Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) by M.K. Gilroy Page B
Authors: M.K. Gilroy
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to tell you. You already know what you must do. Wewill find a way to get you to Chicago. But realize you will never be safe until she is dead. That is rule number one in the bratva .”
Med nodded in agreement.
“Consider this a test. Do the deed. Then come home and we will see what else what we have for you.”
That’s when Med was finally escorted to his room. They hadn’t armed him—and the door to his room was locked from the outside. Not good signs, he knew, but he was alive and death would wait at least another day.
Another explosion and round of automatic gunfire sounded. He got off the floor and lumbered across the room and checked the handle. Locked, just like he knew it would be. Now what? Sporadic shouts, screams, and gunfire continued across the driveway.
I am not a lucky man, he thought with a sigh. I suppose I was lucky when I married Ilsa and we made it to America. But nothing ever changed. My entire life has been a battle to survive.
Med could barely breathe from fear. He cursed his bad luck again. But he had to admit his troubles tonight were his own doing. He had drunk two bottles of vodka. He had to pee. So he had trudged down the path into Central Park to relieve himself and missed picking the man up. Who knows, he might be with Pasha, carrying a Kalashnikov, right now.
The gunfire died down and picked back up.
You are alone in the woods. The wolves are before and behind you. What do you do now?
The answer was easy. A bear would stop running and climb a tree. He looked at the ceiling. In the corner was a small wood-framed square. Could it be? He moved a chair over, stood on it, and pushed. A miracle. It was unlocked. The attic door opened with a spring release. A small ladder was folded into the opening. He pulled the end of a rope and lowered it. He quickly ducked when an explosion boomed and a ball of flame lit up the night sky. Staying low, he looked aroundthe room. He opened the door of the small bathroom, grabbed the towel, he had used, and wiped everything down. He crawled over to the bed and straightened sheets, pillows, and bedspread. He moved the chair back in place and picked up his filthy, smelly clothes. He started up the ladder, tossed the clothes through the opening above him, and squeezed through the hatch. He reached down and pulled up the ladder, folding it one section at a time. He fumbled around until he found a small handle and clicked the door in place, something the last person up here hadn’t done. He breathed slowly. It was completely black in the attic.
He poked around with his foot and located a piece of plywood resting on ceiling joists. It wouldn’t be comfortable and his wet pants were itching him. But there was adequate heat so no problem. He was alive. He was Russian. That made him a survivor. He just might live to see another day. He would miss Ilsa, but there was nothing he could have done to save her.
What about the detective in Chicago? He had her name. She identified him. He would have to do something about her. The Pakhan said he would never be safe with her alive.
Herr Hiller drummed his fingers on his polished oak desk. He looked at the clock on his bookshelf. Four in the morning. Eleven o’clock at night in New York City.
He had arrived in Geneva on the last flight from JFK, landing at almost midnight. He knew he would not be able to sleep so he had his chauffeur bring him straight to his office on the Rue de la Servette to watch the completion of his services.
The name of the street described the man and his work. He was a servant. He had created a small fortune for himself and his family by handling certain types of transactions, where two or more parties didn’t want a transaction to be known—and didn’t trust each other. Heserved as the bridge of trust and circumspection. People were happy to pay his exorbitant fees.
It did not matter if the two parties failed to meet the conditions of the final transfer . . . his fee was paid up front
Med nodded in agreement.
“Consider this a test. Do the deed. Then come home and we will see what else what we have for you.”
That’s when Med was finally escorted to his room. They hadn’t armed him—and the door to his room was locked from the outside. Not good signs, he knew, but he was alive and death would wait at least another day.
Another explosion and round of automatic gunfire sounded. He got off the floor and lumbered across the room and checked the handle. Locked, just like he knew it would be. Now what? Sporadic shouts, screams, and gunfire continued across the driveway.
I am not a lucky man, he thought with a sigh. I suppose I was lucky when I married Ilsa and we made it to America. But nothing ever changed. My entire life has been a battle to survive.
Med could barely breathe from fear. He cursed his bad luck again. But he had to admit his troubles tonight were his own doing. He had drunk two bottles of vodka. He had to pee. So he had trudged down the path into Central Park to relieve himself and missed picking the man up. Who knows, he might be with Pasha, carrying a Kalashnikov, right now.
The gunfire died down and picked back up.
You are alone in the woods. The wolves are before and behind you. What do you do now?
The answer was easy. A bear would stop running and climb a tree. He looked at the ceiling. In the corner was a small wood-framed square. Could it be? He moved a chair over, stood on it, and pushed. A miracle. It was unlocked. The attic door opened with a spring release. A small ladder was folded into the opening. He pulled the end of a rope and lowered it. He quickly ducked when an explosion boomed and a ball of flame lit up the night sky. Staying low, he looked aroundthe room. He opened the door of the small bathroom, grabbed the towel, he had used, and wiped everything down. He crawled over to the bed and straightened sheets, pillows, and bedspread. He moved the chair back in place and picked up his filthy, smelly clothes. He started up the ladder, tossed the clothes through the opening above him, and squeezed through the hatch. He reached down and pulled up the ladder, folding it one section at a time. He fumbled around until he found a small handle and clicked the door in place, something the last person up here hadn’t done. He breathed slowly. It was completely black in the attic.
He poked around with his foot and located a piece of plywood resting on ceiling joists. It wouldn’t be comfortable and his wet pants were itching him. But there was adequate heat so no problem. He was alive. He was Russian. That made him a survivor. He just might live to see another day. He would miss Ilsa, but there was nothing he could have done to save her.
What about the detective in Chicago? He had her name. She identified him. He would have to do something about her. The Pakhan said he would never be safe with her alive.
Herr Hiller drummed his fingers on his polished oak desk. He looked at the clock on his bookshelf. Four in the morning. Eleven o’clock at night in New York City.
He had arrived in Geneva on the last flight from JFK, landing at almost midnight. He knew he would not be able to sleep so he had his chauffeur bring him straight to his office on the Rue de la Servette to watch the completion of his services.
The name of the street described the man and his work. He was a servant. He had created a small fortune for himself and his family by handling certain types of transactions, where two or more parties didn’t want a transaction to be known—and didn’t trust each other. Heserved as the bridge of trust and circumspection. People were happy to pay his exorbitant fees.
It did not matter if the two parties failed to meet the conditions of the final transfer . . . his fee was paid up front
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