He froze. “Did you say Russia?”
She nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m fairly certain.” The phone rang. “I’ve got to get that, and I’m sorry, I don’t have any more information for you, Officer.”
“Thanks, Sofia. I have a feeling I’ll see you again.”
His mind raced as he stepped into the hall.
Russia.
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and checked the calendar, and his stomach dropped as he looked at the date.
No fucking way.
His head was spinning as he brought up his contacts, and dialed.
“Steele Security.”
“Steele Security? What the hell is that?”
A pause, then, “Wesley fucking Cross, is that you?”
Wesley chuckled. “Yep. How are ya, Gage?”
“Well, holy shit, man. I haven’t talked to you in years... Which means you need something.”
Nothing got past Gage. “Can’t I call just to say hi? What the hell is Steele Security, anyway? You leave the Marines?”
“Yep, three years ago. Started a personal security firm. Hell of a lot better than MARSOC, man.”
“Don’t doubt that. Personal security, huh? So, what? You spend your days following supermodels around?”
“Sometimes.” He was dead serious. “We contract with the government mostly. Head up security details for politicians, eyewitnesses, you know the drill.”
Yeah, he knew the drill.
Steele continued, “I’m looking for another man… you interested?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got my own thing goin’. Guns.”
“No shit? You finally did it? Started your own company?”
“Yep.”
“Good for you. Good on ya.” He paused. “So, you’re not looking for a job. Doesn’t sound like you’ve got money problems, or are strung out on drugs. I have no doubt you’ve got plenty of female problems but God knows I ain’t helping you with those crazy bitches. So, what do you need, man?”
“Mikhail Lutrova. You remember that whole deal, right?”
Pause. “Of course I remember that whole deal. The sick, Russian psychopath caught by the one and only Wesley Cross. Yeah, dude, I remember.”
“I didn’t catch him. Just supplied the evidence that led the FBI to him. Luck was what it was.”
“How many life sentences did he end up getting?”
“Two. One for each girl he murdered. Anyway, you remember that social worker you used to date?”
“Ah, hell… uh, Shelly.”
“That’s the one. I was hoping you could get Lutrova’s file from her.”
“Why you want his file?”
“Just some light evening reading, you know.”
Gage laughed. “Alright, keep your secrets. I’ll see what I can do, but I think she left a while ago. Some dude name Kenneth took her place.” He laughed, “In that case, maybe I’ll use one of my supermodels to get it out of him.”
“You always were resourceful.”
“With women? Not like you, man.”
“Call me if you get that file.”
“Will do.”
Click.
Wesley tapped the phone on his chin, pacing back and forth, a ball forming in his gut. He stared into the raging storm outside recalling the not-too-distant memories from five years earlier.
Berry Springs was in a state of panic after two women had mysteriously gone missing, just days apart. Both women had gone for a jog on the mountain trails and were never seen or heard from again. Both women in their mid-twenties, with dark brown hair and lean, slender bodies.
Bobbi had just opened her indoor/outdoor shooting range and, to her delight, was busier than expected. Wesley had offered to help out until things died down a bit. He’d worked the morning rush, then went back to his shop to make a dent in his own work. Later that evening, he'd decided to swing by for a quick check-in on his way into town to meet some friends at Gino’s.
And that last-minute decision just might have saved his sister’s life.
It was just past six-thirty, thirty minutes to closing time when he walked through the front doors. He spotted Bobbi behind a glass counter filled with hunting knives, and a tall, bulky man with short, blonde hair, almost as white as snow. The man, Wesley pinned as pushing thirty, was standing to the side, leaning his elbows against the glass, with one leg behind the counter as if he was inching his way around. Wesley’s back straightened like a rod, an instinct that something wasn’t right. And that instinct was confirmed when Bobbi saw him and relief flashed in her eyes. He quickly made his way across the shop, weaving in-between the racks filled with sporting goods, hunting gear, and bows and arrows.
The man turned, his bloodshot, beady eyes locking on him as he walked up. Wesley remembered the chill that ran up his spine as he looked into those wild, ice-blue eyes. There was something sinister—feral—behind them. He didn’t recognize the man but had a feeling he was about to get to know him on a very personal level.
With his eyes locked on the icy man, Wesley addressed Bobbi. “Everything okay here, sis?”
“Yes, Mr. Lutrova—Mikhail—was just leaving.”
As she spoke, Wesley had noticed fresh scratches down the man’s arms, red scabbed streaks, just below the Russian flag he had tattooed on his forearm.
“Mr. Lutrova, time to pack up,” he said.
They stared at each other, and Wesley’s fingers itched to grabbed the SIG on his belt. Without a word, the man glanced at Bobbi, lingered a moment, then grabbed his carrying case and slowly walked out of the shop.
He remembered the look on Bobbi’s face as the door clicked closed. His usually confident, badass sister had been scared. Seriously scared.
“Who was that?” He asked.
She shrugged, shook her head. “Been in here shooting for two and a half hours. Two and a half hours. Didn’t talk to anyone, nothing. Just boom, boom, boom. Guy must’ve had a whole bag of ammo. I didn’t think much of it until I kept catching him looking at me. Staring at me, like. When the place cleared out and he was still here… I almost called you. He just totally creeped me out, ya know?”
“What was he doing when I walked up?”
“Wanted to see a hunting knife I had behind the counter.”
“Looked like he was trying to get behind the counter.”
“Exactly. I noticed it, too. My sixth-sense was screaming at me, so I told him I needed to close up early and asked him to leave. He didn’t move. And, literally, that’s exactly when you walked in.”
“Did you see the scratches all over his arms?”
She nodded. “A few down his neck, too.”
Wesley’s attention shifted to the low hum of the television in the background.
“…again, if anyone has any information on the missing women, please contact local authorities immediately.”
“Be right back.” He turned, jogged across the shop and burst through the door just as two red tail lights faded into the distance.
He watched the lights until they disappeared, his mind reeling. He walked back into the shop. “What lane was he in?” He yelled across the room.
“Uh, six,” Bobbi shouted back.
Wesley entered the shooting range. The floor had been swept, the shells dumped into cans next to each lane. He kneeled down by the can in lane six and plucked the top shells from the pile. He took them home, and using a new ballistics technology that captures a 3D image of a bullet casing and records the unique marks from the firing pin, Wesley scanned each shell he’d taken from the lane and got a hit. A shell with the same markings had been confiscated from a robbery at a local pharmacy a week earlier. Hours later, police raided the home of Mikhail Lutrova.
And that’s how the missing women were found, their tortured corpses chained to the wall in an underground cellar, deep in the woods.
Lutrova was arrested, charged, and transported to the state prison where he’d live out
the remainder of his life. He was only thirty-three years old.
Later, Wesley had learned that Mikhail was born in Russia and moved to the US with his mother when he was just three years old. They had settled in a small town in Missouri, where his mother married an abusive drug addict. His mom eventually took off, and after child services took him away from his abusive step-father, Mikhail moved in with his grandmother, an hour outside of Berry Springs. Rumor was, Mikhail was a quiet kid who only spoke when spoken to, kept to himself, and had never gotten into any trouble… until he crossed paths with Wesley Cross.
That was five years ago.
Wesley tore his gaze away from the window and pictured the pendant with the little green gemstone, only found in Russia.
Russia.
Was it possible Mikhail Lutrova had something to do with Leena’s death?
Wesley shook his head. Or maybe he was just going crazy. Reaching. Grasping onto anything to find the son of a bitch that killed her.
He hesitated, then turned on his cell phone—better safe than sorry.
“Hey, Wes.”
“Hey, Bobbi. Hey, uh…”
“Oh, God, what?”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Listen. I want you to be vigilant until the guy who killed Leena is caught, okay? Keep your alarm on at all times. Carry your gun; keep it handy, not buried at the bottom of that backpack you call a purse. Be aware and alert when you’re walking to and from your car. Just be smart, okay? Anything seems off, walk away.”
“What’s going on?” Her voice was sharp.
“I just don’t want you involved in this whole thing. There’s a killer running around Berry Springs and I’m just telling you to be smart.”
“Do think I’m in danger?”
“Technically, every woman in town is until this guy’s caught.”
“Where are you?”
“The Half Moon Hotel.”
“What the hell are you doing there? In this damn storm?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Wes, are you in trouble?”
“No, B. Never.”
A long pause. “Okay, I will, I promise.”
He closed his eyes and inhaled with relief. “Good. Thanks. I’ll swing by on my way home to check in. Turn on your alarm now. See you soon.”
CHAPTER 13
Wesley stepped onto the lobby level and froze in his tracks.
He knew that long, silky brown hair. He knew that God-awful all-weather hiking jacket and he definitely knew that round, perky little ass.
Not twenty feet ahead of him, Gwyneth Reece stood at the check-in counter with a purse slung over her shoulder and a suitcase at her side, and based on the cocked angle of her hip, she’d brought her attitude as well.
A tingle of excitement warmed him as he crossed the room.
“Thought you were headed home.”
She turned, startled, a pink flush on her cheeks and streaks of rain in her hair. Her eyes widened, and a small smile crossed her beautiful face—but only for a second. The excitement in her eyes faded to impassive as if she was embarrassed she’d been caught happy to see him.
She nodded toward the storm outside. “I tried. Drove to the airport and sat there for three hours trying to get on the next flight out. Apparently, airplanes don’t fly in lightning, and there’s no way in hell I’m driving eight hours in this deluge. Especially in the dark.”
He soaked in every inch of her face as she spoke. What were the freaking odds?
She continued, “This was the only hotel within forty-five miles with vacancy.”
“That’ll be two-hundred and twenty-seven dollars, ma’am,” the receptionist said.
“Geez.”
As she reached into her purse, he tossed his credit card on the counter.
“No, Wesley—
“Wes.”
She shook her head, clearly annoyed. “No, Wes. You can’t…”
The receptionist handed him back his card, with a flirty smile.
He smiled. “Thank you.”
Gwen sighed. “Seriously, you didn’t have to do that.”
He slid his wallet back into his pocket. “Yes, I did. You’re here because of me. It’s my pleasure to pay for you to stay in this luxurious castle for a night.” He winked.
She snorted, then cocked her head. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Just following up on some things.”
“Room four-twenty-eight, ma’am, top floor.” The receptionist packed an envelope. “Your key’s inside, as well as restaurant, spa, entertainment, and in-room dining information.” As she handed the envelope to Gwen, the dark-haired, blue-eyed receptionist batted her long, faux eyelashes at Wesley. He raised his eyebrows.
She looked back at Gwen. “Will you be going to the ball tonight?”
“Ball?”
“Yes. Four times a year, the Half Moon Hotel has a ball to celebrate the turn of the season. Dresses, tuxedos, music, dancing. The works. It’s a lot of fun.” She glanced at the clock. “Starts at eight, so just a few minutes. Usually lasts ‘til midnight or so, but that’s when it’s packed… it might cut off earlier tonight.”
“No, I don’t think I’ll be attending.”
She said it without hesitation, which should have surprised him, but didn’t. While most women loved to dress up and go dancing, Gwen didn’t seem the type. She was different. Refreshingly so. While most girls screamed at the mere sight of a bug, Gwen had made an entire career out of them.
The receptionist shrugged. “You really should consider it. You might have the room to yourself, with how few people are here right now.”
“I noticed. Why is that?” Wesley asked.
“We’re about to do renovations. We have over half the rooms blocked off to begin moving furniture out. Combine that with the weather, and I think there’s less than ten people here tonight.”
“Ten people?”
“’Round there. Might get more as the night goes on. Anyway, the ball is a lot of fun… kind of brings you back to the old times before dancing and chivalrous men were replaced by video games and dating apps. Anyway, there’s a dress shop downstairs if you change your mind. My name’s Melanie Jones,” another flirty glance at Wesley and this time Gwen’s eyebrows tipped up. “Please let me know if you need anything. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you, Melanie.” Gwen’s voice was clipped. Wesley grabbed her bag and as she turned away, she muttered, “Do you have that effect on all women?”
“Depends. Do I have that effect on you, Miss Reece?”
“Takes a little more than a nice smile and jacked-up body for me, Mr. Cross.” She grinned, then began flipping through the brochure.
“Then, I guess not. Hang right here for a minute, okay?”
Busy skimming the room-service menu, she gave him a slight nod. He turned toward the receptionist. “Hey, Melanie?”
Melanie's eyes twinkled as she smiled. “Yes?”
He set his elbows on the counter and leaned forward, locking eyes with her. “Hey, would you mind checking on something for me real quick?”
“Of course, Mr. Cross.”
“I found a receipt for a pretty pricey piece of jewelry on the floor downstairs. Dropped by accident, I assume. I have the last four digits of the credit card; can you tell me a name, or if the person is staying here?”
“Oh, uh… I don’t think…”
“I bet it’s just a quick search for you. If it’s too much trouble, though…”
“Oh, no, not at all. Uh, sure, I can do that. What are they?”
He rattled off the numbers. She clicked a few keys, then frowned. “Hmm, no one’s reserved a room with a credit card ending in those four digits.”
Dammit. “Okay, thank you, Melanie.”
He winked, she giggled, and he turned away and picked up Gwen’s bag. “I can carry this to your room for you.”
Gwen glanced up from the map of the grounds.
“No, I’ve
got to move my rental car. I parked under the balcony so I wouldn’t get wet.” She looked down at her boots, soaked at the toe. “Worked out real well as you can see.”
“I’m parked below. I’ll drive you back up after you park.”
“Thanks.”
He handed her bag to the bellman. “What’s your name?”
The freckled, redheaded kid squared his shoulders. “James, sir.”
“James, I’m—
“Wesley Cross. I know who you are.” He glanced out the window as a limo pulled up.
Wesley cocked his head. “Yeah? How so?”
“Seen you around. My dad’s mentioned you before. Think he bought one of your guns.”
Wesley stared at James for a moment, trying to decide if the kid liked him, or didn’t. Or maybe he just didn’t approve that Wesley made guns for a living, like a lot of kids in the twenty-something generation. “What’s your dad’s name?”
“Trace.” His attention pulled to a man and woman walking up the steps with an armful of bags. “I gotta get the door.”
“Would you mind watching Miss Reece’s bag for a moment while we park her car?”
“Will do. Just set it over there.”
“Thanks.” Wesley stepped past a particularly busty woman griping to her husband about the weather, a cloud of perfume following a second later. He opened the door for Gwen and stepped outside. It was as dark as midnight, and the rain was coming down so hard they had to practically yell. The weather was getting worse, no doubt about that.
Gwen looked at him. “That was kind of odd.”
Wesley glanced over his shoulder at James, who was on his phone watching them through the window. “Yeah… it was, wasn’t it?”
“You know his dad?”
“Some random dude named Trace? Nope.”
“Shoulda asked a last name.”
“Can’t be too hard to figure out.”
“That’s right, just ask your girlfriend behind the reception desk.”
“Jealous?” He winked.
She snorted and avoided the question. “Here’s my car.”
He opened the door for her, then jumped into the passenger seat as she slid behind the wheel.
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