Page 27 of Capture
I tried to avoid thinking that way, but my life depended on the signal working, and if it didn’t, then I was screwed.
The beast in front of me shuffled in his seat, then stood, banged solidly on the divider to alert the drivers in the cab. I jumped in fright because I couldn’t see what he was doing properly through the black stitching of the ski mask.
“We’re being followed,” he informed them, then his thick skull turned behind him to the back windows.
I tried to see what he was referring to, but the windows were darkened, so all I could see were glimmers of light as it struck metal and flashes of light when vehicles momentarily blocked out the view or turned in another direction.
It wouldn’t be Ronan who was following us because he didn’t need to unless the GPS tracker wasn’t working. But then he wouldn’t make it obvious, and they’d recognize his vehicle since they’d been watching us for weeks. So, it could be one of our contractors that we hire to do the dirty work, yet that didn’t make sense either. These men were professional at covering their tracks, or else we wouldn’t hire them to knock people off.
The van seemed to go around the block, one right turn after another, and it honestly felt like we were going around in circles, coming back to where we began. The beast opposite me kept his head turned toward the window, watching whoever was following us.
Then a muffled voice coming from the cab snarled a word in Russian that the beast repeated. I recognized the phrase instantly as the Russian word for pigs.
“You got the cops on your back?” I mocked him again. “Stand out like a fucking sore thumb, you do. Maybe a student called them when they saw you at Gotland. Probably thought he looked too dumb to be coming to college. Big fucker in a suit.” I was ranting mindlessly, trying to stir the shit.
I detected movement before a solid thump struck the side of my head, so I didn’t have time to move out of the way. “That’s no way to treat your guest,” I blurted, speaking over the ringing in my ears.
“You shut that mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” he threatened, forcing his tone to remain calm. I knew I was getting to him, like an annoying flea that no amount of pesticide managed to kill.
“You missed my mouth, bro. That was my ear,” I pointed out in that smartass tone that used to piss my father off.
Even at twenty, I still managed to find my inner sixteen-year-old to stretch the patience of fuckers like the beast. Men like him were not used to someone talking back to them.
We kept driving around the block in giddy circles, one right turn after another, to rid ourselves of the cops. It had to be Gothenburg cops since we were convinced that the blond cop from Larsson was working with them. Well, it seemed like it anyway. Honestly, we were the good guys for once, and everyone against us was the ones acting illegally, trying to sabotage or blackmail us. Whether it was the blond cop or these fuckers.
“Are you working with the Larsson cops?” I asked him, knowing he wouldn’t give me an honest answer, but I was curious to see how he’d react.
“Shut up,” he belted out. This time, there was a tone of anger, showing that he was losing his cool.
Refusing to obey, I pressed, “Have you got a problem with your steering? Why are we going around and around in fucking circles? Is the steering locked? Can you fuckers not drive properly?”
Silence.
“Stop the car and I’ll take a look at the steering for ya,” I offered out of the goodness of my heart. “I’m a fucking wizz, bro, a wizz. Basically mechanic. I fixed my car. I gotta classic, old school, Stang, bro.”
The beast exhaled, his patience wearing thin due to my constant chatter, which was getting on his nerves. I felt I was winning this battle of might or wits. I opened my mouth to persist with the verbal diarrhea, but
Mikky’s voice echoed in my head, telling me to stop with the cocky shit or else they’ll make my life harder.
Alright. I’ll calm my shit and fall silent, watching the beast through the black haze, stitching as his head was turned, watching out the window.
The beast banged on the divider again, making me jump. Jeez, I wish he’d warn me before doing that shit. “Lost ‘em,” he informed the driver, sounding relieved, then mumbled the Russian word for pigs again in great disgust.
The van’s direction changed from driving around in circles to turning left instead. There was more stopping and starting at traffic lights, and then the van increased its speed along strips of road, and I assumed we were leaving the city center again and entering the suburbs.
So, the Ivanovs were taking me to a nice suburb with a white picket fence? Their headquarters, located down the street where kids play on the road on their bicycles, was the perfect cover.
“Am I going to meet your boss?” I asked the beast.
Silence.
“Is he pretty?” I went on because I couldn’t help myself. “I bet he’s pretty. Does he bend you over the des-”
“Shut up,” he snapped, and I cracked up laughing.
“So, will you introduce me to your boss? The messiah. The rat king. Vladimir? Is Vladimir, the king, going to be there?” I pushed to see how far I could take it.
“You are a stupid fucking…,” he snarled, then was interrupted by the van turning around a corner, then slowly driving down a smooth road, until it stopped with the engine running.
