Kevin Finnegan—a fine and respected actor in the community, as well as part-time pub-keeper—had once told Craig that if the law-enforcement thing hadn’t worked out for him, he might have joined the ranks of entertainers.
Craig wasn’t so sure about that, but he’d never been against going undercover and in disguise. In fact, when he’d first met Kieran, he’d had a good dose of her infamous Irish temper when he’d worked in disguise.
Thankfully, his disguise had been instrumental in breaking the case.
A disguise for a soup kitchen wasn’t difficult. He was exceptionally good with whiskers, mustaches, beards and spirit gum. He could look like the dregs of the earth—or just like someone who had fallen on really hard times. The kind of person who would try to get a toothbrush and a bar of soap over a bottle of whiskey.
Or not.
Mike was joining the other workers on the soup line—just doling out food and chatting, much like any other volunteer.
Not that he would have been needed that day.
Sister Teresa had been really loved and respected. Craig wished he had known her.
The news was out that she had died, and everyone seemed to have a story about her. Every shared remembrance was about a good woman. Not one who was continually soft-spoken and gentle, but the kind of mentor who would lay it out flat—call it as she saw it—and create change with the sheer force of her will.
She had lived many years—a full life.
Still, was it possible that she had been murdered?
“Sir, there’s water over here, and coffee is that line, there.”
An older fellow in the food line pointed out directions for Craig. “Are you all right?” the man asked.
“Just thinking about Sister Teresa,” Craig said softly.
The man made the sign of the cross over his chest. “Amen. Those in need flocked to her, son. She’ll be dearly missed. Every now and then, I see someone come in here with a look on their face like they’ve just been hit in the head—they didn’t know until they got here that she’s gone. Like the girl there...or those two that just came in.”
Craig turned casually. He was careful not to twitch or move a wrong muscle.
The one was tiny and blonde.
The other was taller with flaming red hair.
It was, of course, possible that neither woman was one of Kieran’s new friends. But, as they walked in and searched out those working the soup line, they seemed to be full of confusion and dismay. He saw someone come to talk to them—a man with ill-kept facial hair and worn, dirty clothing. The two women listened to him; Craig saw tears spring to their eyes.
Then they looked at the serving line—and they seemed to be afraid.
The redhead gave the man with whom she’d been speaking a big hug, and then she linked arms with the tiny blonde.
They turned and went back out the way they’d come in.
Craig set down his bowl and stepped out of the line, hurrying after the young women.
* * *
Kieran truly worked for the nicest people in the world. They were, in fact, so nice, that she almost felt she worked with magnanimous puppets that might have been created at a Jim Henson fabrication facility.
Dr. Fuller was good-looking, had a beautiful wife, played tennis, attended PTA meetings—and worked with hardened criminals.
Dr. Miro was a small woman, single, energetic as a flash of lightning, and enthusiastic about learning history and gleaning any knowledge that came her way. She, too, worked with hardened criminals, sometimes the worst of the worst: serial killers, psychopaths, ruthless and remorseless.
But as bosses, they were just great to work for.
“Listen, you know that in a time like this you are certainly allowed to take whatever time you feel you need to take,” Dr. Miro told her firmly.
“A baby! Thrust into your arms!” Dr. Fuller exclaimed.
“And a woman, stabbed in the back right on the street in front of you!” Dr. Miro added.
“We’ve been watching the news, of course,” Dr. Fuller said. “Since your beau is working on the case, you’re surely up to your neck in it all, as well.”
Kieran bit her lip to hide a smile. She hadn’t heard a boyfriend or significant other referred to as a beau in a very long time.
“I know—you two are wonderful. I so appreciate it. But I had one important appointment on my calendar—Besa Goga. Her court date is coming up and I need to speak with her again. She’s had a tough life, and I still don’t believe she’s really grasped the fact that she can’t bite people—that she will wind up in the court system again and again,” Kieran said.
Dr. Fuller looked at his watch. “She’s due now?”
“Any minute,” Kieran told him.
“Okay, well, you know that we’re here for you,” Dr. Miro said.
“Thank you. I’ll finish here with Besa today, and then meet up with Craig,” Kieran assured them.
They left her; a moment later, Besa was at her door.
Besa Goga had once been a victim, similar to the women they were seeking. She’d been a teenager when she arrived in New York City on a ship, Eastern European by birth—according to her, she wasn’t even sure which country she was from, it had all been part of the USSR when she had left, and the language that she spoke was Russian.
Her parents had been political activists and had been “disappeared” by the regime. Her aunt, whom she’d never seen or heard from again, had put her on the ship bound for America, in order to protect her.
She’d been semi-adopted by one of the workers on the ship. She’d been vulnerable. He, in turn, had put her to work.
By her sixteenth birthday, she’d been pimped out to hundreds of men. She’d learned to deceive and steal—and she’d gotten hooked on the drugs she’d been dealing.
Caught stealing, she’d been brought into family court, and there, a kindly judge had seen to it that she’d received a second chance.
She used it, getting a job cleaning bathrooms in office buildings and putting herself through school at the same time. She’d become a dental assistant, applied for and been granted American citizenship, and married another immigrant, Jose Sanchez, from Madrid.
The two didn’t have children.
They did have a nice home in Queens.
Two cats in the yard... Kieran thought, the sound of the song in her head.
But Besa had a temper. She had gotten in trouble once for beating the man from the water company over the head with a loaf of bread.
This time, she’d bitten the cable man because he’d told her that the problem with the cable was her fault—she’d spilled something in the cable box.
Despite the fact that her sessions with Kieran had been court ordered, she’d been extremely forthcoming and honest.
Apparently, the cable man had deserved biting. He’d accused her of stupidity.
Besa now had iron-gray hair that she wore in a severe bun at the nape of her neck. She had gray eyes, too, and a face with broad handsome cheekbones and a generous mouth. She was fit—not skinny, but wiry—and she loved jogging, she had once told Kieran. Jogging used up all the “angry” that she was feeling; it made her happy.
Kieran told her that was very good.
“So!” Besa said. “I am good, yes?”
Kieran laughed softly. “Please, Besa, have a seat. Let’s chat for a few minutes.”
“We’ve chatted. I like you. I like chatting with you. But life must go on. I am a busy woman.”
“Yes, I know. Work and jogging. Here’s the thing—I have to file a report. You know that. And I have to be convinced that you understand that you can’t bite anyone because you’re mad at the cable company.”
Besa took a seat across from Kieran’s desk and smiled at her. “I do understand that. Perfectly. I will wind up arrested. I could do time for that—in prison,” she said, her eyes widening. “So I will not bite anyone. I promise that I will not bite anyone.”
“The next time you think that a cable man is being nasty to you...?”
“I will not bite him!” Besa swore. “I will scratch the blood out of him instead!” she announced.
“Besa—”
“Kidding! Just kidding. There, you see, that’s the point. I understand now. I have to control my temper. We have worked on this anger management. Breathe! I will breathe. I will walk away. I will not resort to violence of any kind.”
Kieran was supposed to be good at reading people.
She wasn’t sure she believed Besa.
She leaned forward. “You’re joking, yes, of course. Very funny. Except, Besa, it isn’t funny. Because if you do such a thing again, you might wind up in a mental ward or doing some time. Please, do you understand?”
Besa nodded. “Oh, Kieran. Yes, honestly. I knew it then. He just made me so mad. And he was swinging his arm around and around—and I just bit it. I know... I do know that I mustn’t do those things. I just...well, you know... I do have problems. I dream that I can go back and...and hurt the people who hurt me.”
“I know that your past was horrible, Besa. But you can’t become horrible because of that. You broke out of the horror—so many people wind up dead, Besa.”
“Like the woman on the street.”
Of course, everyone in the city had heard about the murder.
“We don’t know much about that yet, Besa. But...yes, it seems she was probably an immigrant, and maybe she was about to blow the whistle on someone abusing others.”
“Terrible, terrible,” Besa said. “And I heard there was a baby, too. What about that baby?”
“The baby is with Child Services. It’s being looked after.”
“The woman—did she suffer?”
“Yes, of course. But, she died. In that, I suppose, death does end all suffering. Besa, we have to work on you. You’ve made incredible strides—you’ve worked hard. You were helped by the system. You put yourself through school. You married a good man.”
“Jose is a good man. A very good man,” Besa said.
“So there you go. Keep it all good. Don’t throw away your hard work.”
“I will not bite anyone again,” she said.
“Good.”
“Should I shoot them?”
Kieran glared at her, and Besa started to laugh again. “Oh, I am so sorry. You should see your face. I am joking. I am just joking. I know. I swear I know. I cannot bite people. I will not bite people. I will not scratch or shoot them, either.”
“Right. That’s what I need to hear. What I need to believe.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“You’re doing a lot of joking.”
“I’m sorry. Really sorry. It’s just that... I work just part-time now, you know, yes? Jose and I...we have free time! We shop, we sit in the yard. It’s not a big yard, but it is a yard. It is good. I will not bite the cable man again.”
“What does Jose say?” Kieran asked.
Besa smiled. “He is a grateful man. He married a passionate woman.”
“Yes, passionate,” Kieran agreed. “Watch that passion.”
“I will try to direct it in a better way. Jose is an even happier man when I direct my passion toward him, yes, you think, right?”
“I’m sure,” Kieran murmured. She realized that her cell phone was sitting on the desk by her computer.
She was staring at it.
She was waiting for Craig to call her. She wasn’t giving Besa the attention she should have been giving her. While her heart bled for the woman—considering all that she had suffered—she was never sure about her.
“You do understand the way the system works. What you did is considered violent, and it was an assault. And every time you wind up back in a courtroom, your record pops up. You have some strikes against you.”
“Yes, yes. If I do bite the cable man again, don’t get caught,” Besa said.
Kieran looked at her.
“Joking, joking!” Besa said.
“I hope so,” Kieran said seriously. Kieran did believe that Besa probably would bite the cable man again—and do it happily—if she wasn’t afraid that she’d get caught and pay a price.
“You have no sense of humor,” Besa told her. She wrinkled her nose. “So much for you being Irish. I am not seeing the smile and the charm.”
“I’m not feeling them at this moment, Besa. And my background is Irish. I’m American.”
Besa sighed. “Please, please, smile. I will not bite again.”
“Just as long as you really understand your actions—and the consequences,” Kieran said.
Besa nodded very seriously. “I do! I do!” she promised. She leaned forward, looking intently at Kieran.
“I get to read your report?”
“Yes. You get to read my report.”
“After the next session? And then the judge decides if I’m...cured. Or, okay, or...”
“He’ll make a final decision on sentencing. You assaulted a man, but thankfully, he will heal and no irreparable harm was done. I’m sure he’ll give you a few months’ probation.”
Soon after, Besa left.
Writing up the report was not easy. Kieran didn’t wish any ill on the woman. Still, she couldn’t lie. She had to recommend further counseling if Besa was going to stay out of trouble.
Kieran wasn’t focusing on her paperwork. All she wanted to do was leave, and find out if Craig was able to find Riley and Tanya.
Concentrate! she commanded herself.
But she couldn’t. She figured she had done a good enough chunk of work and would wrap up later. And so she was out the door, headed back downtown.
* * *
Manhattan has been compared to a concrete jungle, and not without good cause.
Buildings—skyscrapers, giant buildings, modern man’s homage to the gods of the clouds—covered so much space that it was impossible sometimes to find a single patch of green.
Downtown Manhattan had the rare distinction of being the oldest general area, and therefore, the few remaining buildings that dated back to the early settlement of the island were interspersed with those that had been built throughout the ensuing centuries and decades into the days when a hundred floors in a building was barely impressive.
There were scattered patches of park and oddly shaped alleys here and there, some leading to dead ends, some cutting through to other avenues or streets.
Craig went after the women; they moved quickly down the street, nervously looking around as they did so. Craig weaved in and out of the crowd, keeping his distance so they wouldn’t recognize that he was tailing them. They slid past a 1920s office block that offered a sliver of an alley between buildings. They moved past it, and then quickly doubled back into the alley.
Just as they did so, a man hurried past Craig. He was wearing a black sweatshirt with a hood. His hands were shoved into his pockets and his head was ducked low. The way he walked, there was little way that anyone could see his face.
By the determined direction of his stride, Craig was certain the man was following Riley and Tanya.
Craig quickened his pace, falling into step behind the hooded man, though hanging back a bit.
The man hurried toward the alley and slipped into it.
Craig ran once he had moved out of sight, following him into the narrow space. Coming along the thin path between the two buildings, he heard a muffled scream, and then another. Craig drew his gun from the holster hidden under his coat.
Craig burst into a small open space filled with scraggly weeds trying to take hold in rocky ground. The tiny blonde woman—Tanya—had been shoved to the ground, and the woman with the flaming red hair was in the arms of the man in the hoodie—and he was wielding a knife. He had Riley crushed to him by the waist and the knife held high overhead—ready to be plunged into her chest.
He was young, dark-haired, and lean with a wiry build. He looked at Craig with menacing brown eyes that seemed to hint of drugs or, at the least, a burnt-out life.
“FBI! Drop it. I will shoot,” Craig told him, raising his Glock.
Riley, caught in the man’s deadly grip, let out a terrified gasp.
Tanya, on the ground, sobbed.
The man brought the knife to Riley’s throat. He wasn’t going to stop. Die or not himself, he wasn’t going to let Riley live.
It wasn’t an easy shot.
Riley was whimpering and gasping and trying to escape.
But this man would kill her.
“Last warning! Drop the knife!” Craig shouted. He adjusted his aim.
The man’s arm started to move.
Craig fired. A good, clean shot. He took him right in the middle of the forehead.
The knife dropped. The man in the hoodie released his hold on Riley. He fell to the ground, and Riley stumbled forward before slumping to her knees in a fit of tears. Tanya rushed over to her, sinking to Riley’s side to hold her. She lifted an arm toward Craig, tears streaming down her face, gasping out something in broken Russian.
Craig started walking toward the two women. He felt something whizz by his head and then explode against the wall.
“There!” Riley screamed, jumping to her feet.
“No, down!” Craig warned.
He raced to her position, throwing himself down on the two women, and then rolled with his Glock in position.
The shots had come from the street; whoever had fired them had already moved on.
Craig lifted to an elbow to rise and turned to look into the dark, dead eyes of the knife wielder he had shot.
He could hear sirens on the street; people had heard. The incident had been called in. NYPD would be flooding the area soon.
He pushed himself up.
Riley and Tanya were doing the same.
They were terrified; they were going to bolt and run again.
He leapt up, capturing Riley in a gentle but firm hold.
“No!” he said firmly. “No. The police are coming now. We will protect you. Out there—the shooter will find you. You will die. Stay here!”
She went limp in his arms. Tanya just stood there, shaking and quivering like a frightened terrier. He pulled out his phone. The police were coming, but he needed Mike and Egan.
He didn’t get to dial. A call from Kieran was coming in. He answered.
“Can’t talk now,” he told her. “Meet me at the FBI offices. I’ve just met a couple of your friends.”
* * *
Craig had shot and killed a man. That meant handing over his weapon and going through the proper steps needed to justify a “good” kill.
Kieran knew that Craig hated being forced to kill anyone—even when he was certain that the person was guilty of truly heinous crimes. However, he wouldn’t hesitate if an innocent victim was in immediate danger from that person.
He wouldn’t beat himself up; he’d done what he’d had to do.
But it would bother him.
She knew that now he would have to complete all the paperwork necessary and undergo the questioning that went along with it, as well. And that was all right. Law enforcement should be questioned under such circumstances, or else no one would be safe. But it meant that Craig wasn’t there when Kieran arrived at the FBI offices—at least not where she was led.
Director Egan had brought Kieran to a conference room at the downtown NYC offices of the FBI, along with Mike Dalton and the two terrified women, Riley McDonnough and Tanya Petrofskya.
Egan was a bright man—he’d never pushed away a cop or an agent of any kind or a civilian when they might help with a situation.
Kieran realized that she really did admire Richard Egan—she was also aware that he was the kind of leader that others aspired to be.
She was glad he was Craig’s boss.
When she first arrived, both Riley and Tanya greeted her as if she was a long-lost relative, throwing themselves at her, sweeping her into teary hugs, and speaking quickly with gratitude. The words were in Russian and English but, in Riley’s case, with a brogue so heavy that Kieran couldn’t catch everything said.
She tried to assure the two women.
She saw the bandage on Riley’s neck that covered the red line where the dead man had nearly brought her down with him.
As to him, he was dead, shot in the center of his forehead. His body had gone to the morgue. The two women had recognized him; he’d been known as Paco. He worked with—or for—the man who called himself the King. They were all aware that within the King’s realm, absolute obedience was expected at all times. There was no lesser punishment; those who stepped out of line received a death sentence—so Paco would have known his fate, either way.
“We’re working on the identity of Paco right now,” Egan told Kieran. She nodded.
Riley was going on and on.
All kinds of people—many that they might not recognize—worked for the King. Many were immigrants. Some were not. There was also a Queen. She was scarier than the King. Riley had actually seen the Queen. Tanya had not.
Listening, Kieran thought that the enterprise worked in many ways. The King—and his Queen, and upper echelon, she imagined—collected people. Immigrants from everywhere, most of them terrified that they would be sent back and perhaps face some worse kind of retribution.
“That man, Paco, had to know that Craig would be forced to shoot him when he threatened Riley with a knife,” Kieran said.
“And there’s only one thing that would cause a man to behave that way. Assuming he wasn’t suicidal and wanted to commit suicide by cop,” Egan said. “And that would be a fear of something worse than death. I believe that has to mean that these people are able to threaten the children or families of these people. Or that they promise a death far worse than a bullet to the brain if anyone gives them up.”
“I just know that people wind up dead,” Riley said. “Those who try to escape.” She glanced over at Tanya, fear in her eyes again. “They wind up dead!” she whispered.
Egan reached over and put his hand on hers. “Miss McDonnough, I promise you, we will keep you safe. Yes, this criminal element is organized and serious. But, so are we—we’re even better, because we have all kinds of resources and excellent people on hand. You two will be granted citizenship, and then you’ll enter into our US Marshals witness protection program. You’re going to be safe—and with your help, we will crack this ring.”
“Is it possible?” Riley murmured, tears in her eyes.
Tanya said something; Kieran turned with surprise when her words received a response from a masculine voice speaking in Russian.
“Ah, Special Agent Wolff. Welcome, and thank you!” Richard Egan said.
Wolff was probably about thirty. Like most of the young men and women Kieran had met in the FBI offices, he appeared—even fully clad in his navy blue suit—to be exceptionally fit. There was, however, something a bit different about him. His dark hair was long and shaggy. He had facial hair. She had to wonder if he worked undercover, and was not usually in the office, wearing a suit.
Wolff smiled very nicely, a smile that reached all the way to his bright blue eyes. There was something gentle in his look, and whatever he had said had touched Tanya; she started to cry and to speak swiftly again.
He walked over to Tanya and hunkered down, assuring her.
Kieran looked at Riley.
Riley shrugged.
“I learned a lot of the language, but that’s way too fast for me,” she said.
“It’s all right. She’s going to be fine,” Special Agent Wolff said. “She’s sorry that she hasn’t learned English. She knows please and thank you and little things, but she says she is so grateful to be here, and she should speak English.”
“Oh, she will if she wants—she just needs time to learn,” Kieran said, smiling as she looked at Tanya.
Wolff apparently translated her words. Tanya sniffed and tried to smile. Her mouth seemed to contort for a moment, and then she managed to say, “Thank you. So much...thank you.”
“It’s what we do,” Egan assured her. He leaned forward and was about to speak when Craig walked into the room. Riley stood, staring at him.
“My turn,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
“You’re all right? Not cut too badly?” Craig asked her.
Riley shook her head. “Aye, well and good, a wee bit of a scratch. I’ll be fine. Thanks to you.”
Craig smiled at her. “It’s what we do,” he said, causing everyone in the room to let out a nervous laugh. He frowned, confused by the reaction. Egan waved a hand in the air. “Never mind. All is well. But here’s the thing. We really need to speak with these ladies. A safe house is being set up as we speak. The US Marshals office has already started working, too. For now—and we won’t keep you long, I promise—we’re all going to talk. We’ll get some coffee, sodas, whatever in here, and we’ll talk.”
Craig apparently knew Agent Wolff; they shook hands and took seats.
And then the agents asked questions.
Kieran coaxed the young women when she could; she wasn’t always sure just what the FBI agents wanted to draw out, but she did know how to gently twist a question and cajole an answer.
In her mind, they didn’t get very far.
Paco was one of the King’s men. They believed that he had been Venezuelan—Riley was pretty sure that the Queen had referred to him as such, saying something nasty about South Americans at the same time. Paco had ignored her, apparently ready to take anything she had to say in order to keep in the good graces of the King. Paco had been a watcher, like a bouncer. When men—johns—came in, or when women were sent out on tricks, Paco looked after them. Sometimes he was on guard at night.
Kieran pressed the women to describe where they were held at night.
“It was...almost like a college dormitory,” Riley said. “Except, of course, girls don’t lie in their beds crying all the time at a college,” she added softly. “When a girl was pregnant—very pregnant, about to give birth—she was moved. To another floor, or another place, or... I’m not even sure.”
Tanya must have understood the topic of the conversation. She started speaking quickly, looking at Riley, and then at Agent Wolff.
He listened, nodding his head, and then he translated. “They loved the murdered woman, Alexandra Callas, so much because she looked after them. The mother of the baby stuffed into Kieran’s arms—Yulia—was close with Alexandra. Alexandra didn’t work outside of the place where the women were kept anymore, though she once had. Apparently, she’d never been considered beautiful, and so she had been made to clean for people and do other such things. Then it was discovered that she was good with the girls—she really loved them. And so, when they were going to have the babies, Alexandra was taken with them, as well,” Wolff explained.
“She was especially close with Yulia,” Mike said.
“Go figure. I never knew how well my partner spoke Russian,” Craig said.
“Hey, I don’t really speak it—and it never came up,” Mike said. “You wouldn’t want me translating—I know every fifth word. I could really mess something up.”
Craig laughed, giving Tanya a very gentle smile and reaching across the table to take her hand. “My Russian sucks. Big-time,” he told her. “Your English—as poor as you think it is—is way better. And you will learn.”
“I will learn,” Tanya repeated, and smiled.
“So Paco was more or less an enforcer—an escort and a guard?” Craig asked.
“And a murderer!” Riley said.
“You know this for a fact?”
“I know that he was excellent at throwing knives and at stabbing things,” Riley said. “He used to practice in a space by our beds. He would prove how good he was—he would practice throwing on a board, and he had a mannequin that he would stab. He would smile all the while. We didn’t know that Alexandra had fled with the baby. You see, Yulia knew that they would take her baby. She said she even knew who was the father, that the father wanted the baby, too. They usually waited until the babies were three months old before having the mothers give them up. That way, people knew that they were getting a healthy baby. You see, years back, they let the women use too many drugs, and the babies were born with serious defects and...” She paused, wincing, and then apologized. “I’m sorry. I was a lucky one. I figured out Tanya wanted to escape and determined to go with her. We pretended that we were drugged out—and we were drugged, but we managed to avoid the worst of it. We got out, not knowing where we were, stumbling into a dark alley and hiding, and then moving again by night. But, you see, as I said, Alexandra was someone I came to love. She cared so much for all of us—and for those wee babes. Some were so sick they died, so they said. I wonder if some weren’t helped along a bit. If...if they weren’t perfect. Usually, you see, the children born...they’re quite beautiful. Desirable to those who may not have been able to find such a child through the customary channels. Not even to say that they were bad people, just people who...well, you see, though, if there was a problem, then those people would go for lawyers, perhaps.”
They all fell silent for a minute, the horror of what might have gone on too much to really assimilate.
“The thing is,” Egan said quietly, “they must be stopped. With the two of you now helping us, we can make it happen.”
“How?” Riley whispered. She crossed herself. “My God, they managed to kill a nun.”
“We don’t know that yet,” Egan reminded her gently.
Kieran suddenly heard herself speaking, passionately. “Riley, Tanya, you don’t realize it yet, but you do know so much. Maybe enough to bring them down. We’ll do sessions, and I’ll lead you through everything that you might possibly remember. We’ll...”
She broke off; she wasn’t the boss of any of this. Here, it was Egan.
At her office, it was Drs. Fuller and Miro. But she was going on and on as if she did control things.
But she had to do whatever she could. They might have murdered helpless infants, for God’s sake!
“Yes,” Egan said. “You’ll be amazed at the things that will come back to you. And you’ll be amazed by what might help—sounds and smells, overheard snippets of conversation. We’ll find them—we will.”
Tanya said something.
Wolff translated. “She says they’ll be on the move. They may not know exactly how he died, but they’ll learn soon enough that Paco is dead. And when they do, they’ll move everything—and everyone.”
“And it’s worse,” Riley whispered.
“What do you mean?” Craig asked her.
“I’m just so afraid that if they begin to feel cornered...”
“What?” Kieran asked.
“They’ll kill her,” Riley said softly. “They’ll kill Yulia, and that way, she can never escape and come for her baby, and they’ll hide again and disappear forever!”