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Summary
“If you don’t come here, I will come to you.”
“Rozanov.”
“I will drive,” Ilya tells him without sympathy. “Park illegally in my big muscle car. Everyone will notice. Lots of photos, probably.”
Shane rubs his forehead. He gets to his feet and glances at his bag, still packed, on the hotel dresser.
“I hate your car,” he says, at last.
“Yes, I know,” Ilya says. It sounds like he’s smiling.