As an almost accidental enforcer, he was nevertheless truly gifted.
His first underworld boss hired him because he was fluent in at least six languages and conversant in two others. Then he’d let greed and power corrupt him, and with those two things, the need for violence arose more often than not.
Once he’d decided negotiating with people was a better gig than frightening them—or worse—he’d taken to protection work like a duck takes to tea smoking. That pragmatism led him to some hard times but also to Yulia, and his girls, and Zhenya.
If he worried about a client’s safety, it was only because he was thebest. It didn’t have anything to do with acertain person’sRenaissance angel good looks or his soft brown eyes. Or his generosity of spirit, which was arguably the most attractive thing about him. Dmytro’s anxiety was simply surging to the surface along with old fears.
He never wanted to lose someone he was supposed to protect again.
The parking lot was half-empty. Perhaps he should call it half-full? The fog still shrouded them, but it was late enough that few cars passed by on the highway. He made a quick check of the perimeter and then walked by the office where he found the door open a crack.
Hadn’t Bartosz said it was locked?
Even as he drew his weapon, his heart gave an unpleasant lurch.
He glanced toward the end of the gallery upstairs where Bartosz watched over the client. It fell to him to see if the girl had left for some reason or if something else was in play.
As he stepped inside the office, he reminded himself she might have gone to buy a soda or snack from the vendingmachines. He told himself she might be checking the grounds, or meeting a boy, or any number of things girls did when no one was looking.
But the moment he pushed open the door, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he knew.
He took out his phone and dialed Bartosz’s number. It rang.
“What?”
“Something is wrong.”
“Tell me.”
He stepped inside the room silently. Cleared the corners with his gun ready. He found the girl. She lay in the shadows next to a potted plant, bleeding from a head wound.
“The girl’s been attacked.”
“Wait. What? How? She was dancing just minutes—”
“Don’t know her status. She’s got a head wound.” He knelt. “Pulse is good. She’s breathing. Could be a robbery. Could be about us.” He resorted to his first language to save himself the trouble of thinking through translations. “What do you want to do?”
“We have no vehicle, but in these rooms, we’re sitting ducks.”
“Girl probably has a car.”
“We should come to you. Do you see anyone else around?”
“No, but you wouldn’t see me if I was hiding. There could be a dozen good men on the property waiting to pick us off one at a time.”
“But Zhenya said he’d narrowed the threat down to a few likely loners. Better to regroup. Stay together. Find a ride. Wait there. We’ll be coming shortly.”
“I should come to you. What if—”
“I’ll bring the boy to you safely. God’s sakes.” Bartosz clicked off, and not for the first time that night, Dmytro cursed him silently.
He recalled Bartosz’s teasing and Ajax’s lithe, lean body as he rose from the spa.
He wasn’t sure which was worse: Bartosz breaking protocol or the situation they found themselves in. Not because having enemies who wanted to kill them was a novelty. People had been trying to kill him all his life. That was business.
But this? Despite his misgivings, Ajax had grown on him.
The cloned phone in his pocket chimed. He pulled it out and glanced at it.
