Alive.
Those deep blue eyes are fixed firmly on mine as he walks up the driveway with steady strides, only the faintest hint of a limp revealing the injury concealed beneath his clothing. My stomach lurches as I realize he’s hurt. It turns to lead when I notice the pallor of his skin, so unlike his usual coloring. As though he’s lost half his blood.
Christ.
Was he shot?
If so, how the hell is he walking, right now?
His face is a mask of composure, but I know him well enough to recognize the fury churning through him. It’s there in the fissure between his furrowed brows, in his tight-locked jaw, in his clenched fists. I see the strain in his shoulders and know he’s desperate to break into a run. That if he could, he’d close the distance between us in less than a second and rip the bomb from my body with his bare hands, if necessary.
But he’d never put me in that sort of jeopardy.
From the garage, Lefty blares the car horn in clear warning.
Close enough.
Conor instantly stops moving. He’s ten feet away, now. I can see every muscle in his throat working roughly, as if he’s struggling to find the right words. His eyes never shift away from mine as he calls out, “I’m not armed! I just want to talk.”
His voice is loud enough to carry inside the garage.
Waiting for a rebuttal from the Evanoffs, we stand there drinking each other in. I can see the desperate fear in his eyes. The sight of me in danger is killing him.
I’m sure my own eyes are a perfect match, but I try to smile anyway.
His frown gets more pronounced. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t you fucking smile at me like that.” His voice is low, gruff with anger and terror. “ Like you’re giving me some nice last memory to remember you by. You’re not going anywhere, Hunt. You hear me?”
I suck in a breath at his words. I so desperately want to believe him. To believe that I’m going to walk out of this. To believe that we’ll walk away, hand in hand, and live happily ever after, just like in those fairytales I’ve always derided and dismissed.
I pull in a breath. “Just so you know, I was only smiling at you because I’m so damn happy you’re alive. But if you’re going to give me attitude while I’m wearing an explosive vest—” My voice breaks, despite my best intentions. A tear slips out, spilling down my cheek in a rush.
Conor watches it fall to the ground, flinching when it makes impact. As though it’s hit his skin instead of the stone.
The horn beeps again — twice in succession.
Conor’s eyes narrow on the car with lethal intent. His voice is clear and controlled. “I don’t speak beep, Evanoff. You want to talk? Let’s talk. No guns. No snipers. Just you and me.” He pauses. “I’ll even come to you.”
“What do you think you’re doing?!” I hiss at him. “You’re going to get yourself killed, Conor!”
“I think you’ll want to negotiate with me!” he calls out, ignoring me. “Especially since I have something you want.”
My eyes widen as he pulls the Fabergé egg from his back pocket.
Chapter Sixteen
CUFFING SEASON
Conor holds the Nécessaire aloft.
It’s dazzling in the sunshine, refracting a hundred rainbows in every direction.
I can’t help gasping — at its beauty, but also at the fact that he has it in his possession. I’d thought it lost for good, after my poor treatment of it.
Before I can ask how the hell he managed to track it down, the door to my convertible opens. I flinch at the sound of Lefty’s voice.
“Kitchen. Five minutes. Come alone.” He pauses. “Any weapons, the girl dies.”
With that, the garage door begins to close with a shriek of metal gears. Tense with nerves, Conor waits until it’s fully shut before rushing forward in a burst.
“Don’t!” I exclaim, holding out my hands to stop him. “It’s not safe.”
He ignores me — what else is new? — closing the distance between us in three massive strides. He hovers scant inches away, as close as he can physically get without touching me. His eyes are locked on the vest.
“Okay. Okay, we’re going to get you out of there soon, Hunt.”
I nod. “That would be good. Before my bladder explodes.”
His eyes fly to mine.
“Bad joke,” I say weakly.
“Not funny. At all.”
“I really do have to pee.”
“You’re gonna have to hold it for a bit.” He reaches out for the vest.
“Hey!” I step hastily out of reach. “What do you think you’re doing?!”
“Can’t figure out how to get you out of the damn vest if you don’t let me look at it a little closer.”
“No! You could get yourself blown to smithereens, standing too close to me.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Sure. Fine. Whatever.” I pause. “Now back off. Ten feet, minimum.”
“Hunt, don’t be stubborn.”
“Me, stubborn? What about you?”
He ignores me, brow furrowed as he stares at the vest with intent eyes. “Strange. I’ve never seen a circuitry pattern like this before…”
“And you’re suddenly some bomb expert?”
“Not remotely.” He swallows hard. “But everyone at Quantico receives basic training. Plus, I did three years with the counterterrorism unit before I switched to organized crime. Seen more than one suicide vest in my day.”
“Oh,” I murmur, swallowing. That’s oddly comforting.
“The wires on this belt… I’d need the bomb squad to confirm, but there’s not enough time… we have about forty seconds before we’re due in that kitchen.” He glances up at me. There’s an edge of desperation in his eyes. It scares me. But quite not as much as the deep rasp of his voice when he asks me a question.
“How much do you trust me?”
I don’t hesitate. “Conor Gallagher, I would trust you with my life.”
“Good.” His hand reaches out and wraps around mine. With a squeeze, he turns to look at the house. “But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
With the Egg passed off safely into Kaufman’s big hands, Conor and I step through the front door of my perfect house. We walk hand in hand to the kitchen, not speaking. I can feel the tension radiating through his body, just as I’m sure he can feel the fear thrumming through mine.
The Evanoffs are waiting for us.
Righty is gripping his assault rifle. Lefty has both hands wrapped around his Glock. I’m certain they’re going to shoot us stone-cold-dead as soon as we step over the threshold.
Thankfully, I’m wrong.
There’s a terse silence as the four of us face off from opposite sides of the kitchen.
“Didn’t I already kill you?” Righty asks Conor, smirking. “I could’ve sworn I shot you in the chest this morning, outside that safe house.”
“Can you really call it a safe house, though, Vlad?” Lefty’s voice is smug. “It wasn’t too hard to torture the location out of that Fed we caught following us yesterday.” He pauses, and leans forward, his eyes on Conor. “You know, you should really train your men better. Any Bratva would die before betraying his brothers.” He pauses. “Then again, your agent died as well. I know, because I watched the life drain out of his eyes after he told me where to find the Hunt bitch.”
I glance sharply at Conor, horrified by this news. I don’t want to believe it’s true, but I know it must be. Lefty’s earlier words are ringing in my ears.
I’ve already killed four FBI agents this week.
Conor’s face is utterly blank, but his eyes are lethal. I’m stunned by his self-control. Stunned he doesn’t pull out his gun and shoot these assholes where they stand.
But he can’t.
Not without losing me.
“Next time you try to kill me, I suggest you make sure I’m actually dead,” Conor tells them in
a scary voice. “Or I promise you, I will take great pleasure in hunting you to the edge of the fucking earth. I will make sure my face is the last thing either of your see before I send you straight to Hell.”
I shiver at the burning conviction in his voice. I have no doubt he means every word of that vow. Judging by the way the Evanoffs start shifting like skittish horses, I’m not the only one, either.
“Where’s the Nécessaire?” Lefty barks. Even from here, I can see the sweat on his brow. Despite his angry tone and show of bravado, he’s nervous.
“If you think I’d just walk in here with it and hand it over, you’re sorely mistaken.” Conor shakes his head. “We’re going to settle a few things, first.”
Righty aims his gun directly at Conor’s chest. “And what’s to keep me from killing you right now? I’ll be sure not to miss this time.”
I stop breathing.
“I assumed you wanted the Egg.” Shrugging lightly, Conor somehow manages to sound totally unruffled. As though they’re discussing their favorite sports teams or TV shows. “If you kill me, that will never happen. My agents will storm this house. You will either die or be taken into federal custody. You’ll never see Russia again, let alone breathe free air.”
Grudgingly, Righty lowers his gun again.
I resume breathing.
“What are you proposing?” Lefty snarls. “Let me guess — you want us to surrender quietly.”
Conor shakes his head. “No. I want to offer you a trade.”
“A trade for what?”
“The Egg. And your chance to go free — without being gunned down in a firefight you cannot possibly win.” His eyes cut to Lefty’s hand. “In exchange for that detonator. For her life.”
Every muscle in my body freezes.
No.
He cannot actually be considering this. Allowing these monsters to walk out of here, after everything they’ve done. All the people they’ve hurt. All the chaos they’ve caused.
“Conor,” I breathe. “Conor, no, you can’t—”
His eyes cut to mine. “I can. And I will.”
Lefty’s scoff pulls our attention back. “You expect me to believe you want this…” When his hand contracts around the small remote, I nearly have a heart attack, thinking he’s about to kill me with a careless jerk of his fingers. “Badly enough to make that trade? Badly enough that you would let us walk free?”
Conor’s jaw is clenched tight, but he gives an affirmative nod.
Lefty’s eyes are wary. He shakes his head at Conor, clearly suspecting a trap. “You would give up the Nécessaire for so little? For one suka with a big mouth…”
“Maybe he doesn’t know what it’s worth,” Righty grunts.
“Maybe he’s going to try to pass us off a counterfeit replica,” Lefty hisses. “But if he thinks he can fool us so easily, perhaps we should show him how serious we are…” His eyes cut to me and he waves the detonator again. “One push…”
I try not to flinch when his finger starts to descend over the red button.
“Enough.” Conor cuts in sharply. “No counterfeits. No tricks. You have my word.”
“And why would we trust the word of a Fed?” Righty sneers.
“Vlad, let’s just kill them both. This is a scheme to stall us. They will never let us go.” Lefty’s right hand tightens on his gun. “Better off taking them out now, then as many as their friends as possible.”
Righty contemplates this plan for a long moment, then nods. “Okay, bother. We fight to the end. Side by side. No surrender.”
I watch their fingers sliding toward the triggers and know we’re about to die if we can’t somehow change their minds about going out in a blaze of glory.
“Wait! You’ll never get back in Alexei’s good graces without the Egg!” I yell desperately. “Remember what he said — this is your one chance. You know you’ll never get another.”
The Evanoffs glance at each other, hesitating.
“But if you take this trade… you could go home. Not just that, you could return the Egg to Alexei. He would welcome you with open arms. You would be heroes.” I swallow hard, struggling to maintain an even tone. “Or… you can kill us right now, then die yourselves… and be remembered by no one as anything except failures.”
The air is thick with tension. Righty and Lefty are staring at each other and I know my words have had the intended effect. They’re hesitating. Not only that… they’re actually considering taking this deal.
“My offer,” Conor says softy. “Expires in thirty seconds. Decide.”
Lefty’s head shakes. So does his voice. “One life in exchange for the priceless Nécessaire? For something worth a limitless fortune? It’s absurd. Ridiculous! I cannot believe any man in his right mind would ever make that deal.” His eyes cut to me, full of disbelief and indecision. “No one girl is worth that much.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, after a moment, Conor says very simply, “That depends entirely on the girl.”
My heart clenches.
One girl, for a limitless fortune.
“Your thirty seconds are up,” Conor informs them.
The Evanoffs glance at each other. They’re suspicious, but they’re also desperate. And the chance of walking out of here with not only their lives but also the Egg… the chance to restore their position by Alexei’s side and return to Russia as heroes…
It’s too good to pass up.
“We want all your snipers pulled from the roofs,” Lefty says.
“Done,” Conor agrees immediately.
“We want the barricades removed, so we can drive out of here.”
“Fine.”
“And we want every agent in a five-mile radius gone.”
“That’ll take some time. But I’ll make it happen.”
The brothers look at each other again. They seem almost baffled by their good fortune, but they realize there’s no other choice. This is their best shot at freedom. Their only shot at freedom, really.
Lefty looks back at Conor. “When the area is clear of your agents, you will send the girl to the garage.” He jerks his chin at me. “She’ll give us the Egg. We’ll hand her the detonator.”
“I will make the exchange,” Conor snaps, letting his anger show for the first time. “She is not going anywhere near you without my protection.”
“Then there will be no deal.” Lefty smirks. “She comes alone with the Egg. No weapons. No protections. Those are the terms.”
“And how do I know you won’t shoot her on the spot, as soon as she hands over the Egg?” Conor’s fury is bleeding into every word.
“You’ll have to trust us.” Righty looks thrilled. “Just as we have to trust you’ll actually pull back your snipers and call off your agents.”
There’s a tense silence.
Trust them.
What an absurd concept. I’d feel more secure trusting Paul with my investment portfolio.
“Well?” Lefty prompts. “Are we doing this or not?”
“I’ll do it,” I agree, heart pounding like a wild animal inside my chest. “I’ll come alone.”
“Like hell you will,” Conor grits out.
“Conor.” My eyes hold his and I see the stark fear swimming in their blue depths. “This is how it has to be.”
“A compromise.” Lefty nods. “You have my word. After the exchange, we agree not to shoot the girl… so long as we are allowed to drive away without pursuit.”
Conor’s jaw is locked tight. A muscle is ticking in his cheek. I can’t tell what’s bothering him more: the idea of letting these two go free, or the thought of me being the one to make the exchange.
“Do we have a deal or not?” Righty asks impatiently.
“Conor,” I plead, when he doesn’t respond.
He exhales sharply. “We have a deal.”
It all happens so quickly.
One minute the street is full of agents and police vehicles and barricades. The next, it is a ghost town. Comple
tely evacuated. Every house has been emptied, every trace of law enforcement removed. There are no sounds or signs of human life anywhere to be found. It’s eerie. Like something out of a post-apocalyptic horror film — one starring Conor and I as the sole survivors.
We stand in the middle of the quiet street, sheltered partially by his Wrangler.
Waiting.
Worrying.
Our hands are laced so tight together, I’ve nearly lost circulation. We both look up at the sound of the garage door opening.
“Are you ready?” Conor asks in a tight voice.
Inhaling deeply, I nod and pick up the Nécessaire off the front seat. Now that I’m truly looking at it, I can’t believe I ever mistook it for some cheap trinket. The craftsmanship is truly incredible — the product of months of painstaking work by Peter Carl Fabergé. The rubies and emeralds are positively dazzling in the hazy evening twilight. It’s one of the most gorgeous things I’ve ever held in my hands. (And certainly the most expensive.)
“Go,” Conor says, leaning down to kiss me. It’s a stern, no-nonsense sort of kiss — perfectly matching the tone of his next order. “And then come back to me.”
Bossy, bossy, bossy.
The walk up the driveway seems endless. I keep my eyes fixed dead ahead, listening to the roaring of my own pulse as I close the distance between me and the garage door, which is now fully open.
The Evanoffs are standing by my convertible, still fully armed, watching me approach. They both have their fingers on their triggers. The sight makes my stomach turn over.
They won’t risk their own chance at escape. Not now that they’re so close to getting everything they want, I tell myself, trying not to freak out. They gave their word they wouldn’t shoot me.
I can’t lie — I’d feel a lot better about trusting that highly-questionable word if I knew there was a team of snipers on a roof next door, watching us through a scope right now.
Ten feet from them, I draw to a stop.
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