“Sorry, just nice that someone actually believed me,” she murmured, her voice watery as she leaned into Roman’s outstretched arm.

Escobar didn’t respond, just cleared his throat and looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the display of emotion.

Roman tugged her close, needing to comfort her as they reached one of the SUVs. The passenger door opened and when a blond man got out, Taylor immediately froze.

All of Roman’s senses went on alert. Without thinking, he stepped in front of her and went to reach for a weapon that wasn’t there. Because he traveled so much with Wyatt, he and all security personnel who worked for the billionaire were able to carry in multiple states. But this wasn’t an official work thing so he’d kept his weapon packed and unloaded. Unarmed or not, he’d take this guy down if he posed a threat to Taylor.

Escobar let out a short sigh. “Taylor, I know your concerns with Simpson and they’re unfounded. He was at the—”

“Taylor, I’m not working for or with Neal,” the man said heatedly, but not with anger. Just concern. “I was at the police station yesterday waiting for my girlfriend to get off work. She’s a dispatcher. We live together and her car is in the shop. I just didn’t want her to have to catch a ride home.” The guy had blond hair, but it wasn’t the man who’d shot at Roman outside Vadim’s house. Even though most of the guy’s face had been obscured, he had a slightly smaller build and his voice was different. Didn’t mean Roman was completely removing the guy from his radar.

“He’s telling the truth, Taylor. He was with me most of yesterday at the office.” It seemed as if Escobar wanted to say more, maybe really defend the guy, but didn’t.

Taylor sidestepped Roman, but still hovered a little behind him. “Okay,” she said, not much conviction in her voice.

They didn’t have time for this and Roman didn’t want Taylor around a man who clearly made her uncomfortable. “We need to get to the station and she’s not riding with him.” Roman knew he was being rude, but didn’t care.

Seemingly unsurprised, Escobar nodded. “No problem. We’ll take the other SUV.”

It was clear Simpson wanted to say more and he actually appeared as if he felt bad, but Roman didn’t care. No one was innocent or a non-threat as far as Taylor was concerned. Right now the only goal was to get her to the police station unharmed.

* * *

Neal stepped out of the small bathroom of his forty-foot cruiser. As boats went this was a decent sized one. Some called it a yacht, but to him, only cruisers over sixty feet should be designated with that title. While he might wish for something flashier and bigger—which he would get one day—for now this boat did its job of keeping him safe and under the radar.

No one knew he was here and he had enough food to last for a week without having to leave the marina. He’d chosen this particular one because it was mid-sized. Not so small that he would have regular neighbors who paid attention to him and not so large that he wouldn’t see or hear if the police were coming for him. Or the Russians. That was key right now. He was still waiting to hear back from his contact who’d arrived back in town not long ago. The guy had said he might have news about Taylor.

All this waiting was making him fidgety. He needed something to take off the edge. When his phone buzzed across the built-in teak dresser of the master stateroom, he snapped it up.

It was a text from his contact. She’s on her way to the station.

Stop her, he texted back furiously.

His phone buzzed again with a new message. Cant. Protected. No way around it.

That was annoyingly cryptic but Neal understood the need for it now. He still wasn’t sure if the police had anything on him and he hadn’t been able to check his personal bank accounts. He couldn’t use his phone because if he did and the cops were onto him, they’d be tracking him. And if he logged on to an account they were watching, he was certain they’d be able to track him. As soon as he could sneak away, he’d be calling his regular bank and checking his funds there.

What do they know? he texted.

No news yet.

Damn it. He tapped his finger against the dresser for a moment, raw energy humming through him in jagged spikes of panic as he tried to think about his next move. He could ask his contact to check his accounts for him, but if he did that it could be bad for multiple reasons. Neal didn’t want to risk giving his personal info to the man and if the accounts were being watched, he didn’t want to reveal his link to his best source of help right now. He let out a savage curse and texted back. Keep me updated.

Fuck it. He should just cut and run. His gut told him to get out of town. He had a couple burners and could check his accounts from one of them or from a local coffee shop. They all had free Wi-Fi. Even if he was being tracked he’d be able to get in and out of a coffee shop in no time, especially in a crowded shopping area. Yes, that was exactly what he’d do.

Shoving his phone in his pocket, he grabbed his ball cap and ascended the short set of stairs from the stateroom into the galley.

And froze at the sight of the tattooed man leaning casually against the long, narrow island.

Neal swallowed hard, but pasted on a smile as he stepped into the brightly lit room. It attached to the living room and even with all the blinds drawn, there were so many windows that the afternoon light streamed through the cracks, illuminating everything. “Alexei, surprised to see you here.” Neal wondered if that was even the Russian mob enforcer’s name. The first time he’d met him had been six months ago. The man had said to call him Alexei, not that it was his actual name. Then he’d broken Neal’s pinky and ring finger just because he could.

The man didn’t move, just watched Neal with those creepy, green eyes that reminded him of a deadly predator. “You have a payment coming up.” There was just the slightest accent in his voice, barely discernable, as if he was trying to lose it.

“Thursday, I know.” Which was why he needed to make a decision fast. Stay or leave. It was Tuesday afternoon so there wasn’t much time.

“Thinking of leaving town?”

He made a scoffing sound. “No.”

“I hear your partner is dead and that you killed him.”

Neal could feel the blood drain from his face. “What?”

“Hmm.” The Russian made the non-committal sound as he reached for one of the knives in the Cuisinart knife block set on the island. Instead of pulling one out, he just ran a finger—a gloved one—along the row of handles. “We do not care about your problems. All my boss cares about is what you owe him. He has been very generous giving you a payment plan.”

Neal had the irrational urge to snort in derision, but he wasn’t suicidal. The plan was anything but generous. He was getting raped on the interest. The only reason the Russians had agreed to let him have a payment plan—because they did nothing without getting something.

“I’m here to let you know that if you go to prison, your debt is not erased. If you try to negate on your deal, you won’t make it to prison. And if you try to run…” He trailed off, pinning him with that deadly gaze, and smiled. It was like looking at a great white shark smiling. “I don’t enjoy many things about my job, but I will enjoy hurting you.”

“Taylor Arenas stole my money,” Neal blurted, immediately wondering if he’d just signed his own death warrant. Admitting he didn’t have the cash was stupid, but if the Russians had found him here, he knew they’d find him if he ran. It was just a matter of time. Sure he had his boat, but that was part of Neal’s backup plan if he had to go on the run. He couldn’t offer it up to the Russians.

The man brushed an imaginary piece of lint off his black, leather jacket. The guy always wore black, like the grim fucking reaper. Probably because blood wouldn’t show up on the color as well. The thought made Neal start to shake, but he tried to hide it and crossed his arms over his chest.