He was twice divorced and had three children—two with his first wife, and the youngest with his second. For reasons mostly based around tax and diversifying his wealth, he bought them each a home—one in London, England, the other in Geneva, Switzerland. For two weeks of the year, he would have his kids fly in to visit with him in Russia before they returned to their respective homes and school, a life he preferred not only because his kids could get a better education, but also to keep them all from seeing what lengths he often had to go to in order to get what he wanted. And, as with most wealthy businessmen in Russia, such lengths meant that the lines were often crossed between good and evil. Although not a member of any Russian organizations or mobs, he had learned early on that it was most beneficial to him if he had a few crooked politicians and the KGB in his pocket. Such relationships had saved him a great many times over his career.
With his youngest child having left for London the day before, he had freed his day to enjoy a picnic with his remaining two children on their final day with him. At least, that was the plan.
He emptied a glass of Beluga vodka and slammed the empty glass on the desk, spitting the last few drops of alcohol from the corners of his mouth as he spoke.
"I thought I gave you strict instructions not to interrupt me today, Thomas. Yet, here I am, in my office watching my children enjoy the sunshine on their own with you yapping in my ears. This had better be good news, you hear me?" He admonished his head of operations who had interrupted their picnic.
"Forgive me, Mr. Sokolov, but this couldn't wait. I thought you’d want to know this right away," the much younger British native replied.
"Well, what is it?"
"Sergei's efforts to kill the target failed, sir."
Artem's deep-set eyes darkened under his heavy black brows as disapproval threatened behind them. He walked over to his desk and went to stand behind it, leaning his body on his fists atop his desk as he looked sternly at Thomas.
"What do you mean 'failed'?"
"He lost her after she left the roadside hotel but he caught up with her again near the National Gallery, but then apparently she just vanished into thin air."
Artem slammed a fist on the brown leather padding of his walnut desk.
"How hard could it be to catch this woman? She is not some secret spy or something. It's ridiculous!"
"There's more, sir." The young man's large Adam's apple nervously moved up and down his throat as he mustered the courage to share what came next.
"It looks like Züber's men got to her first."
Artem let out a string of Russian expletives. His already dark eyes were now nearly pitch-black as he stared at the young man's face.
"Explain," Artem said, his voice cold, demanding, and without emotion.
"My informants tell me Züber hired one of the most dangerous gangs in South London—a guy by the name of—“
"I don't care about his name! Do they have her, yes or no?"
"No, they don't, sir. They tried to kill her it seems, but she escaped them, twice."
Thomas’s mobile phone pinged and, at the risk of being lambasted further he sneaked a look. His face instantly lit up.
"Sergei found her, sir! She's at the airport, due to board a plane to Geneva. Seems she is traveling with a false passport. He managed to get onto the same flight as her and they are due to arrive in a couple of hours. By the looks of it, she was pretty banged up. Whatever they did to her, she survived. It's insane. This woman's got nine lives."
The man in his early thirties let out a relieved giggle as his shoulders relaxed and color slowly returned to his face. He had worked for Artem for ten years and had witnessed himself how ruthless his boss could be. As good as he was at his job, he also knew Artem wouldn't hesitate to get rid of him if he so much as put a foot wrong, especially with something as important as this. Artem had made it his mission to hunt Georgina down for a couple of decades now and nothing would stop him from unleashing years of anger toward her. As far as he knew, people who crossed Artem Sokolov never lived to tell the tale.
"So the vixen's off to Geneva, is she?" Artem had his back to Thomas where he stared out his window again.
"Yes, sir. Why do you think she is planning to go to see Züber? They couldn't possibly be back in business again."
Artem turned to face him with a glowering look.
"Sometimes you say the stupidest things, Thomas. Why would she be back in business with him if he has sent half of England's gangsters after her, huh? He has a score to settle with her as much as I do."
"Of course, sir." Thomas’s face flushed with embarrassment.
Artem dropped into his leather president’s chair and, resting his elbows on the armrests, fanned the tips of his fingers together under his chin.
"Our little devil-woman is going to confront him. Knowing her, she thinks she can go after him. Possibly kill him before he kills her. And since we know how smart she is, she's probably already figured out that we've been watching her."
"You don't think she's coming for us next, do you, sir?"
"I wouldn't put it past her, but not if we surprise her and get to her first. Call Sergei. Tell him there’s a change of plan. I want him to bring both of them to me instead, alive."
Thomas’s eyes stretched open wide and his voice broke as he asked, "You mean both Züber and Georgina? Here, alive?"
"Yes, Thomas, you heard me. I have waited long enough for this day to come and I would be an idiot to let Sergei rob me of the pleasure of seeing her die. I should experience the look in her eyes personally and now I will have the pleasure of watching both of them squirm when they beg for my forgiveness. I will kill both of them. The way I see it, it is double the pleasure. How do you English people always say? Two birds with one stone, huh? I can hardly wait."
"Sir, with respect, if we bring them here we run the risk of exposing you. Your entire reputation is on the line. If we are caught, here in Russia... sir, it's a huge risk. May I remind you that we have run out of collateral? I don't have anything left in the vault that is worth enough to get you off a double murder. I've had to use the Rembrandt to get you out of your last... indiscretion."
Artem Sokolov's eyes narrowed and he was instantly upright in front of the window again.
"You're right, Thomas. I am letting my hatred for those two swindlers cloud my judgment. It seems they have beaten me once again. If I have no bargaining chips left, I could lose it all. I can't do that to my children."
Thomas was suddenly next to him, his eyes glimmering with an idea.
"Not necessarily, sir. I think we can still do this."
Artem turned to face him.
"I'm listening?"
"Your house in Geneva, we can do it there."
"And risk the lives of my children? That's your grand plan? Absolutely not!"
"Hear me out, sir. We have the tunnels that run underneath the estate, the ones we found recently when we upgraded the west wing. I had my men look into it. Apparently, the Swiss loved their underground bunkers and tunnels, and the ones we found under your Geneva house date back to the Second World War. It was part of the Swiss Redoubt program implemented by the Swiss government, as a defense protocol in the event of a German invasion. They will serve as the ideal place to take both Georgina and Züber. It's airtight and not even she could escape from it. And being so deep underground, your ex-wife and children would be none the wiser."
Artem took a few moments to digest Thomas’s suggestion. There were days the guy annoyed him with his naivety, but then there were days like this when his bright mind reminded him why he had kept him on his payroll all this time.
He smiled and placed his hands atop Thomas’s shoulders, patting them in proud approval before he turned around to take in his children's happy faces again.
"It can work, but you've got to promise me you'll keep my children and their mother safe. I don't care what you have to do, but you keep them safe."
"You have my word, sir. I'll ma
ke the arrangements immediately."
Thomas turned to leave the room.
"One more thing, Thomas, make sure Sergei knows of our new plan and tell him, if he loses that woman again he's a dead man. We have one shot at this and I will not let anything or anyone mess this up. I've waited too long."
"I'll take care of it, sir. It will work. Actually, our timing could not be more perfect considering you could now take your kids home yourself. Your ex-wife won't suspect a thing and neither Züber nor Georgina will see us coming."
Artem's mouth pulled into a satisfying grin as he spoke again.
"Yes, it's the perfect plan. Finally, I have Züber and Georgina exactly where I want them and nothing will give me greater pleasure than to see them at my feet, pleading for me not to kill them."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jorja settled into the nearly full plane and swept her eyes over the passengers. She might have made it there in one piece—barely—but it didn't mean she had shaken Züber's guys off her trail. And since Zeus had confessed Sokolov was also involved, she wasn't safe from his men either.
So, she kept one eye open, just in case, resting in the knowledge that, considering she had scarred both their faces during her escape, there would be no mistaking the men who tried to run her off the road. She would surely spot them among the passengers in a heartbeat.
Her body was bruised and ached all over, welcoming the plush cushioning of the first-class seat Andre had booked for her. Upgraded traveling wasn't a choice; it was a necessity and the only way she could get on and off a plane quickly. She had learned this very early on in her career and had used the airlines' VIP privileges to her advantage to escape many tight situations in the past.
As soon as the plane took off, she got up and walked toward the restroom where one passenger had just entered the small cubicle. This she had intentionally planned as a way to obtain a bird’s-eye view of all the passengers in first class. She paid particular interest to the two men who flanked her. To the right of her seat was an older man whose expensive gold watch and off-white designer suit didn't fit the profile of a killer. His hands were shaking, possibly from Parkinson's, and he’d declined the glass of champagne upon arrival. As far as she could tell, he was not a threat.
The man to her left, however, she wasn't sure of. He was of average height, well dressed, and even though he had a certain charm about him, he looked nervous and was already on his second Scotch. Either this was his first time on a plane, or he was about to get married, but something did not quite add up.
He looked up at her, saw she was looking at him then quickly hid his face behind the in-flight magazine. Jorja's suspicions grew and she caught the attention of the flight crew member who was prepping the in-flight snacks at the station behind her.
"Excuse me, I know this is probably none of my business but the man seated in seat 2B, is he all right? He just seems on edge or something."
The young woman, roughly in her mid-twenties, sneaked a peek from behind the half-drawn red curtain then replied with a smile.
"Oh, that's Rupert Pemberton. He's terrified of flying, poor soul."
Jorja relaxed.
"The Rupert Pemberton, from Pemberton and Lochton, the Queen's jewelry makers?"
She nodded with glee. "I know, right? He has meetings in Geneva at least twice a month. He is super embarrassed about it, bless him. But don't let it bother you, he’ll settle down as soon as his meds kick in. Can I get you something?" She recoiled when her manager cast a watchful eye in her direction.
"No, I'm good thanks, just waiting for the loo."
"Well, I'll be sure to set down your tray if you haven't made it back to your seat by the time I pass it, and just shout if you need anything else, okay?"
Jorja nodded and slipped inside the small washroom as soon as it was free. Inside the cramped space, she relaxed her guard and told herself that she was probably just paranoid since she had not slept in days. She was on a plane for goodness sake. It's not like they would kill her mid-flight or anything.
Taking a deep breath, she adjusted the make-shift sling she had made for her arm from a silk scarf she had picked up from the Duty Free shop. She had also swapped out her stolen garb for a new pair of jeans and a pale blue tee shirt, disposing of the dress in the canteen waste bin before she boarded. Her wristwatch told her she had less than an hour before they landed, not nearly enough time for her to squeeze in a nap.
In the mirror in front of her, she studied the dark rings that had formed under her eyes. Deep red bruises had settled on her jaw and several small wounds threatened to rise to the surface from beneath the rushed make-up job in the hangar that was no longer nearly enough to conceal them. While she took advantage of the safety and solitude of the small in-flight washroom, she thought of Ewan and the circumstances under which he had died. That she wasn't there for him in his last moments, to say goodbye. She recalled his eyes looking up at her from where he was bleeding out on the floor in her gallery. Even while staring death in its face, his eyes were warm and reassuring. Thinking back now, Ewan had always made it about her, selflessly putting her needs before his in every situation, protecting her even at the cost of losing his life.
Guilt suddenly engulfed her and tears fell down her cheeks as she recalled the day he’d told her he loved her, that he would do anything to make her happy. She had known that he was in love with her months before, but as much as she wanted to love him back, she couldn't, not in the way he loved her. She had lost her heart to someone else long before Ewan came along, and now she would never see either of them again.
Jorja quietly wept for the first time since hearing of Ewan's passing. She mourned the loss of her dear friend who’d sacrificed everything. She mourned losing the only man she’d ever loved for a second time, this time for good. She cried for what her life had become, and for what it could never be. She had nothing and no one left. All she had left was the anger toward the men who had taken it all away. The men who had robbed her of ever having a normal life, from a future with Ben, from having any meaning to her life. She hated them with everything she had left in her.
And while her sadness slowly transformed into resentment and guilt over allowing them to get away with it for so long, the tears slowly dried up. When she finally stared into the mirror again, she saw nothing but bitterness, and all that remained were the streaks her tears had left behind in the make-up.
Lukewarm water ran from the tap and she splashed several cupped hands full of the soothing liquid on her face. She didn't care if the make-up washed off and revealed the scratches. She was done hiding. She was done pretending. Come what may, both Gustav Züber and Artem Sokolov will pay for what they’d done to her, for taking Ewan, for taking Ben.
And even if it were the last thing she would ever do on this earth, she would not let them go unpunished.
A gentle rapping at the door pulled her back into the present. She had completely lost track of time. Drying her face, she adjusted her hair and drew in a deep breath before she opened the door to exchange places with an uppity woman whose eyes looked daggers at her. Back in her seat, her thoughts continued to consume her mind as she tucked into the fresh chocolate croissant and orange juice the attendant had left for her. A smile settled on her face. It wasn't a smile of joy, rather a smile filled with self-satisfaction. Because for the first time in a very long while, she knew exactly what she needed to do to set herself free.
Twenty-four hours earlier, she had planned to make her way to the quaint guesthouse nestled on the banks of the lake. She and Ben had discovered it by accident one year when they got lost. The house was quiet and off the beaten path, accessible only by foot—if you knew where to find it. She had thought she would need to hide out there for a few days to strategize and plan her way into Züber's house with minimum risk. But now none of that mattered anymore. There wasn't a moment to spare. She didn't need to sleep, didn't need to recover. She had been at his house a thousand times before; he wasn't one to
change anything. Gustav was an old dog who thought no one could teach him any new tricks. Even prison wouldn't have taken away his arrogance or abstinence. She had helped him with his security, found any loopholes that could put him and his art at risk. She knew his house like the back of her hand.
But he knew that.
Yes, he would know by now she was coming for him, but not how or where to expect it. She didn’t care about his house or the few small pieces of art she was certain he kept there. Her plan included taking something far more important to him.
Allowing her eyes to drift to the full-page advert on the back cover of the in-flight magazine in front of her, she couldn't pass up on the opportunity that stared her in the face.
No matter how much she hated him, she couldn't kill him even if she wanted to. She wasn't a cold-blooded killer, nor would she ever be. But taking the only thing Gustav Züber had ever loved more than himself, that she could do. Prison was nothing compared to losing his entire fortune and all the precious art he had been hiding in plain sight for decades.
There was one place on earth he was too arrogant and proud to hide from the world. One place he did not want to conceal behind the smokescreen of his shell companies or fictitious collectors—it was what had given him credibility in the industry and he would never separate from it. It was the only place to which Züber attached his name, and seeing him go down during the biggest fine art gallery in Switzerland's annual private banquet, was all the revenge she could ever want. Twenty years ago she had kept one final ace up her sleeve, in the event the evidence she had leaked to the police wasn't enough.
Vengeance is Mine: A Jorja Rose Christian Suspense Thriller (Valley of Death Book 1) Page 12