Heart of the Devil

by Meghan March

  “Questions can wait until we get out of here. If we are discovered with the bodies, the police will hold us all for questioning for days. And you’re right—with every minute that passes, the chance of finding your husband alive disappears.”

  My stomach roils, and bile climbs in my throat. “Leave . . . leave Bates and Donnigan? But—”

  “Do you want to see your husband again?”

  The ice water that seems to have replaced my blood freezes. “Yes, of course I want to see my husband again.”

  “Good. Then we go.” He rises and offers a hand to Goliath. The large man stands on unsteady legs, but we each reach out to support him.

  “Service elevator is at the other end of the hall from this one,” Belevich says.

  I shoot a suspicious stare at him. “How do you know? Why are you even helping us?”

  Goliath grunts as we take the first step down the hall, and blood is already seeping through the makeshift bandage.

  Fuck, he needs a doctor.

  Belevich keeps walking, steadying Goliath with one hand as he grips the pistol in the other. “Because you’re the daughter of one of the most influential men in Russia. A man whose favor I would like to be in.”

  My father.

  Another wave of chills ripples across my skin. I didn’t even think of him.

  “Could he . . . could he have done this?”

  Goliath replies to my question with a shake of his head that makes him groan. “They were young. Wearing balaclavas.”

  “This is not Federov’s style,” Belevich says, agreeing. He pauses in front of the door smeared with blood, probably from Goliath’s hands as he stumbled out. The entrance to the penthouse suite that Jericho and I shared. “If you want any of your shit, run and get it now so we can get the fuck out of here before we all get arrested.”

  The clothes inside mean nothing to me. Nothing means anything to me except Jericho.

  Fuck. Fuck. Tears burn the back of my eyes as another wave of despair washes over me. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. But it is, and I don’t have time to cry.

  I gather every bit of fortitude I have and blink back the tears. “I don’t need anything except my husband. Let’s go.”

  “Good. Then we go,” Belevich replies.

  When we reach the service elevator, I punch the call button. As we wait, my thoughts race.

  “Are you sure it couldn’t be Federov? Wouldn’t he have motive?”

  Belevich’s blond hair swishes across his collar as he shakes his head. “What motive could he have? From what I have heard, all he wants is to be reunited with his daughter. Not buy her animosity for life by kidnapping her husband.”

  I pray he’s right, because Jericho’s life depends on it.

  “Then can he help us find him?” I ask, not sure if it’s a viable solution, but right now, I need all the big guns we can find.

  “Perhaps,” Belevich says. “He may be able to help.”

  “What about Koba?” My shoulders stiffen as I look up at Goliath. “Where the hell is Koba? What happened to him?”

  Goliath’s brows dip together and his nostrils flare. “Fucking traitor. I knew it.” His black eyes focus on me. “We find him, and we’ll find Forge.”

  Scenes flash through my brain—

  Koba unable to get to me when the man sliced my side and snatched my purse in Saint-Tropez.

  Koba still in his car when Alanna’s efficiency unit was being trashed . . . and not able to catch up with the kid who took off running.

  “I’m going to kill him myself if anyone so much as harms one hair on Jericho’s head.” I look from Belevich to Goliath. “Let’s go. I want my husband back.”

  3

  Forge

  The memory of the day I pulled Isaac’s body from the wreckage of his boat batters my brain until I finally open my eyes.

  Instead of light, I’m surrounded by darkness. As I change position, fabric rubs against my face, so I reach up to push it away but can’t move my arms. My wrists are bound behind my back, and when I yank against the binding to free myself, thin pieces of plastic cut into my skin. Zip ties. My ankles are trussed too.

  What the fuck?

  I open my mouth to speak, but my lips are sealed shut. Duct tape.

  I lie still on my side as I try to figure out what the hell happened. My brain feels like I’m swimming through the ocean in the dead of night, in a fog. Something’s not right. Was I drugged? I try to piece together how the fuck I ended up here.

  Indy’s poker game. Prague.

  Fuck. Indy. Please fucking tell me they didn’t get her too.

  My memory is fuzzy, but I remember being on the phone in the hotel room before the door crashed open and masked men rushed inside. Gunshots popping through suppressers. Goliath yelling. Spinning around to see Donnigan going down before he could get a shot off. They rushed me, and I swear I got in a few punches before everything went black, but I don’t remember.

  Jesus fucking Christ. Who the fuck did this?

  I stretch out my arms and legs, feeling around and trying to get any sense of where I am. I’m praying Indy isn’t tied up in here with me. Please fucking tell me she’s safe at the hotel.

  My face is pressed against a floor that vibrates against my jaw, and my fingers brush a rubber mat. I breathe in the acrid scent of exhaust. I’m in a vehicle. Maybe a van? Or the back of a truck?

  My foot hits something. I try to say Indy’s name, but it comes out as a garbled series of grunts.

  If they took her . . . I will burn down the entire fucking world if that’s what it takes to free us both.

  Nothing touches her. No one hurts her. Ever.

  But I did. I took her. Used her. Kidnapped her.

  The recriminations rip through me. I never should have pushed her to bet that fucking room key. I never should have gone after her in Monte Carlo.

  Regrets seize me as the tip of my shoe catches on a pant leg.

  It’s not Indy. She was wearing a dress. So, who . . . ?

  A boot connects with my back, and lightning bolts of pain shoot down my spine.

  “Do not move,” a man barks out with a Russian accent.

  Russian. Fuck.

  That means either Federov lost his patience with me about meeting Indy and decided to get me out of the way once and for all, or Belevich has ulterior motives that I somehow missed.

  He was at the game at La Reina . . . and Mallorca. Why didn’t I investigate him?

  Because I was caught up with Indy. And now she’s in danger because of me.

  I have to get away. Have to get to her.

  As the pain dissipates from the boot to my back, I try to picture the inside of what I assume is a cargo van and guess where the man who spoke could be sitting. I swing my body around to kick out at him. As soon as my feet slam into bone, he barks something out in Russian before someone grabs my feet and ties them down.

  As something sharp stabs into my neck and darkness rushes in, one thought repeats in my brain.

  Must. Save. Indy.

  4

  India

  Belevich texts someone from inside the elevator, but the Cyrillic alphabet on his phone screen might as well be Greek to me. With his good hand, Goliath slides his cell from his pocket, and the screen is covered with green bubbles indicating notifications.

  “Jericho?” I ask, desperation turning my words ragged.

  “Not yet,” he replies with a pained grunt.

  My apprehension climbs with each passing minute, and I hope like hell that I’m making the right choice by going with him. Goliath stays glued to my side as we exit the service elevator into a parking garage. A black G-Wagen pulls up to the loading zone, and Goliath and I tense.

  “Come. Come. It’s my driver.” Belevich takes a step forward, but Goliath doesn’t move as he looks down at me.

  “Do we go?” I whisper.

  Goliath’s jaw clenches, and the lines around his eyes deepen. He has to be racked with
pain. I don’t know what else to do.

  Instead of replying, Goliath nods. “Okay.”

  “Come. Hurry,” Belevich says, leading us toward the boxy Mercedes SUV. The driver jumps out to open the door to the back seat and helps Goliath inside. Belevich takes the front passenger seat, and I slide in beside Goliath.

  I’m questioning every decision I’m making, but I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know who I can trust, and my gut twists at the thought of how we left Donnigan and Bates behind. I’m so sorry. I send up the apology and promise silently that I’ll make it right as soon as Goliath, who slumps against the door when the SUV begins moving, isn’t bleeding out, and we find Jericho.

  Belevich rattles off orders in Russian, and I’ve never wished I spoke a language more.

  Goliath groans as we roll over a speed bump at the entrance to the parking garage.

  “Where are we going? Goliath needs help,” I tell Belevich.

  He twists in his seat to look back at us both, his stare fixing on the blood-soaked towel around Goliath’s shoulder. “I have a friend not far from here. She can help him.”

  “Is she a doctor?”

  “A veterinarian,” Belevich replies.

  “A vet? Really?”

  “Better than nothing, and she won’t report a gunshot wound to the authorities, who will drag us all in for interrogation and fleeing the scene of a crime.”

  A chunk of ice settles in my stomach, and I remind myself that beggars can’t be choosers. Right now, I’ll do whatever I have to do to find Jericho and make sure Goliath doesn’t die.

  “Okay. What then? What do we do? How are we going to find him?” There’s no question who the him I’m referring to is.

  “I will call in a few favors . . .”

  As he trails off, I lean forward in the seat, gripping the door as we careen out of the parking garage. Sirens wail in the street toward the hotel entrance.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “We made it out just in time,” Belevich says as our vehicle hugs the curb to let the police through. We all watch the flashing lights as they pass us.

  “They’re going to be looking for me and Jericho,” I whisper, thankful they can’t see us through the blacked-out windows of the SUV.

  “Of course,” Belevich says. “But they move too slow. If we rely on them, you will never find Forge.”

  Due to my unusual childhood, I’ve never been one to trust law enforcement, so I’m inclined to agree with him. “Tell me about these favors. How fast can you call them in, and how can they help us? What do you need from me?”

  Belevich glances over his shoulder into the back seat. “You really do want to find him, don’t you?”

  I blink twice, repeating his question in my brain. “Of course I want to find him. He’s my husband.”

  “But the reasons he married you . . . they didn’t have anything to do with the reason a man normally marries a woman, from what I heard.”

  I’m reminded then that Belevich knows too much about things he shouldn’t. Like that my sister was kidnapped and was going to be sold as a sex slave if I didn’t pay the ransom to get her back.

  “What’s your angle, Belevich? Who the fuck are you, really?” I ask, wishing we’d had this conversation before I got into a vehicle with him and my very injured bodyguard, who won’t be much help if we’re truly in danger.

  “Right now, I’m one of the only friends you have in this country. Like I said, I want to be in your father’s favor. That’s my angle.”

  I shrink closer to Goliath’s side of the car. As if he can sense my unease, Goliath reaches out a hand to cover mine, giving it a quick squeeze against the cool black leather.

  “Good luck with that, since I don’t even know the man, but suit yourself.”

  The Mercedes takes a series of quick turns down the narrow streets, and five minutes later, we park in front of a building that has seen better days. What looks like fresh graffiti marks a side door that is flanked by two barred windows.

  If it didn’t say Veterinář above the doorway in faded red letters on a white sign, I would have thought I’d made a horrible error in judgment. I may not speak Czech, but even I can translate that.

  “Come. We will go through the side door. It leads to the treatment rooms. The dogs will not tell on us.” Belevich pushes open his door of the SUV and climbs out.

  I turn toward Goliath, letting my indecision and fear show on my face. “Our only other choice is to run. What do you think we should do?”

  Belevich’s driver sits ahead of me, listening to every word, but I don’t care. I need to get Goliath’s read on the situation, because right now, I don’t know if my decisions are leading us astray.

  “Let’s go inside,” Goliath says as he discreetly lifts the side of his suit jacket to show me a flash of metal.

  He has a gun. Thank God. Why didn’t he pull it on Belevich before? Oh, wait, that’s right, he was bleeding out from his shoulder.

  “Okay. Then we’ll go,” I say as Belevich opens Goliath’s door.

  “Come on. Come on. We don’t want to be seen, even if the people in this neighborhood do not like the police any more than we do.”

  I slide across the leather seat, and it only takes a few steps to cross the cracked sidewalk and slip through the open door.

  Inside, fluorescent lighting turns the dingy white floor a sickly yellow. Disinfectant mixed with wet-dog scent assails my nostrils as we step inside. Meows and barks and whines come from several directions, and my instincts charge into overdrive as I follow Goliath and Belevich into a room with a stainless-steel table in the center.

  “Really, Dmitri?” a feminine voice says. “I don’t hear from you for over a year, and now twice in two days? And you bring me a bleeding man? You are good in bed, but not that good.”

  I peer around Goliath’s massive form as a fair-skinned woman in blue scrubs props her hands on her hips and glares at Belevich.

  “Marina, please. You are saving this man’s life. And perhaps the life of another. You will be rewarded handsomely, I promise.” Belevich presses a kiss to her cheek just below a lock of dark hair escaping from her surgical cap.

  “I do not want your money. You know this.”

  Belevich takes her latex-glove-covered hand in his. “You will have my eternal gratitude, and I promise I will show you next time that I am that good in bed.”

  Clearly, these two have a close relationship, because Marina yanks her hand from Belevich’s, rolls her eyes, and motions for Goliath to sit down on the metal table.

  “Now I must scrub in again before I can touch him. Hands off until we are done, Mitri.”

  Marina is all business as she hustles over to the sink and rips off her gloves. She scours her skin roughly with soap and steaming hot water.

  I say nothing as I find a place against the wall that allows me to see the door and everyone in the room. Ah, situational awareness, my old friend.

  When she has donned new gloves, Marina marches over to Goliath. “What happened to you?”

  “Didn’t move quick enough.” Goliath’s voice is strained from the pain.

  She reaches for the towel, but pauses, and looks at me and then Belevich. “Both of you, out. Send my assistant. She will know what to do. There are chairs in the break room. Stay out of sight.”

  I swallow and meet Goliath’s black gaze.

  He inclines his chin. “I’ll be fine, Mrs. Forge.”

  Just hearing him call me by my married name sends a stab of urgency through me. I have to find Jericho.

  “Okay. I won’t be far,” I tell him before following Belevich out of the room.

  In the hallway, he waves over a younger woman in rainbow scrubs. “Your boss needs you. Is there anyone else here?”

  She shakes her head at the Russian. “No. We are closed. Dr. Novotny and I were only staying late to look after one of the dogs who had surgery this afternoon.”

  “Good. Go help Marina.”

  As soon
as the girl disappears into the treatment room and closes the door behind her, Belevich eyes me.

  “You look like hell.”

  I glance down at the dress I’m wearing, now stained with even more blood. “I don’t care what I look like. We need to start calling in your favors.”

  He jerks his head toward the door that just closed. “That’s favor number one. Before I call in another, I need to know who the hell has balls big enough to kidnap Jericho Forge. You tell me, and then we can get started.”

  One name comes to my mind instantly. Bastien de Vere.

  But would he . . . ?

  “De Vere,” Belevich says before I can answer my own silent question.

  “But he wasn’t here. How could he have done it?”

  Belevich takes a few steps down the hallway and pushes open another door. He waves me over as he enters. I peek inside to see the employee break room Marina mentioned. Inside is a small card table, two chairs, a mini fridge, a microwave, and a coffee maker.

  Belevich helps himself to a bottle of water from the fridge and tosses me one too. “It’s not vodka, but it will do for right now.”

  He pulls out both chairs and motions for me to take the one opposite him as he sits.

  “Do you not think it is strange that de Vere did not come? He has made a habit of following you everywhere he can, has he not? Like Mallorca. He did not play, but he came to watch you. Make trouble for you.”

  My mind instantly dredges up the memory of what Jericho said about the chopper being tampered with, preventing my security detail and me from taking it home.

  “That night . . . in Mallorca, I thought he was up to something. It was like he didn’t want me to be able to leave.”

  “De Vere has always wanted you. No one can miss that. But he cannot have you as long as your husband is in the way.”

  “But—” I start to say something, then snap my lips shut.

  “What?” Belevich asks after he takes a swig of his water.

  My mind goes to that evening in Alanna’s apartment, and how Bastien’s employee’s little brother had stashed a suitcase there with my stuff and enough drugs to get me sentenced to years in prison.