Misha’s fingers tightened on the phone until the casing creaked ominously. “He spotted you.”

Riley had met Kolya only once or twice, but he was good at remembering people. Shitty when it came to names, but faces? Recognizing Misha’s left-hand man from just a glance in a crowd after having seen him a couple of times in passing was apparently no challenge. Misha hadn’t realized Riley was that observant. He should have. After all, he’d made it his personal mission to study the man, figure him out, discover all his little quirks and habits.

“So where is he now?”

“Gone.”

If Misha hadn’t known Kolya so well, he would’ve started yelling then. As it was, he took a deep breath and held it until he was calm enough to talk at a reasonable volume. Kolya was good at what he did, but debriefing him was like pulling teeth.

“Gone where?”

“West,” Kolya said, as though that had been obvious.

Misha gritted his teeth. “You sure?”

“I saw him take the ramp to the I-10, but I lost him in traffic—

everybody and their babushka’s{5} driving a pickup here. Could be he’s going somewhere else, but I’m thinking he’s running west. Boy’s a desert rat.”

He had a point there. Misha smiled, throwing out his challenge, “Can you find him again?”

Kolya hocked and spit in reply, which transmitted just fine through the phone. “I’ll keep you posted,” he grunted when he was sure his displeasure at the implied insult had been received and understood.

“Do that,” Misha told him, and snapped the phone shut only to almost drop it in surprise when it started to vibrate in his hand. He glanced at the caller display and groaned. Fucking wonderful; as though he didn’t have enough problems already.

He flicked the phone open again reluctantly as he wandered back toward the office, knowing he was going to want to sit down for this

conversation. Much as he loved his family, they tended to drive up his blood pressure.

“Papa,” he said in greeting, trying not to let the man hear how desperately he did not want to speak with him. Vasiliy Tokarev was a contrary old bastard. If he realized his son didn’t want to talk, he’d take great pains to draw out the conversation for as long as he possibly could.

Misha must’ve succeeded in masking his lack of enthusiasm, though, because his father seemed cheerful enough when he replied with a hearty,

“Misha! How are you, son?”

“Good,” Misha lied, and plopped down on the desk chair. He had a feeling this was going to be a lengthy talk no matter what. “How are you?

How’s the family?”

“Fine, fine,” Vasiliy said, and Misha didn’t like how that sounded, because he knew his father and he could tell something was up from the way he was trying to be so goddamn casual. “Your sister, she finished checking the books,” Vasiliy told him, still too damn genial for Misha’s peace of mind. His heavy Russian accent was lulling in its familiarity; it conjured the ghost of bloodstained fairy tales riding through the dark on vodka-scented breath. “She’s good, she really is. Surprises me every time, our little Mari. She is smart, for a woman. Very, very smart.”