Dima
When I’m in the Land Rover, I plug Natasha’s dead phone into the charger. I disabled tracking on it back at the vet’s place last night, but I’m pissed at myself for not looking at it sooner. If my head were in the game, I wouldn’t have gone to bed last night without reading every message she has on there and thoroughly investigating every source of information I could get from it.
The trip to the closest store takes twenty-five minutes. It’s a gas station/convenience store for hikers and campers, so it features some random s**t like mosquito repellent, hats, and t-shirts. I get milk, eggs, bread, and other basics, then grab a few of the t-shirts. I’m still in my undershirt, which is stained with Nikolai’s blood. When the clerk stares at it, I look down and grimace. “Hunting acciden
