Page 132 of Unruly

Catherine shrugged helplessly, but said nothing.

“It’s after two, Catty.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“I told you it would be okay, babe.”

She nodded. “I know, but still …”

The corner of his mouth edged up in a small smile. “You worry.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to know how it all went?”

Catherine wrapped her arms around her midsection, comfy warm in a pair of Cross’s sleep pants and one of his T-shirts. “If you want to tell me.”

“It was successful.”

Successful.

Catherine let that one simple word bang around in her thoughts, and what it meant. “Every single one?”

All she knew about the plans Cross and his men had been working on for a week was that anyone who held a position of power in the Russian organization would not see the rise of the sun in the morning. The way he had explained it, and what he expected to come of it after, she thought it had been rather … brilliant.

Sad, too.

But brilliant.

“All except the one,” Cross asked.

Catherine’s brow furrowed. “Which one?”

“Timur.”

He lifted a hand as if to ask, What can you do?

“I didn’t think Zeke would take the easy route with the guy anyway,” Cross added after a quick moment. “From what he’s told me about what happened between Katya and that man, I was waiting for him to do something like this, really.”

“Could it cause problems?” she asked.

Cross shook his head. “Doubtful. The Russians and the police are going to be far too distracted with the assassinations of the three highest members to realize one of their low level, disposable foot soldiers has gone missing. By the time his body does finally show up somewhere, it probably won’t even look like a body.”

Catherine made a noise under her breath—half disgust, half curiosity. Then, she had another thought. “Wait, you mean he still hasn’t killed Timur?”

“I suspect not, but Zeke’s not answering his phone. He clicked off the call with Rick just before he went in on the guy where he was working. He did send me a message, so I know he’s okay. That’s all I care about.”

Really, Catherine had no business in asking.

She still did.

Curiosity was her best friend.

“What did the message say?”

“The Slaughterhouse still smells like wet death,” Cross said.

“I don’t know what that means.”