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“No.” I shake my head. “We had to steal it when two goons showed up looking for us. The one had a British accent.”
Isabella sucks in a breath and looks at me. “Did he have a scar over his face?”
“I don’t know why?”
“The lodge was teeming with mainly British Private Military contractors,” she tells us. “Which is why I don’t think my father is in charge of that operation.”
“No,” Rodrigo agrees with Isabella. “Marco doesn’t trust the British.”
“Maybe that’s all he could get since James is in charge,” I reason.
“No.” Rodrigo shakes his head again. “Marco would still hire local mercenaries and he knows enough of them to create an entirely new army of men.” He turns to one of his men and tells the man to get rid of the SUV.
“My things are in there,” Isabella tells him.
“Here you go, Miss Moretti,” one of Rodrigo’s men brings her shopping bag.
“Give them their guns back,” Rodrigo orders the man who took our weapons. “Come inside.” He ushers us into the car hire place. “I was supposed to meet you at four a.m. tomorrow to bring you the car Konstantin ordered for you.”
“It seems we’re going ahead of schedule,” I tell him.
“Maybe just as well,” Rodrigo says. “We’ll keep an eye on your tail to make sure no one is following as you leave town.”
“Thank you,” I say, hoping I’m trusting the right man here. But Konstantin did say he’d know us, and Rodrigo mentioned Konstantin ordering a car for us and knew the time we were supposed to meet.
We follow Rodrigo out to a garage, where there are a few high-end vehicles in a workshop. As I take in the scene, I realize what the car rental fronts—a chop shop.
Among the cars, one stands out: a sleek, luxury sedan.
“This is your ride,” Rodrigo says, patting the hood of a black Mercedes-Benz S-Class, modified by Brabus. “It’s been discreetly bulletproofed. Perfect for crossing the border without drawing too much attention. And don’t worry, it’s not a hot vehicle. It was legitimately bought and just custom-fitted with the bulletproofing. Konstantin insists on only driving legitimately bought vehicles.”
I nod, impressed by the vehicle. It looks like any other luxury sedan but knowing it can withstand an attack gives me a sliver of relief. Isabella deserves the best protection.
Rodrigo hands me the keys. “It’s loaded with everything you need.” He looks from me to Isabella. “Should you pick up trouble before you’re out of town, head for the tunnels on the east side of town. My men will help you lose any unwanted company.”
I open the door for Isabella, who slips into the passenger seat. I load her bag into the back, making sure the Glock M19 is within reach, but out of sight. Climbing into the driver’s seat, I take a deep breath, admiring the sleek interior.
I start the engine, and the car purrs to life. As we drive out of the garage, I glance at Isabella. “So north?”
She nods, securing her gun beneath her seat where she can get it but it can’t be seen. “As ready as I can be.”
We head toward the border, the modified Mercedes blending in with the night traffic. The car’s modifications are imperceptible to anyone but us. It’s our silent guardian, our escape from the chaos that’s been chasing us.
Isabella opens the glove compartment. There are two passports with our faces in them and a wallet loaded with cash. She puts the passports in the compartment between the seats and relaxes into her seat.
Chapter 11
ISABELLA
The comfortable car speeds through the night on the dark, creepy back roads lined with tall trees that flash past us. Andrey has heated my seat, and I snuggle into the warm, soft leather, yawning.
The past few nights, I haven’t slept through an entire night. Then, when I do get a nice comfy hotel bed that’s not in a murder house or has guards, or God knows who else, sneaking in to spy on me while I’m sleeping, I’m yanked from my sleep and set on the run again.
Now we’re headed to Canada on our way to what my brother likes to call my destiny. Like, I’m some sort of superhero about to save the fucking world. When all I really am is a pawn in a war started by my father and Ivan Belov. My hand goes to my stomach. I’ll be damned if I let those two men pull my children into their shit.
“Why don’t you try to get some sleep?” Andrey says. “We have about a four-hour drive before we get to the border.”
“I don’t know if I can fall asleep,” I lie. “But maybe we could talk?”
