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narrowed her eyes, pushed herself up between the seats, and made sure he was looking her in the eye.
    “I’ll say it a thousand times if that’s what it takes to get through your thick Russian skulls.”
    Oleg’s grin stretched the thin white scar that ran along his jaw from chin to earlobe. The tattoos on the back of his neck and along his arms were somehow cruel and beautiful at the same time. He had high cheekbones and a small mouth and the narrow eyes of a man who might like to hurt you. The stubble on his shaved scalp did nothing to alleviate such concerns, but Trinity knew better. She’d felt his touch and seen the hunger for her in his eyes. Oleg would never hurt her, except perhaps by dying for her, and she wanted to do everything in her power to prevent that.
    Gavril drove. Always. Ugly and dark-eyed, he had a face that looked as if he’d been in a thousand fights and lost them all.
    Feliks was the quiet one. Six and a half feet tall, he had built himself into a wall of muscle. Trinity had the feeling that most fights with Feliks ended before they began, with his opponent pissing himself before a punch could be thrown.
    “You talk to us like children,” Gavril said. “I crushed the throat of a man who spoke to me like that.”
    Trinity smiled and sat back in her seat. “You’re not the first man to hint he’d like to kill me. I believed the other guy more.”
    “One of us loves you, Irish,” Gavril muttered, huge hands tight on the wheel. “But it isn’t me.”
    Oleg glanced into the backseat again, one eyebrow raised. Gavril might be a killer, but the two men were like brothers, and he would never hurt the woman Oleg loved. Feliks kept silent, as always, but he rolled his eyes just a bit to indicate that he also thought Gavril’s threats were hollow.
    The huge, rambling ranch house grew larger ahead of them. Trinity saw Carney’s brake lights go on, and then Gavril hit the brake. The tires of their black Mercedes kicked up a cloud of dust, and they waited for it to clear before opening the doors. The Bratva had taught her not to expose herself anywhere she didn’t have a clear view of her surroundings.
    Trinity climbed out of the car and slammed the rear door. The Mercedes ticked as the engine cooled. She’d suggested they steal something a little less Russian Mafia–cliché than a black European sedan, but Gavril insisted that they had standards. Oleg had swapped out the plates with those from an old Volkswagen Rabbit. Nobody would be catching up with them tonight, at least.
    Oleg and Feliks emerged from the car a few seconds behind her. Gavril waited behind the wheel, right hand no doubt on the ignition. They had no key, but getting the engine running would take the man half a second. He’d done this once or twice before.
    Carney stepped out of his pickup and put his hands to the small of his back the way aging men always did. He stretched and then ambled toward them, more cowboy now than the Irish boy he’d been raised.
    “Miss Dunphy,” he said.
    She wanted to tell him her real name, but she could not. Oleg might decide that information was worth killing him for.
    “I ought to tell you now,” Carney went on, “I’m not real comfortable with this.”
    Feliks dropped his hand back a bit, the better to reach for the gun tucked into his rear waistband if he had the need.
    Oleg seemed about to open his mouth and reveal his accent, but Trinity shot him a look that made him as silent as Feliks.
    “There’s nothin’ for you to be uncomfortable about, Mr. Carney,” she said. “You’re introducin’ an old friend to a new one, that’s all. If you’d rather not stick around after the introductions are made, nobody here will hold it against you.”
    Carney shifted awkwardly and glanced up at the house. “Oscar might.”
    The friend in Belfast who’d given her Carney’s name had told her that the man had been on the straight and narrow path for many years. His discomfort at being