CHAPTER NINETEEN
LIAM
For a second I’m not exactly sure what’s happened.
Until I see the blood.
A security guard tries to block me as I rush down the aisle, but I shove him aside, clearing the barrier and making my way across to the ice where Viktoriya is lying there, blood running between the fingers to her head.
An icy pit opens up in my stomach.
Jesus. No. Not when I’ve just found her.
Dimitri is standing beside her shaking his head in shock. “I’m sorry,” he’s repeating, over and over.
I ignore him and get down onto the ice beside Viktoriya as medical stuff swarm.
Her eyes open, but they’re glassy and distant. “I don’t know…” she starts to say. “Where am I?”
If there’s lasting damage here I’m going to fucking murder her asshole partner.
I hold her head, pulling her tight against my chest while I try to assess the wound. “It’s okay, baby. You’re okay.”
She looks at me as if I’m a stranger.
That pit opens up into a cavern—bottomless and dark and infinite.
Two South Korean officials politely try to pull me away from her, muttering apologies. I shake out of their grip. “Get the fuck away from me!” I shout, noticing the shirt I’m wearing is crimson with blood.
I pull back, staring down at it, at the people that continue to gather around, a medic pressing something against Viktoriya’s head.
Another hand grabs me on the shoulder. I turn ready to explode, but it’s Paul. He helps me to my feet. “Come on, buddy,” he says, always the voice of calm in a crisis. “Let them work. Let them help her.”
I’m sweating hard, cold. I think I might be in shock myself. I look around at the stadium, everyone on their feet in silence. “What are you looking at?” I bellow, to no one in particular.
I turn back to Viktoriya, my heart pumping hard.
They’re loading her onto a stretcher, staff clustered tightly around her.
The fucktard who did this to her is still muttering to himself. I go to walk over to him, to rearrange his face, but Paul’s grip tightens on my shoulder. “Let it go, man. Sit down for a while. Think this through.”
I allow myself to be led back to the team gathered by the barrier, shouting “What?” up at the audience until my throat is dry.
But I think I’m angrier at myself. I’ve shown them, the world, I’m vulnerable, that I’m human. There’s no going to back now.
Fuck them. Fuck everyone.
They can say what they want. The only thing that matters is Viktoriya.
FIVE WEEKS LATER
If there’s one thing Paul knows how to do, it’s make an entrance. It’s sub-zero outside, yet he walks into the bar wearing the most disgraceful fucking Hawaiian shirt I’ve ever seen. I’m talking full-blown Five-O fever that makes you want to instantly claw your eyes out.
I stand from the bar and take his hand. “My brother. I don’t know what I’m more pissed about—the fact you decided to wear that thing or the way you’re actually pulling it off.”
It’s true. I can practically hear the cougars who frequent this place ready to pounce.
Paul shakes my hand, smiling. “Motherfucker.”
I signal for two beers and take a seat, Paul doing the same and surveying the room. “I’ve missed this place.”
“The warm beer and aroma of disappointment?”
He laughs. “I’ve never been disappointed by what I’ve brought home from here.”
“Not even the hand grenade I made you cop while I hit on that cute brunette?”
Paul shrugs. “’More cushion for the pushin’, I say. No one wants to fuck a table chair, man.”
I take a swig of my beer. True to my words, it’s warm.
Paul places his bottle down, puffing his chest out. “How’s it going with Viktoriya?”
Even hearing her name’s causing me to clench tight.
The last I saw of her was at the stadium. The Russians had her on the next flight out, claiming she had amnesia and required specialist treatment. It’s been radio silence since, and that’s to say nothing of Dimitri. He vanished at the same time—poof. I don’t think the Russians were keen for him to hang around.
I’ve tried calling everyone from Viktoriya’s friends to the embassy, used every contact I know to try and get word to her, a shred of information on where she is or what she’s doing, but all I’m met with is lipid excuses and runarounds.
“Nothing,” I reply.
Paul looks down, shaking his head and holding his beer between his legs.
“What?” I ask.
He lifts his head. “You’re telling me the great Mad Dog, Olympic Gold Medalist, is giving up?”
“I’m not giving up,” I reply.
“Really?” he laughs, because everything from your droopy fucking posture to those puppy-dog eyes tell me you are. You love this girl, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“So let Uncle Paul help you.”
“What are you going to do? Fly us into Russian airspace and drop flyers?”
My joke’s met with an unexpected expression. “I have a contact,” he says, who might be able to help.
“A contact?” I question.
Paul raises his hands. “Okay, so it’s some Russki chick I banged in Sochi.”
“Funny. I never heard anything about it.”
Paul smiles. “And that’s why they call me ‘The Ghost.’”
“You sure it’s nothing to do with your vampire-like complexion?”
He pushes me playfully. “You want my help or not?”
“Of course, you dick.”
He leans closer. “I spoke to someone at the state office as well. I think you might want to hear what they have to say.”