Page 92 of Lock ’N’ Load

“Ah.” His brows rose. “Did you show the article to anyone?”

Matt. Technically, he was the only one she’d shown it to. No! Do not say his name.

“Who did you show it to?” Lukashin persisted.

“Nope, not gonna tell you.” She shook her head, which had begun to feel as if it weighed a hundred pounds.

“Who?” He leaned in so close she got a heavy whiff of peppermint-laden breath.

Think before you answer. Take your time.

“Handsome man,” she answered on a sigh. “Very handsome man. He’s totally hot.” She snickered. Yeah, go with that answer. It wasn’t a lie, after all.

“What is the handsome man’s name?”

She bit her lip to keep Matt’s name from dribbling through her lips. I got it! “Hot Guy. His name is Hot Guy.” She couldn’t stop from grinning like an idiot. “No, make that Totally Hot Guy.”

One of the thugs snorted, but to her delight, Lukashin straightened, his lips compressing into a thin line.

“What did you do with the hard drive?”

“I gave it to Max.” Shit. She hadn’t meant to say his name. I’m slipping.

The rezidentura grinned, reminding her of the devil. “You were under the protection of the FBI, so would that be Special Agent Max Fenway?”

“I guess the cat’s out of the bag now, eh?” Eh? Where had that come from? She wasn’t Canadian. And she suddenly felt inordinately tired.

“Unfortunately, my dear, it seems everyone knows about the article. The FBI. The CIA.”

“Good. Can I go to sleep now?”

He looked at Thug One and Two. “Take her to the cemetery.”

“The cemetery?” She frowned. “Why would I want to go to a cemetery? That’s where dead people go.”

“You are correct.” He picked up another syringe from the metal tray, and the smile he gave her this time was anything but grandfatherly.

Chapter Thirty

The beep had been getting louder by the mile, the red blip progressively brighter as Matt tracked it on the digital map.

Behind him glowed the steady, comforting headlights of the other six SUVs. His friends would always have his back. He only prayed they’d be in time. Fear and worry snaked through him that they’d be too late.

They’d long ago gotten off I-66 and been driving steadily north along a narrow, twisting two-lane road skirting the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. There wasn’t much around except wild game and a whole lotta Christmas trees—another thing that didn’t bode well. Whatever those Russian fuckers had planned, it was clear Trista being released wasn’t part of it.

Sheba whined, pawing at the partition separating her from the passenger compartment before sticking her head through the opening and snorting in his ear. Craning her neck toward the green T-shirt on the seat, she let out a mournful howl. Sheba knew Trista was in trouble.

The road got steeper as they headed farther and farther north into the mountains, and with each passing mile, he gripped the steering wheel tighter. She’d been gone for more than two hours, and his mind raced with horrific scenes of the pain and suffering she might be enduring. God, no. Not that. He couldn’t take it if she was in pain.

As he rounded the next bend, an elevation sign came into view, thirteen hundred feet. The next sign took him by surprise. Blue Ridge Psychiatric Center. He’d forgotten the place even existed. As far as he knew, it had been abandoned for decades.

But the buildings are still there. A silent, morbid reminder of the brutal and experimental electrical and psychoactive drug treatments administered to mentally ill patients back in the day. The place even had its own cemetery, filled with poor souls who hadn’t been cured.

If it wasn’t for the lousy road condition, he would have stomped on the pedal even harder. But the driving was treacherous enough as it was.

Light rain began to fall, forcing him to flip on the wipers. “Shit.” Rain would kill any scent residue, making it harder for the dogs to track. This time he did pound his foot on the accelerator, sending the Explorer perilously close to the edge of the unfenced road.

At the next bend, the road straightened, and another sign announced the entrance to the psychiatric center. He slammed on the brake and cut hard left onto a broken, rutted laneway. Just as the facility’s massive gates came into view, the receiver shrilled, indicating he was practically right on top of the tracking device.