Delivered
I let out a sharp, jagged laugh at the fact that Sergei is still more concerned about a headline than the fact that we’re both walking targets for the most dangerous man in Russia.
Get some rest, you idiot. We’ll figure this out tomorrow.
I shut the laptop and sit in the dark, listening to the city outside and wondering how long I have left. My phone buzzes one last time with a message from an unknown number:
Unknown
Sweet dreams, beautiful. - A
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Chapter 6
Zoya
Iwalk toward the Romanov building in downtown Moscow and realize that it looks like any other standard skyscraper of glass and steel that functions as a legitimate corporate headquarters. It’s a twenty-story building that houses law firms and investment banks on the lower floors, making it difficult to believe that this is actually the base of operations for a man like Alexei Romanov. Before I can talk myself out of it, I push through the revolving doors and walk across the marble lobby toward a security desk manned by two guards who look like they spend all their free time in a gym.
“I need to see Alexei Romanov,” I say, leaning against the desk to hide the fact that my knees are shaking.
The guard on the left has a neck thicker than my thigh and doesn’t even bother looking at his computer screen. “Do you have an appointment, lady?”
“No, I don’t have an appointment, but I have a little piece of plastic that’s going to make his entire week miserable if I give it to the wrong person,” I reply, trying to sound a lot more confident than I feel.
“Name?” Thick Neck asks, picking up a desk phone.
“Zoya Petrov.”
He murmurs my name into the receiver, waits ten seconds, and then hangs up with a grunt. “Mr. Romanov isn’t available for you today. Or ever. Turn around and walk back out.”
“Look, I’m trying to be a good citizen here,” I argue, gripping the edge of the desk. “Just tell him I have the drive from the hotel. If this ends up on the internet, he’s going to have a very bad day.”
“We heard you the first time, now move along before we have to move you,” the second guard growls, but I don’t budge.
I open my mouth to protest again, but he steps around the desk and grabs the scruff of my jacket like I’m a stray puppy. He literally lifts me off my feet, my heels dangling inches from the marble floor, and marches me straight to the revolving doors. He deposits me on the sidewalk with so much force I nearly do a face-plant into a planter.
“Stay out, Petrov,” he snaps before the glass doors hiss shut.
I stand there for a full minute, fuming. Then, because I’ve never been good at taking a hint, I march right back inside. I don’t even get five feet before the same guard grabs me again, hauls me back out, and shoves me so hard I stumble into a passerby.
“Fine! If he doesn’t want his precious little secrets, then he can find them in the garbage!” I scream at the glass.
I march two blocks away until I find a public trash can that’s overflowing with coffee cups and half-eaten shawarma. I pull the flash drive out of my pocket, look at the plastic casing that contains enough evidence to start a war, and slam it into the bin. I follow it up with a violent, frustrated kick to the metal base that sends a dull thud echoing down the street.
“You’re all a bunch of psychopathic idiots!” I yell at the top of my lungs.
A woman walking toward me with two toddlers immediately gasps, pulling her children behind her back and hurrying to the other side of the road as if I’m armed and dangerous. A businessman about ten feet away makes eye contact with me, goes pale, and performs a perfect U-turn to avoid crossing my path. I let out one last primal scream for good measure and start walking, feeling significantly lighter but also incredibly annoyed that I’ve wasted my Saturday.
The relief lasts exactly three blocks before a black sedan with ink-dark windows starts rolling along the curb at my exact walking pace. I turn down a side street and break into a half-jog, but two men in dark suits appear out of the shadows and spin me around. One of them presses a cold, hard piece of metal against my lower back.
“If you move, I shoot,” he whispers, his thick accent making it clear these aren’t Alexei’s men. “The boss just wants a word with you.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I say, holding my hands up. “Is this a Saturday thing now? Because my schedule specifically states that I am only kidnappable on Tuesdays. Does your boss not know the routine? I have things to do on the weekend!”
“Shut up and get in the car, lady,” the second one grunts, reaching for a burlap bag.
“Oh, seriously? Don’t bag me. I know the drill. I go willingly in these cases,” I snap, trying to push the bag away. “I’m very cooperative. Ask any of the three gangs that snatched me this month. I’m basically a professional at this point.”