A HAND TAPS MYshoulder.
My cue.
I remove the VR headset, blinking as my eyes adjust to actual reality.It takes a minute.
This headset’s been my forced companion these last few days.Pavlov’s idea of “transport protocol” as he hauls me around like goddamn luggage from one place to the next.By car.By jet.By helicopter.By speedboat.
A shit ton of traveling, headset clamped on between transits.God forbid I see where I’m being taken.
This time, we’re parked in what appears to be a tunnel, lit only by the car’s headlights.
“An ominous dark tunnel today.Nice,” I mutter to Pavlov.“How long is this campaign to scare me off your daughter supposed to last?It’s getting tedious.”
He’s been going all-in.Dragging me from place to place and forcing me to witness disturbing shit, feeding me all kinds of sordid details to turn me off.Doing his damnedest to wear me down, waiting for me to tap out.Or maybe just hoping I’ll snap, give him just cause to off me.
But I’m not a fucking ball sac.When I’m not the most powerful man in the room, smarts, humility, and patience wins the game.
“The ‘campaign’ is over,” Pavlov replies, resigned.“You’re either smarter and tougher than we thought…or just willfully stubborn as fuck.”He nods toward the end of the tunnel.“That’s the entrance to ThreeFours.”
“ThreeFours?”A frown pulls at my brows.“What’s that?”
“Soraya’s village.”
Every nerve in my body snaps to life.“No shit?She’s really here?”
Pavlov exhales.Long, tired, maybe a little annoyed.“Just can’t wrap my head around you and her.Don’t know what she sees.It’s baffling.”
I flash him a grin.“Stop being a hater, Pops.”
He shakes his head.“Get the fuck out of my car.”
Doesn’t have to tell me twice.This is the stop I’ve been waiting for.
Once I’m out, he powers down the window and shoves a duffel at me.“All your shit.”
I raise a brow.“You’re not coming?”
“This is where we part ways.For now.One less ‘hater’ for you to worry about.You’ll have plenty enough in there,” he replies.“Remember our agreement.No exceptions.She’ll want to fight it.See to it that she doesn’t.”
“Yeah, understood.”I turn to leave, then pivot.“Hey, does your son have a thick raised scar across his left arm?”
He frowns.“How do you know that?”
“I don’t.I’m asking.”
“Why?”
“Only a few know this, but…” I glance toward the entrance of the tunnel then back.“I get dreams.”
He’s a picture of confusion.“What?”
“If your son’s in a wheelchair and has a scar across his left arm, he’s going to die soon,” I say.“Prepare for it.”
“The fuck?Are you supposed to be Nostradamus or something?”
“Only about death.”
He stares me down, dubious.“And, say I buy into this bullshit…Howdoes he die?”
