Page 35 of Tamed Enemy
She’s staring at her computer with an intensity most people reserve for a total eclipse of the sun.
She taps one key. Waits. Taps another. Leans closer to the screen, as if she can peer between the molecules of glass. Finally, finally, finally she taps a third key. And when she sits back, finally seeing me, her smile is brighter than all the gold in Fort Knox.
“You’re home!” she says.
“You’re working.”
“It’s a new idea I’ve had.”
“Something you want to share?”
Her face softens into an expression I’ve never seen on her before. She’s bashful. “Not yet,” she says.
I’m more curious than ever about what she’s doing, but I nod acceptance. Before I can say anything else, though, my phone buzzes.
I take it out by reflex. I’m home from my meetings. I’m back on the clock.
The message shimmers on the screen like a dirty joke.
Nikolai Tarasov
Now you are home
RedBear
Tomorrow noon
Or else
Friday morning, I awake at five, no better rested than if I skipped my four hours of sleep. I forwarded yesterday’s texts to Best, who confirmed receipt but said nothing more of his investigation into which of his men has worked a deal with the devil.
I could spend the next seven hours trying to patch together a crypto scheme that will fool Nikolai Tarasov. But there never was a way for me to complete a month of work in a week. Whatever I create is doomed to fail.
So I spend an hour in the gym on the second floor, destroying a speed bag and leaving my knuckles red and aching.
I take a long shower, relishing the triple wall jets and the rainfall shower head.
I drag the comforter off Kate’s shoulders and whisper a command in her ear.
I accept her refusal, allowing her to take her own shower and retreat to whatever she’s building in her office.
I take Nilsson up on his offer of an omelet, instead of my usual protein smoothie.
I read every article I can find about Jean-Luc Fournier, about the Albany Empire, about the ins and outs of owning a minor league hockey team.
At 11:55, I take my phone out of my pocket and wait for a text.
At noon, there’s nothing.
12:15.
12.30.
At 12:32, the landline rings. I answer too quickly. “Wolf.”
“Is this Cole Wolf?” asks a stranger—a woman, not Tarasov.
“Yes.”
