Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Bebe couldn’t find one single homeowner with a Russian name, which probably would’ve been way too easy. Several of the houses are owned by corporations, though, so that had some potential. Except every photo she put in front of me, I had absolutely no recognition of it. Either I’d never met the person, or I just don’t remember, which plagues my conscience. If Dozer dies because I wasn’t observant enough, I’ll never forgive myself.
Kynan is outside the SUV, phone pressed to his ear as he paces. James is outside as well, leaning on the closed passenger door, beefy arms crossed. He’s worried, and there’s no way he can help. I have a feeling if they get a lock on Dozer, he’s going to storm the gates.
Hell, I’ll be right behind him.
Bebe pulls up another photo. “How about this one?”
I’m leaning in between the driver and passenger seats, my elbow on the console so I can watch as she works her magic to bring up the pictures.
It’s of an older man, snow-white hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He looks like a grandfather and not a mafia boss who might be harboring a fugitive, although I’ve never seen a mafia boss before outside of the movies.
Regardless, I don’t recognize him.
“Ugh,” I exclaim, rubbing at my temples. “This feels useless.”
“It’s not,” she assures me briskly. “Because the next photo you could recognize.”
Sighing, I nod. “Okay. Keep ’em coming.”
The driver’s door opens and Kynan slides in, shutting it behind him. I move backward off the console so we don’t knock heads. He looks like he has news, and then the back door opens and James lurches inside.
“What’s going on?” Bebe asks.
“Malik got a lead from an informant. Said the word is that Borovsky has been holed up at an ex-girlfriend’s house since making his way back to Miami, but otherwise, people in the family have been tight with the info.”
I look down the darkened street with pockets of light from lampposts. “He has an ex-girlfriend who would harbor a fugitive? And can afford a mansion?”
“Doesn’t jibe,” Kynan agrees with my skepticism, and then looks past me to Bebe. “Informant said she was ‘some Italian chick’—his words, not mine—Borovsky was seeing for a few months. Malik pressed him for more, but the only other thing he said is they didn’t end on a good note.”
“Not surprising,” I mutter. “Which means it’s unlikely she’d give him safe haven.”
Seemingly not paying attention, Bebe clacks away on her keyboard. “What if it’s not the girlfriend’s house, but her parents’? Searching Italian names.”
I hold my breath as I watch. Addresses scroll up her screen, which flickers back and forth between her encrypted search engine and the social media posts cross-referencing names from the neighborhood.
“Here,” she says, making one final tap and pulling up a photo of a couple in their late fifties to early sixties and a beautiful young woman between them, all smiling big for the camera. “Edoardo and Giana Greco. They have a twenty-seven-year-old daughter, Lucia. Edoardo is CEO of Dycol Holdings and their address is right in the zone where we believe the jammer to be.”
“That’s got to be where he is,” James says with excitement. “He’s probably got the parents and the ex-girlfriend in there held hostage. Unless they’re actually harboring him, but that doesn’t make sense.”
“More than likely hostages, or they’re dead,” Bebe replies in a glum tone. “But we’re not one hundred percent sure about anything. It’s not enough to send police in.”
“Then we go in ourselves,” Kynan says. “Bebe can easily open the electronic gate. We have heat-sensing radar and can tell if people are in the house and how many. I’ll walk up and knock, pretend to be a neighbor or something. See who comes to the door.”
“Yes,” Bebe exclaims. “Let’s do it. Now. Let’s go.”
Kynan turns the ignition and orders Bebe, “Rally the team at the gate. Tell them this is dark ops.”
“Dark ops?” I ask.
“No one knows we’re doing this because it wouldn’t be sanctioned by the police. We’re going in quietly and without their knowledge.”
“Oh,” I murmur and start to put on my seat belt.
“Get out,” Kynan says, twisting his neck to look at me and James in the back.
“Excuse me?” I say, eyebrows shooting straight up and my voice as sharp as glass. “There’s no way in hell I’m not going with you. I’ll stay in the car, fine, but I am not getting out.”
James reaches forward and puts a hand on Kynan’s shoulder. “She didn’t mean to say ‘excuse me.’ She meant to say ‘make me.’ Because if you want me out of this car, you’re going to have to use a bit more muscle.”
Kynan sighs, shakes James’s hand off, and puts the SUV in drive. “Fine. But you both have to stay in the car. If you want me to put all my focus on helping Dozer, I cannot be distracted by you. Understand?”