Page 193 of Nothing More

“That’s your play, yeah?”

The pinch of fingers in his hair, and the bite of steel at his neck was worth it to see Misha’s face journey. The way his brows rose steadily, jaw going slack as he absorbed the fact that Mav knew everything.

Shit, Toly didn’t even know the cop stuff, but he’d known the DNA had been intended forsomething.

Maverick was delivering the words, and well, but they’d most definitely come from Devin and Tenny’s mouths. And their intel.

And Raven’s.

Toly let out a breath despite himself, overwhelmed with pride – touched, even, by the care that Raven and her family were putting into this, all for him, though he’d not earned it – and was rewarded with a cold-then-hot slice into his skin.

Misha regained his composure admirably, but Toly had seen the way he’d been rattled, and there was no taking that back. “You’re clever, Mr. Maverick,” Misha said, gaze sharpening on Toly. “Or someone in your club is, at least.”

Mav chuckled, meanly. “Oh, yeah. We got a few sharp tools around here.”

“Yes. But I have Toly,” Misha countered.

“Yeah. For now.”

“I want us to meet face-to-face to discuss the terms of his release.”

“Sure,” Mav said, peaceably. “Text me, and we’ll set it up.”

Click.

Toly hadn’t earned the right to feel abandoned by the disconnected call – and, really, he knew that he hadn’t been. That Mav and everyone else, with Raven pushing hard, and Tenny scheming, and Miles hacking at the speed of light, were formulating a plan of some sort; one doubtless complicated, risky, and impossible for anyone else save their particular brand of crazy to pull off. But it was like a lifeline had been cut, that click. And he was alone again, with the Butcher’s son holding a knife on him, and Misha pacing away across the office, rubbing a hand across his mouth and swearing softly in Russian.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, suddenly, and kicked the front of a filing cabinet hard enough for his steel-toed boot to dent it. He whirled on Toly, then, eyes wild with rage. “You’re a dead man,” he seethed in Russian. “Don’t you understand that? You aren’t walking away from this. Your friends can’t help you.”

“I know that,” Toly responded, calmly, in kind, and got an intentional press of the knife again. Blood trickled hot and tickling down to the hollow of his throat.

“You–” A big breath, a turn, and Misha gathered himself. Calmly, though not without effort, he said, in English, “You know – your president knows – that I do not plan to call for a truce.”

“Yes, I know that.”

Misha’s head whipped around, gaze narrow, still aggressive, dark with fury, but contained, now. “Why would he care about you? Why would he trust you, when you’ve been working with me?”

“I don’t know,” Toly answered, honestly. “I’ve thought for a long time that the Lean Dogs were crazy.”

Misha’s jaw worked. “What will he do? What’s his play, if we meet?”

“I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself,” Toly said.

The knife lifted, the hand released his hair – and this time, he didn’t feel the blow on the back of his head. He had a last glimpse of Misha, brimming with barely-leashed anger, and then sweet unconsciousness.

~*~

“Ah,” Mav said, when his phone pinged. “Here we go.”

Raven hadn’t been able to sit still for the past fifteen minutes, and so continued pacing the length of the safehouse flat’s generous living room; cast a glance over her shoulder, where Maverick sat by the fire, Devin and Tenny hovering one each over his shoulders, a devil and a devil, no angels in sight.

“An address?” she asked, half-hopeful, half-nauseated. Toly had spoken only briefly during the call from Misha, but his voice had been all wrong: dry, and weak, and clotted-sounding. She’d heard his grunt of pain, the scuffle and shuffle and smack of violence.

“Yeah,” Maverick said. “In SoHo.”

“SoHo?” she asked, surprised.

“I know that place.” Devin sounded eager, pointing down at the screen. “Worked a job there myself, once upon a time.” When he glanced up, he saw all of them watching him, and shrugged. “Top secret, of course.”

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