Kira could help, or she could hinder.
Reuben had admitted earlier that Benny was supposed to set Kira up to take at least part of the blame for whatever it was they were planning. For Reuben, that would’ve been the ultimate win. He’d even framed Aleksandr for making that call. Perhaps because he knew how volatile Benny could be, and he wanted cover if the man went off-script.
Aleksandr’s supposed mistake would put Reuben in a position above Laskin when it came time to choose presidents. Laskin’s son was a liability.
“I came here to find her, Mr. Kulik. She left Laskin’s estate with Reuben.”
The little dictator’s eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t know how or when she left because she was avoiding him. He wasted no time and was caught fooling around with a maid.”
“Mr. Kulik, I’m concerned about Kira. There was blood on the floor and a shattered work of art in the room that has her…mother’s portrait.”
Luka turned to his son. “You didn’t mention blood.”
“How am I to know what happens in Grigory’s household? It was probably Aleksandr and another of his tantrums. Kira was fine when she told me to take the helicopter back.” He smirked at Rand. “She decided to stay so she could have it out with this gold digger after seeing the video with the maid.”
Rand was boxed in neatly. The video was real. A copy could even be provided to Kulik to back this version of events. It was reasonable that Kira, after agreeing to see her father, might watch it and then choose to stay and tell her lover off.
Rand pulled out his card and handed it to Luka. “I’m looking for Kira. I care about her and I’m worried. Call me if you hear from her or find out where she is. She’s desperate to see her mother’s paintings. She wouldn’t miss that for anything. Not even to tell me off.”
Kira should probably resume searching. Do something to fight the fear that came with being trapped in a pitch-black crypt.
She had no sense of time, and the stench of death didn’t exactly offer hope.
Rand must be going feral at this point. He’d said more than once that he blamed himself for last December. She had little doubt he’d blame himself again today, even though she was the one who’d goaded Reuben into snapping, hoping he’d reveal something.
And he had.
He’d confirmed the attack was tomorrow. Even explained that Benny was supposed to quietly snatch her. It would have worked if he had. No one would have known she was missing. Everyone would have assumed she’d caught her early flight to Malta.
She hoped that was enough to give the team at NSWC what they needed. It would be bad if she’d done this for nothing, but worse if she’d revealed too much to Reuben, making it harder to stop whatever he and Grigory were plotting.
It didn’t matter if her eyes were open or closed, so she closed them and imagined the spider drone making a trek across the rocky ground in an attempt to make a cellular connection and ping her location. First, the spider had to find the exit for the caverns or crypt or whatever she was in. It only needed a tiny crack to slip through, like that narrow gap under the door. But it could take hours just to find a chink to the outside world, then hours more to reach a cellular signal.
The drone was different from the ones Diana used in Kira’s rescue last December. Those had been larger, had cameras, and were meant to be used in areas where cellular was expected. These drones were only for use as a tracking beacon, but one that could leave the person being tracked to seek a signal. It recorded the distance and direction traveled, so even if it had to traverse several miles, it would transmit Kira’s last known location. It had a tiny solar charger and was programmed to seek sunlight.
Kira could die of dehydration before the tiny spider pinged FMV, but it was her best hope for being found. When her thirst got bad, she’d explore again, seeking moisture. There were those stairs leading downward. Who knows what she’d find below?
With her eyes closed, she began to drift. Sleep would kill time, but it remained elusive. So she thought of Rand and the look on his face when she’d touched his bare chest for the first time. When she moved in for their first kiss.
He was so utterly beautiful. Smart and strong. He’d made it clear he wanted her, but he’d waited for her to make those first important moves.
He’d told her he loved her and hadn’t balked when she didn’t say the words back.
Yesterday, she didn’t trust her emotions. Not after her world had been upended. But deep down, she figured she’d been head over heels for him since she came to her senses in a hospital in December and was told he was the one who’d saved her.
Just like she’d asked him to.
He would save her again. She knew it. He’d traveled five thousand miles to be by her side because he’d believed she was in danger.
He had to save her one more time because she needed to tell him she loved him too.
Chapter Fifty-Five
It was midnight when they gathered again in the conference room. Chris took his usual seat at the table, Teague next to him.
It was 0600 in Malta, and Chris could guess how Rand was feeling about now, as they waited for a ping from an experimental drone that might never come. He wished he could be one of the SEALs who had Rand’s back in Malta, but what he was doing here was important too.
Laskin was coming after him again.
Fucking Laskin.
The meeting began with Commander Gleeson reiterating what they knew about the five men they were searching for. Where they lived. Where they worked. What key areas they were likely to target.
Things didn’t get interesting until an analyst shared that they’d been able to download data from an unknown phone synced with Laskin’s Wi-Fi.
Thank you, Rand.
Two weeks ago, a text message was sent to a phone in Virginia—probably one of Ben Kinder’s phones they hadn’t yet found. The message included a link to an Instagram post promoting a local event, the Fourth of July Firework Extravaganza on the Bay, which was paid for by a local community organization that collected donations throughout the year. A follow-up text said a Maltese firework company had received a grant and would be putting on a special show for the Virginia Beach community.
In the last twenty-four hours, Chris had learned a lot about Malta, including that the country was famous for its fireworks and held an International Fireworks Festival every April that was unparalleled. And now an anonymous donor—suspected to be a local billionaire who wanted to reform his image as he awaited trial—had footed the bill to bring in some of the greatest fireworks professionals in the world to Virginia Beach.
Chris knew who the implied donor was, and that man would never spend money on something destined to be fruitless.
No, the donor had to be Laskin, who expected a lot of boom for his bucks.
