Vendetta

Book 0: Rio Way Thriller

by Dreda Say Mitchell

Genres: Thrillers

Synopsis

'Breathless from the first word and thrilling to the last' Lee Child Two murders. Two different crime scenes. One killer? Mac wakes in a smashed-up hotel room with no recollection of what has happened. With his lover's corpse in the bathroom and the evidence suggesting that he killed her, Mac is on a mission to uncover the truth and find the real killer. But he's in a race against time with less than a day to unravel the mystery. Still reeling from a personal tragedy Mac isn't afraid of pain. Hot on his heels is tenacious Detective Inspector Rio Wray. Double-crossed and in the line of fire, Mac has to swim through a sea of lies to get to the truth. But only Mac knows he's been living a double life. Can he be sure he doesn't have the blood of a dead woman on his hands?

Release date: November 6, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 336

Sample

eighteen

Mac took five minutes to clean his face and hands in the Gents of the first McDonald’s he came across. He inspected his ankle, which didn’t hurt as much any more. It had a small purple bruise that would either fade away or start swelling. Either way he wasn’t going to let it slow him down. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror – what was the point when he knew he looked like he’d invented the word crap? But his mind did turn to who had followed him to Elena’s and tried to make him the guy on a non-November bonfire night. Maybe it was the two men in the Merc? Or Reuben? Or the Mr or Ms Nameless who’d been kipping on Elena’s sofa, snug as a bug, last night? Too many maybes: what he had to deal with was the evidence he had at the moment. So he moved to a cubicle, locked the door, lowered the toilet seat and sat. Took each item he’d found at Elena’s and laid them on the floor in front of him.

Post-it.

Charred photograph of two military men smiling.

Empty pregnancy testing box.

Small card with words Club Zee on it.

His gaze kept coming back to the Post-it. Fuck up = death. Fuck up = death. Yeah, that sounded like that madman Reuben. It must have been the Russian behind the fire at Elena’s, wanting all evidence about her involvement with him gone. As a naked cop, Mac wasn’t permitted to keep any kind of paperwork on him – too dangerous, it might compromise his position. But he kept a mental file of all the Intel he’d been given about the Russian before going into deep cover.

Name: Reuben Volk. Suspected alias. Birth name unknown.

Nationality: Russian. Region of birth unknown.

Age: Unknown.

Criminal activities: Arms dealer. Criminal activities outside the UK unknown. Russian authorities will not give access to any information about him.

Convictions: Unknown.

Family: Younger brother. Also criminal associate. Son.

Purpose of undercover op: No hard evidence but suspect that he’s about to initiate a gang war to become London’s foremost arms supplier.

Unknown, unknown, unknown. So much about the bastard was unknown, but what Mac needed now was a killer to take revenge on. Once he had his hands round his neck, he’d wring the truth out of him.

It had to be Reuben.

Reuben. Reuben. Reuben.

He couldn’t stop the manic repetition of the Russian’s name bouncing and bruising against the four walls of his mind. Without warning, the muscles in Mac’s chest tightened. His breathing squeezed, felt like it was almost going to shut down. He knew what was coming next, so he fought it. Hard. But he knew he’d lost the battle when the green walls of the cubicle appeared to move, closing in on him. The ceiling started to drop. Blackness hovered over him, to the side of him, in front of him. Mac gasped for more oxygen. Gasped . . . his mind nose-dived.

He was back in the bathroom. This time, his back against the wall. As if he was shackled, couldn’t move. Reuben stepped into the room, a picture of black in motion, from his gelled hair to the Luger in his hand. Mac called out his name, but the other man walked past him like he wasn’t even there. Reuben kept moving. And moving. Until he reached it. The bath with Elena inside it. Mac fought hard against the wall, but he couldn’t get free. Mac shouted out. Elena screamed. But there was no noise, just a horrible, cold expectation of death. Mac jerked and fought. Reuben smiled. Mac banged his fist against the unbreakable wall. Reuben raised the Luger. Mac’s hands were broken and bleeding. Reuben aligned the gun with the back of Elena’s head. Mac and Elena cried out at the same time. Finally sound came as the echo of a bullet shattered in the room . . .

Mac came to, shivering and sweating, slumped against a pipe on the wall. He didn’t know where he was. What was he doing in this small space? Why was he sitting down? His confused gaze flickered around. Tiles, door, kind of walls. Hard seat. Toilet seat. He closed his eyes as he remembered where he was. Placed his head in his hands. He couldn’t go through all this again, this mad ‘one minute he was there and the next he was not’. Just like what happened after Stevie was gone. It terrified him, this lack of control. His hand groped inside his pocket with desperation. Stilled when he found what he was after. Elena’s bracelet. He pulled it out and rubbed it flat against his chest. It was almost like he could feel her. Like she was there with him.

But she wasn’t here. She was dead.

Dead.

There was a cold calmness about the single word that finally helped him ease the air more freely into his body. He took steady breaths in and out. In and out. Mac pulled the bracelet away from his body and shoved it back into his pocket. Got back on with the job he’d vowed to do.

He looked back at the items on the floor. Gathered the pregnancy testing kit box, the photo and card and placed them inside his pocket as well. Which left only the Post-it note on the floor. He didn’t put it away, instead stared hard at it.

Fuck up = death.

Of course he had no proof. But men had gone to the gallows for less evidence than Mac had. Reuben was going to the gallows. Even if it wasn’t him, the killer might be at Reuben’s son’s party. He’d wipe out the entire gang if he had to . . . He’d made a promise to Elena to keep her safe. Now she was dead.

He snatched the Post-it off the floor. Shoved it into his pocket as he stood up. Checked his watch.

11:19.

Made eye contact with no one as he left the burger bar. Walked round the side of the building to the alleyway he’d noticed on the way in that contained three large dumpsters. He flipped back the lid of the first one he came to. Dropped his rucksack, containing Elena’s bag, into it. All he needed was safely tucked away in his pocket. He flicked the lid back down as he made his decision about his next move.

He knew he was about to take a big risk. If it worked he’d have a clearer idea of what the fuck was going on. And if it didn’t . . .

He’d either be behind bars.

Or dead.

eighty

11 p.m.

 

Liquid black surrounded him. Pulled him down. His mind flashed back.

The water.

Sea.

Stevie floating, his head submerged.

Mac dragging out his body.

Cuddling and crying as he held his son close to his heart . . .

Mac broke the surface. Gasping, he pulled in mammoth blasts of air. Where the fuck was he? Where was Stevie? He was cold, so cold. Then his mind clicked into place. Bolshoi. Mac tore into the water, but soon realised that swimming fully clothed, in the dark, in sub-zero temperatures, was no easy matter. Inside his head he chanted:

One. Roll. Two.

One. Roll. Two.

He kept his body going to this rhythm and was soon chopping his way through the water. He knew Bolshoi would swim to the other side. There was nowhere else for him to go. Gunshots echoed behind him again, but it was unclear if this was a deliberate attempt to kill him and Bolshoi, or merely the frustration of the police as their targets escaped.

It was so cold that Mac felt the water was stripping away his skin. But he kept going, from time to time seeing a head and arms in front of him, at other times nothing. But the murdering bastard was out here somewhere . . . Mac’s gaze froze. Was that a flicker of something going towards the footbridge? No . . . Yes, there it was again, bobbing in the water. He couldn’t be sure . . . He started power-swimming, arms chopping, legs going, the expression on his face filling with rage as it jerked from side to side. He got closer. Yeah, there he was in the black water all right. Bolshoi.

Without warning, a wave of weariness struck Mac. He tried to shrug it off, shake the dizziness smothering his eyes. His body still moved but it was like a weight dropped on top of it was pushing him down. He went under. Let out a soundless gasp as the water swallowed him up.

Come on. Come on. COME ON.

He fought the tiredness. Fought the water.

Come on. Come on. COME ON.

He made it to the surface in time to see Bolshoi reach the opposite side of the dock, slightly further down from the bridge. Mac pulled in a huge lungful of air and an immense feeling of power entered him. He went after Bolshoi like a man possessed. Bolshoi heaved himself up and out of the water. Off to his left.

The iron ladder out of the water was still wet from where Bolshoi had hauled himself out, but when Mac reached the top there was no sign of the Hamburg master criminal. But he couldn’t have gone far. Even for a man as strong as him, that swim would have been an effort. He wouldn’t have run in the direction of the police. Or along the dockside, where any fugitive would be exposed. It must have been straight ahead. Down a street that led away from the docks. Mac, soaking and freezing, began his pursuit.

But he didn’t have to go far. On a side road, he saw two men struggling. One was Bolshoi and the other a man whose phone he was attempting to steal. The phone owner was soon punched to the ground and Bolshoi hurriedly typed in a number on the mobile. Mac reached for his gun but then remembered it had been tossed away on the deck of the yacht. But he still had the flick knife from Club Zee in his soaking pocket. Charged.

Bolshoi swung round but was too late. The knife penetrated the jacket and jammed into the flesh of Bolshoi’s shoulder. But Mac was off balance and the strength in his arms had been drained like a battery. The Russian yelped slightly with pain and shock and pushed his attacker onto the ground, the knife skittering further down the road. Mac crawled over to the weapon. Reached it. Picked it up and stood up in one move. He lunged, but the older man was ready this time. Bolshoi grabbed his wrist, and that’s when Mac saw the tattoo on Bolshoi’s arm.

Red star, yellow border, with writing over and above it.

But Mac didn’t have time to dig into its significance as Bolshoi turned, and then hauled Mac onto his injured shoulder. He threw Mac like a wrestler to the ground.

Mac let out a tiny shrill of pain as he landed on his back. He tried to get up, but his body didn’t react. That same weight of weariness that had plunged him beneath the water was back again. But this time he couldn’t move. Just couldn’t do it.

He saw Bolshoi examine his shoulder wound and shrug as if it didn’t matter. Then he walked over to the flick knife.

Get up. Get up. For pity’s sake, get up.

But Mac’s body was a dead weight with nothing more to give.

Bolshoi picked up the knife. Turned his attention with deadly intent to Mac. He used his foot to roll Mac onto his back and then pressed his foot on his neck.

‘And we were getting on so well, you and I.’

Even talking was a strain now for Mac’s inert body, ‘Kill me now. Because if you don’t, I’ll chase you all over Europe until you’re dead. Who did you get to kill Elena? Reuben? Calum? . . .’

Bolshoi leaned his weight on his foot, digging into Mac’s windpipe. ‘I take it you’re talking about Calum Burns. I use his services from time to time, but not to kill people. That’s not his field . . .’ His voice came to a sudden halt. Started again, but this time the tone was much higher. ‘Kill who? Who did you say has been killed?’

Mac said nothing. Bolshoi raised his foot and stamped once against Mac’s chest. Mac hunched inwards with the startling pain.

‘Kill who?’

‘Elena. Elena’s dead.’

The other man turned his head. Even in the dim streetlight, Bolshoi’s face had taken on a strange expression, as if it was him who had been thrown and kicked. He turned back. ‘Where’s Katia?’

‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . .’

Finally energy poured back into Mac’s system. He reached for Bolshoi’s foot as a burst of sirens screamed in the background. Distracted, both men turned. Bolshoi jumped away from Mac.

‘Do you buy lottery tickets?’ he abruptly asked Mac.

‘Lottery tickets?’

‘You should – you’re a lucky guy.’

Bolshoi ran into the darkness. Mac tried to get up, but weariness pulled him back.

eighty-eight

Another ward, another room. Mac found an impatient Rio sitting in a wheelchair.

‘I might have guessed you’d turn up,’ Rio threw at him. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

He didn’t realise she was holding anything until she slung her mobile on the bed in disgust, the bandages on her lower arm pulling tight.

‘Tough,’ Mac answered. Moving towards her. ‘I need your help.’

She stared back at him, eyes blazing. ‘I’ve just spoken to Jamie Martin’s father so, whatever you want, I’m not in the mood.’ Her voice hit a dead, weary note at the end. She wheeled the chair away from Mac, presenting him with her back.

He didn’t need to see her face to witness what she was feeling. Loss, frustration, helpless grief. But he didn’t leave her alone, he couldn’t. She was the only one who might have the answers he needed about Katia. So he pulled up the spare chair in the room and plonked it in front of her. As soon as he sat down she tried to wheel away again, but he clamped his hands round the arms of the wheelchair.

He spoke evenly and quietly. ‘I know this isn’t the best time in the world but I need answers.’

Rio punched out a tiny, fun-free laugh. ‘That’s just what Mr Martin said – he wants answers. Why wasn’t his son being protected—?’

‘Look,’ he cut in sternly. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Danger, and yeah sometimes death, comes with the job. It’s not written in our job descriptions, but we all know it’s there, big and bold, right at the top of page one.’ He pulled his hands from the chair. ‘I know the last thing you want to do is go back over it in your head, but I’ve got to ask some questions about what went down in that house.’

She tilted her head to the side, her knowing brown eyes roaming over his face with the heat of a laser. ‘I thought Phil would’ve tucked you up for the night in your bedroom and locked the door.’

‘Phil?’ His gaze dug into her. She didn’t look away. ‘Are you and Delaney involved—’

‘In a Serious Crime Unit tango?’ she interrupted boldly. ‘Yeah. He’s a big boy and I’m a big girl.’

Mac raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s old enough—’

‘To know where to put it.’

Mac matched her eye-for-eye as he switched the conversation back on track. ‘The one thing I know about you, Rio, is you hate unsolved cases. And this case is still wide open. But it doesn’t have to be like that. Tell me what I need to know and maybe I can close the file on this one for you.’

Rio slammed her head straight. ‘Help me? After all the muck you’ve sprayed around town today, I should arrest you . . .’

‘You don’t still believe that I killed Elena?’

‘All I know is that every time I turned a corner in this case, there’s only one face that keeps staring back at me – yours.’

Mac leaned in closer to her. ‘You just said that Detective Martin’s dad wanted to know why his son was murdered? So what are you going to tell him: that you couldn’t be bothered to go that extra mile to find out?’

Rio half hitched herself out of the chair. ‘You’re bang out of order . . .’

‘No, what’s out of order is that two people we both swore to keep safe are dead.’

Rio wobbled on unsteady legs. Their stares fought with each other. Then she fell back, making the chair swing slightly to the side. Loud voices came from somewhere outside, but neither of them took any notice, only interested in what sat between them in the room.

Rio twisted her lips and then pulled in a few tight breaths. ‘It was Martin who found out that Elena Romanov had a kid sister.’

‘How did he find the information?’

‘A bit of digging at Europol, and he also had a contact – someone he was sweet on, at the Russian Embassy.’

Russian Embassy. Mac’s mind ticked away at that. Someone else had mentioned the embassy today. Who? His thoughts clicked into place – Reuben. At his son’s party, he’d said that the last time he’d seen Elena had been at some bash for Russian vets who’d served in the Afghan–Russian conflict. But what did that have to do with anything?

‘Did his friend tell him anything else?’

Rio shook her head. ‘Can you believe I didn’t even know he was gay? I’m meant to be looking out for him, and when did I really take the time to get to know him?’

Mac knew she was hurting bad, but he also needed whatever information she had right now.

Rio must have realised what he was thinking and said, ‘Her sister’s name is Katia. Martin tracked down her address through the gym she used.’ She gave him a funny look. ‘I suppose that was you playing cops and robbers, minus the cops, at that gym earlier today?’

Mac had the grace to blush.

But Rio let it pass as she continued, ‘When we arrived at the house there was a red Mini parked outside . . .’

‘The only car outside when I got there was yours . . .’

‘I’ve got a number plate, but don’t get your hopes up – it was fake through and through. The motor will be a burned-out wreck by now . . . But if you still need the plate number . . .’

Rio’s hand shook slightly as she fiddled in her pocket and pulled out her notebook and read out the digits and letters on the false number plate.

‘And when we got inside . . .’ Suddenly Rio squeezed her eyes tight and Mac knew she was back seeing the scene in her head. ‘There was nothing unusual about downstairs, but upstairs, in one of the rooms, there was a packed rucksack. And passports with false names. I think Katia must’ve been getting ready to leave the country. I also found a map of the St Katharine Docks area, and that’s how I knew where the action was going to be happening later on.’

The shouting from outside intensified.

‘And whoever attacked you had a tattoo, the same one as Elena.’

Rio nodded. ‘Yeah, the woman who attacked me—’

Mac sat bolt up straight. ‘Hold up. I thought it was a man. How do you know it was a woman?’

‘Believe me, a bloke wouldn’t be caught dead wearing the perfume I smelt just before I was whacked on the head. It must’ve been the sister.’

Mac swore low and harsh. Shit, he should’ve figured out much sooner that the only other logical person to have the tattoo would be Katia. For fuck’s sake, it was staring him in the face; it was a family thing – dad, his two daughters and bosom-buddy friend.

‘What did you find out about Elena’s family . . . ?’

But Mac never finished the sentence because the yelling and hysterically raised voices were now coming from outside the door.

‘What the heck . . . ?’ Rio said as she swivelled the chair to stare at the door.

Mac got up and opened it; what he found outside was a hospital running on chaos. Medical staff were shouting and waving their arms around. Mac caught the arm of a nurse who rushed by, pulling her back.

‘What’s going on?’

‘There’s an emergency situation down on the children’s ward.’

An alarmed Rio asked what the emergency was. But Mac didn’t wait for an answer. He merely whispered:

‘Milos.’

eighty-five

12:20 a.m.

 

Mac sat on the edge of the seat, the gun back on the table, still stunned by what Phil had revealed. His superior looked at him with something like sympathy.

‘I’m sorry, Mac, but we’re playing big boys’ games here and, with respect, you’re not a big boy. I might have found you a role in the final phase of the operation but you weren’t needed. Especially in view of your somewhat erratic behaviour over the past few days . . .’

‘I can still do my job.’

‘Not from Cambodia you can’t – that’s where you were going this morning, wasn’t it? Instead of which, you and your old friend Rio nearly messed up a highly sensitive operation.’

‘A dirty operation.’

‘It was all authorised.’

That was no surprise to Mac, he’d seen clearance from the Home Office on Phil’s files. But now he knew exactly what H.O. had been clearing. ‘So let me guess,’ Mac started, ‘your jet-setting, murdering comrade here did a deal with you to round up the London end of the operation so you could stop that gang war everyone’s been talking about. Am I getting warm? Although I can’t see what was in it for him, or why the fireworks started down on the docks.’

Bolshoi sat amused as he smoked his cigar. He gestured at Mac with the cigar and said to Phil. ‘He’s good, your employee. I like him.’

Phil didn’t get the joke. ‘Don’t worry about the managerial side of things. I’ve told you this is big boys’ games.’

The Russian seemed to be enjoying himself, and ignored Phil’s attempts to stop him explaining. ‘I needed the London end of my operation wound up, Mac. Normally I would have to pay top dollar to get it done professionally but, as Mr Delaney here offered to round them all up for nothing – well, that’s the kind of business I like.’ He sighed. ‘But in the end I had to kill most of them myself from the yacht. If you want a job done, you have to do it yourself, as usual. Your English police are no more efficient than in Germany or anywhere else.’

This was too much for Phil. ‘We would have rounded the whole gang up as arranged if the operation hadn’t been brought forward by Reuben Volk. Something that you, for some reason, forgot to advise us of.’

Bolshoi remained relaxed. ‘I sent you a message. It’s not my fault if your people don’t communicate with one another. If I had staff that incompetent, I’d shoot them.’

Mac interrupted their verbal ping-pong. ‘And what about him?’ He couldn’t bring himself to use Calum’s name. ‘Did the Home Office clear a deal with him as well?’

‘Stop it, Mac,’ Phil warned.

But now he was centre-stage, Mac was in no mood to give up the spotlight. ‘Let’s see, it would be money with our dirty ex-copper here, wouldn’t it? Tenners are his morals these days. Or did you agree to turn a blind eye to his law-breaking in return for his help? Yes, it would be that. No paper trail then.’ He stared at Calum with contempt. ‘And after all you’ve said about the police . . . and here you are working for them.’

Calum shoved his chin up, his green gaze defiant. ‘Perhaps, but I earned my side of the deal. I got tasered by Delaney after Reuben’s boy’s birthday party for my trouble.’

The three thieves were falling out. ‘That was an honest mistake. I thought you were Mac . . .’ But then Phil stopped, drew breath and raised his hands. ‘OK, that’s enough. I told you on the quayside to make yourself scarce, Mac, go home, say nothing and I’ll make sure there’s no comeback about your escapades today. If you don’t, you’ll be on your own . . .’

Mac said nothing. He wasn’t surprised that Phil had hired the services of Bolshoi and Calum in his effort to put Reuben’s gang out of business. Fuck, he didn’t want to admit it, but he knew it had been the right thing to do. Bolshoi and Calum would have carried on with their thing anyway, while now at least a violent gun outfit had been wound up and a war avoided. He’d done it himself often enough. Traded information for favours; defended the bad against the worse. There was no black and white in this world; it was all smoke and mirrors. It wouldn’t have surprised him to discover that everything he thought he knew so far was the exact opposite of the truth. Except for one thing. Elena was still dead. And he still didn’t know who’d killed her.

The hunt was still on.

‘Sure.’

‘Sure?’ Phil fixed him with a penetrating stare that only eased up when Mac’s expression remained the same. ‘Good. OK then. You head along.’

‘On one condition. One of you three jokers knows something about Elena’s murder. If you tell me what it is, I’ll be about my business.’

Calum shrugged his shoulders. Phil rolled his eyes in despair. Bolshoi remained impassive. Mac caught Bolshoi’s eye.

‘Oh please,’ the Russian said. ‘You don’t still think I had anything to do with Elena’s killing. You seem to have forgotten, your colleague Rio Wray was nearly killed this afternoon by an assailant at Katia’s home. Of course at the time I was on my yacht, as Mr Delaney here will be happy to confirm.’

‘He’s right,’ Phil quickly added. ‘Rio was attacked by a guy with a tattoo. Some Red Army thing. I spoke to her before they shipped her back to Mission Hill Hospital.’

Mac jumped in. ‘But Calum and I found texts on Elena’s phone from you saying you were going to kill her . . .’

‘I never sent her any texts,’ Bolshoi countered. ‘If I was trying to cover my tracks, it would be a stupid thing for me to leave incriminating messages on her phone.’

Mac knew he wasn’t making sense but he still had one more ace up his sleeve. ‘What I’m sure Mister Bolshoi hasn’t shared with you is that he has the same tattoo.’

Both Phil and Calum fixed their stunned gazes onto the Russian.

‘Come on,’ Bolshoi slammed in. ‘If I was the person at Katia’s house, would I have let you see the tattoo earlier?’

‘So who else has got one?’ Mac shouted.

‘Only three people I know of,’ Bolshoi offered. ‘Me, Elena and her father. They’re dead, I’m not, so whatever this Rio Wray saw, I’m sure it couldn’t have been that tattoo.’

‘Well, happily Rio is safely tucked back up in the hospital, where I’m sure she’ll soon be fully restored – her very dodgy memory included,’ Phil added.

But Mac wasn’t buying it. Rio was the best cop he knew, so no way would she get a detail like that wrong.

‘The only person left who might know is Elena’s sister, Katia—’ Mac urgently threw in.

But Phil had obviously had enough. ‘Mac,’ he interrupted sternly. ‘Piss. Off.’

Mac gave Bolshoi one last, see-you-in-hell look, then got up. Held his hand over his trouser pocket and left the room without a word. When he was outside, he walked slowly down the street. He had nothing. He knew about Katia but not nearly enough to find her. He’d already been to her home, but hadn’t had time to look over it properly. And now the police would have it under lockdown because of Detective Martin’s murder, so it was going to be too hard to get into. And he still didn’t know what, if any, connection she had to Elena’s murder. Behind him he heard a front door slam and hurried footsteps. He turned to find Bolshoi catching him up.

The two men stood next to each other for a few moments before Mac asked, ‘Shouldn’t you be inside with your two buddies getting a DVD and a Hawaiian pizza?’

‘I told Mr Delaney I was going outside for some air.’ Then he added in a whisper, ‘Have you got a plan?’

Mac wasn’t sure that he had but said, ‘You think I’m going to tell you? Think on . . .’

‘I’ve already explained that I never sent Elena any of these –’ Bolshoi waved the hand that held the cigar – ‘texts. That I was a close associate of her father’s in the army and promised him that I would look after her and her sister if he ever died. Did you know that he died right in front of me during an ambush in Afghanistan?’ He took a deep breath. ‘You were not the only person to love her. I loved her a lot longer than you did, Mr MacDonagh.’

The muscles in Mac’s jaw bunched and pumped.

The older man continued: ‘You need to start thinking with your head and not with your heart. You’re a police officer. You’re familiar with the art of framing someone? I’ve already told you, those texts were planted. I was framed. Someone wanted you to believe it was me. Surely you can see that?’

Perhaps he was right. The wiping of Elena’s phone, except for incriminating texts, had been odd all along and Mac knew it. Something didn’t add up, but he didn’t know what it was.

‘There is someone else with the tattoo,’ Bolshoi whispered.

‘Who?’

‘I can only reveal what I know if you let me help you find Katia—’

‘What makes you think my next move includes her?’ Mac shot out.

‘She’s the only link left. I need to make sure she’s safe.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she’s the link to the tattoo and . . .’ Bolshoi inhaled deeply ‘And I’m Kat. . .