and keeping my eyes open. I notice a flurry of activity around one of the bigger yachts. Men coming and going, security, carts being driven to and from the storage facility.

Some are small, but others are almost person-sized. The question is, are they large enough that, with a little luck and a lot of intuition, I might be able to sneak my ass onto one?

More importantly: Can I do it without being seen?

Only one way to find out.

I start to creep toward the end of the cart caravan. They’re loading from back to front, so most of the men are occupied with piling boxes on the ones up toward the head of the procession.

If I stay low, if I stay quiet, if I slip through the canvas flaps without being seen…

God, I hope this works.

A hysterical bubble of laughter jumps to my throat. I just about manage to swallow it down.

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