Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,40

119 acres of winding paths through dense trees and stone monuments, large and crowded enough that it would be difficult for anyone to find us without specific directions.

Then, of course, there’s the omnipresent reminder of death. The unspoken threat that the Griffins had better cooperate, if they don’t want their youngest member to remain in the cemetery permanently.

Kolya will be the one collecting the ransom. He’s agreed to this because he doesn’t want the money out of his hands for a moment. It’s his payment, in return for joining his forces to mine.

I’ve agreed to it because I’m only too happy to shift the Griffins’ focus from my men to Kolya’s. If anyone gets shot, I want it to be a Russian.

I fall back to a separate vantage point, back among the trees. We’ve all got ear-pieces. I can see and hear the exchange from here.

I don’t give a shit that I’m walking over buried bodies in the dead of night. I don’t believe in heaven or hell, ghosts or spirits. The dead are no danger because they don’t exist anymore. I’m concerned only with the living. Only they can get in my way.

Still, I’m not such a philistine that I can’t recognize how beautiful this place is. Massive, ancient oaks. Stone monuments built by some of the finest sculptors in Chicago.

There’s one grave in particular that catches my eye, because its statue is entirely enclosed in glass, like Snow White’s coffin. I draw closer to it, wanting to make out the figure in the dark.

Inside the upright glass box sits a stone girl, life-sized. She’s wearing a dress, a sun hat dangling down her back by its strings. She’s barefoot, holding an umbrella.

The inscription reads:

Inez Clark

1873-1880

Killed by Lightning,

While Playing in the Rain

I wonder if the glass box is meant to protect her statue from further storms.

I understand the sentiment. Too bad it’s pointless. Once you’ve lost someone you love, there’s no protecting them anymore.

My lookouts keep watch at every corner of the cemetery. They inform me when Callum Griffin arrives at the main gate, and when the Gallo brothers drive up Kenmore Avenue a moment later, obviously intending to sneak over the back wall.

I signal to Jonas to call the burner phone. He’ll direct Callum to the lake at the northeast end of the cemetery.

“Bring the money,” Jonas orders. “You’d better fucking run. You’ve only got three minutes.”

Keeping the time tight is essential. I want this finished before the Gallos find their way inside. And I want Callum too hectic and winded to think clearly.

The lake is the most open part of the cemetery. The half-moon shines brightly down on the water, illuminating the sole figure of Kolya Kristoff. He’s smoking a cigarette, exhaling the smoke upward to the sky, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

He barely looks up as Callum Griffin and Jack Du Pont come jogging down the path, each carrying two very heavy duffle-bags in either hand. Even from where I’m standing under a willow tree, I can see the sweat running down their faces.

Callum nods to Jack. They drop the bags in front of Kolya’s feet with a heavy thud. Kolya’s white teeth flash again as he grins at the sound.

He nods to one of his men. The Russian kneels down, unzipping the bags and checking their contents.

“Clean bills, no trackers, I assume,” Kolya says.

“I’m not the fucking FBI,” Callum replies disdainfully.

I can hear them clearly through my earpiece, Kolya a little louder than Callum.

Kolya’s man rummages through the bags, holding up a standard-pressed gold bar for his boss’s approval.

“That’s not cash,” Kolya remarks, eyebrow raised.

“You only gave us twenty-four hours,” Callum says. “That’s what I had on hand. Besides, a million in bills weighs seventeen pounds. You expect us to carry in in two hundred and thirty-eight pounds?”

“Eh, you’re big boys, you can handle it,” Kolya sneers.

“It’s all there,” Callum barks impatiently. “Where’s my sister?”

“Right behind you,” Kolya says, in his drawling tone.

Callum turns, spotting the slim ballerina figure of the girl in the temple, bag still fixed over her head.

“There better not be one fucking scratch on her,” he threatens.

“She is in exactly the same condition as when I took her,” Kolya promises.

“When you took her?” Callum hisses, “Don’t you mean when Mikolaj did? Where is he, anyway? I didn’t take you for an errand boy, Kristoff.”

Kolya shrugs, taking one last long pull off his cigarette. He flicks the butt into the lake, sending ripples running outward from the