My stomach twists in an uncomfortable mix of guilt and horror and vindication.
He’s merely reaping the seeds he sowed,an unforgiving voice whispers from the back of my mind.Don’t you dare feel sorry for the man who’s done you more damage than anyone else on this earth.
“Here, this one is clearer,” Kaufman murmurs, skipping forward a few frames. The next photo he pulls up is far better quality, taken by a different camera. It shows the three men in an alleyway, illuminated by an overhead streetlamp.
I gasp audibly when I see Paul’s face. Or… what’s left of Paul’s face. He’s almost unrecognizable — two black eye sockets, a fat lip, his nose broken and swollen to twice it’s normal size. It looks more like an eggplant than a facial feature.
Again, the Evanoffs are dragging him between them like a sack of potatoes. I wonder if the extreme damage extends to the rest of his body. If he’s unable to walk on his own volition.
“My god,” I say, shaking my head vigorously. I’m gripping the coffee cup so tightly, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter in my hands. “Please… don’t show me any more.”
“Nothing more to show,” Kaufman replies. “They entered this building around 3AM and haven’t been spotted since. We think there’s a good chance they’re still inside.”
“What’s the building?”
“Officially? It’s a Russian deli,” Evelson informs me. “Unofficially? It’s been a mob front for the local Bratva cabal for years.”
“And,” Kaufman adds, smiling wide. “It’s been closed for business all week. Interesting coincidence.”
“So you think it’s where the Evanoff brothers have been staying? Where they’re keeping Paul now?”
“That’s definitely a working theory,” Evelson says.
I glance at Conor, who’s being suspiciously silent on this matter, and find his eyes are locked on my hands. More specifically, on my white-knuckled grip around the coffee mug. When his face lifts to mine, his expression is unreadable.
“Hey.” My brows furrow. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says, but his jaw is so tight I don’t believe him for a second. “And Paul will be, too.”
Since when does Conor care about Paul’s welfare?
Is this the same man who punched him in the face mere days ago?
“Conor—”
“I know the photos looked bad, but it’s actually a very good sign he’s still alive at this point. If our intel plays out, we’ll recover him.” He sucks in a breath. “And… you can go back to your life.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I murmur, thinking of how good it’ll be to have all of this behind us. To start living again.To get to know a certain indigo-eyed FBI agent outside interrogation rooms and cheap motels and safe houses.
My lips turn up in a small smile at the thought.
Conor’s still staring at me with that strange look. When he sees the smile, his face clouds over into a scowl.
I tilt my head. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be, Hunt?”
His tone is sharper than I’ve heard it in ages. Maybe ever.
My mouth opens to reply, but he’s already turned away from me. Rife with confusion, I stare at the back of his messy black head as he questions Evelson about the activity on Petrov’s credit cards since he entered the States. I try to pay attention to the answer, but bank statements seem suddenly less vital than the man sitting two inches from me.
And a whole world away.
Something is definitely bothering him. He’s acting strangely. Closed off and cold — like he used to be, the first day I met him. I try to figure out what could’ve possibly triggered his shift in mood from our playful banter in the kitchen ten minutes ago to this unexpected brooding anger… but I’m drawing a complete blank.
You’re just reading into things,I assure myself.He’s under a lot of pressure with this case. But he’s still the same man who held you as you fell asleep last night. The man who said you’re more important than this job.
As soon as Petrov and his thugs are off the streets, things will be fine.