Page 189 of Toxic Temptation
I grip the steering wheel harder and take the corner fast enough to send both him and Pavel sliding across the backseat. A flock of pigeons scatters from the street, wings beating frantically against the windshield before they disappear.
“Jesus Christ, Ko!” Osip braces himself against the dashboard. “Are you Speed fuckin’ Racer now? Where the hell are we even going?”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer. The rage building in my chest makes it hard to form words that aren’t threats.
Pavel leans forward, studying the industrial buildings we’re passing with dawning recognition. “Wait. Are you taking us to…? No, don’t tell me we’re actually… Kovan…”
Osip snaps, “I hate it when you do that. Don’t start sentences that you don’t intend to finish.Whereis he taking us?”
Pavel’s answer is grim. “Clinic 120.”
Osip’s voice climbs an octave. “Clinic 120? Why would we be going to—” He stops mid-thought, his face going pale. “Oh, fuck.”
I spent three hours this morning going through every file related to our organ trafficking operation. That entailed combing over hundreds of spreadsheets and invoices and shipping manifests, all of which should have added up to a clean exit from the business.
It did not.
Instead of severed ties, I found holes. So many fucking holes. Names without organs attached. Organs without names. Money moving in directions it shouldn’t be moving.
Someone is messing with the system.
Someone is undermining my orders.
Someone’s been playing games behind my back.
I explain this all to them tersely. But even when I’m done, they both look wary.
“It could be anyone,” Osip suggests carefully. “Half the brotherhood thinks you’re making a mistake shutting down the organ trade. Lotta malcontents out there.”
“None of them would act alone.” I mash on the brakes at a red light hard enough to make the tires squeal. “They’d need leadership. Protection.”
Pavel’s reflection catches my eye in the rearview mirror. His jaw is set, his knuckles white where they cling to the seat. “They’d need Ihor.”
I nod. Same conclusion I came to at my desk this morning. “Has to be.”
“If he’s moving against you openly…” Pavel trails off, but I know what he’s thinking.
“Then we’re talking about civil war.” I finish the sentence for him. “Yeah. I know.”
The light turns green. I floor the accelerator, and we rocket toward the massive white building that houses Dr. Benjamin Lambert’s private clinic. From the street, it looks pristine. Professional. It’s the kind of place you’d trust with your life.
Which makes what happens inside all the more obscene.
I park directly in front of aNo Parkingsign and kill the engine. The silence that follows feels loaded. Gunpowder waiting for a lit match.
I step out of the car and shut my door hard enough to rattle the windows. The woman behind the reception desk looks up as we enter, her leopard-print glasses sliding down her nose. “Excuse me, sir, you can’t park?—”
“I need to see Dr. Lambert. Now.”
She scrambles to her feet, her chair spinning behind her. “I’m sorry, but Dr. Lambert is unavailable?—”
“His Aston Martin is parked in the medical director’s spot outside.” I step closer to the desk. “Try again.”
Her hand twitches toward what I’m guessing is a panic button. Crafty girl. Too bad it won’t help her. “He’s in a meeting. A very important?—”
I pull my Glock and point it at her forehead. She goes statue-still, the color draining from her face so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t faint.
“Let me rephrase,” I say. “I need to see Dr. Lambert.” I flick off the safety with an audibleclick. “Right. Fucking. Now.”
