Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,87
he jerks his chin toward the exit.
Like me, he doesn’t think the guy is lying.
The next closest gas station is the one by the town. A white-haired cashier looks up from a newspaper as Pavel and I walk in, her rheumy gaze sharpening as she takes in our appearance.
I approach the counter and pull out Chloe’s photo. “Have you seen this girl? Or a blue Corolla circa late nineties?”
The old woman puts on a pair of glasses and carefully examines the photo before looking up at me. “You two cops or something?” she asks in a croaky voice.
I rein in my impatience with effort. “Or something. Have you seen her this morning or not?”
“Not this morning, no.” She squints up at me through her glasses. “Would you look at that pretty face… just like one of them magazines. And so nicely dressed, too. You her boyfriend, dearie?”
My hand tightens on the edge of the counter. “When did you see her?”
“Oh, about a week ago. She stopped by to get gas, asked about a job listing in the paper. I haven’t seen her since, and I told them that.”
Ice fills my chest. “Them?”
“Two fellas, about your height. Came by yesterday, late in the day. Showed me her picture and all. I told them I only saw her that one time, and I have no idea where she went—”
“What did they look like, exactly?” Pavel cuts in as I stand frozen, my mind racing a mile a second.
They’re here.
They know she was here.
Worse yet, they know she was looking at my job listing.
“The two fellas? Well, tall, like I said. One’s got dark hair, a little lighter than his”—she waves at me—“the other’s more like you. You know, salt and pepper, except kind of balding.”
Pavel’s jaw tightens. “Age? Race? Body build?”
“Caucasian. Thirties—forties for the older one, maybe. Kind of big and muscular.” She looks me up and down. “Not as pretty as him, that’s for sure.”
“Anything else?” Pavel demands. “Tattoos, scars? What were they wearing?”
“Jeans, I think. Or khakis? I don’t remember for sure. Black or gray shirts, maybe navy blue. Something dark. No scars, I don’t think. Oh, but”—she brightens—“the older one had a tattoo on the inside of his wrist. I saw the edge of it under his sleeve.”
“Did they ask about the job listing?” I ask, keeping my voice even despite the rage and fear pounding through me.
I have to know how bad the situation is, how close they are to finding her.
The woman nods. “Sure did. Wanted to know all about it, who and what and where. I told them I don’t know for sure, but it was probably that old Jamieson property up in the mountains, the one that was bought out by that rich Russian. Say”—she squints up at Pavel—“where’s that accent of yours from? You boys wouldn’t happen to be from—”
“Thank you,” I say tersely and pull out my phone to call Konstantin as we hurry back to the car.
As soon as my brother picks up, I rattle off the description we’ve gotten and demand an update on the search.
It’s infinitely more urgent that we find Chloe now, before the assassins do.
“Nothing yet,” Konstantin says. “In fact— Wait a minute. Let me call you back. I think we just got a hit.”
I was about to jump into the SUV, but now I pace in front of it, my adrenaline levels climbing with each passing second.
We may already be too late.
They know about my compound and Chloe’s interest in it.
Maybe they weren’t camped out by the gate when she drove out, but they couldn’t have been far.
Spinning around, I rap on the window next to Pavel. “Get a medical team over to the compound,” I tell him tersely. “We might need it.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I snatch it up. “Yeah?”
“No sightings, but we got a partially erased tape,” Konstantin reports. “Same digital signature as the others. Two hours wiped out—and it looks like it was done about a half hour ago. If I had to guess, I’d say they’ve caught her scent and don’t want anyone to know that.”
I’m already halfway inside the car. “Where’s the tape from?”
“A gas station some forty miles west of you. I’ll send you the coordinates.”
I hang up and order Kirilov to hit the gas.
50
Chloe
The road blurs in front of my eyes for the umpteenth time, and I jerkily wipe at the wetness on my cheeks. I don’t know why I can’t stop the tears from coming, why