The Murder That Never Was

by Andrea Kane

  “Oh my God.” Claire’s hands flew up to her face. “I knew it. I felt it.”

  “How do you know for certain it was Slava?” Ryan demanded.

  “John witnessed the scene from inside the apartment. He heard the screech of tires and got to the window in time to see a man matching Slava’s description grab Emma, shove her into a van, and speed off. Brian was bleeding in the road. John called 911 and got down to the street ASAP. Brian was breathing but unconscious. John is in the ambulance with him now. The EMTs are working on him. And Emma…” Patrick rubbed a palm over his jaw, looking as if he were going to be sick.

  “Shit.” Marc’s mind was racing. “Slava must have been scoping out the area near the apartment. Emma probably walked there from the gym with Lisa. Slava would have made Emma as Isabella the minute he saw her.”

  “And that will make him go crazy,” Claire whispered. “He won’t care about any orders he’s received. He won’t even care about Lisa and Miles anymore. He’ll be irrational. His rage will take over.” Tears had already formed in Claire’s eyes. She steepled her icy fingers together and looked directly at Casey. “Slava will torture her, Casey. He’ll…” Her voice trailed off. She and Casey had both been there. They knew what brutal assailants did to their victims. And a former KGB agent? God only knew what he was capable of.

  “We’re heading up to Vermont.” Casey was already on her feet, her customarily steady demeanor gone. Her voice was quavering, and her body language screamed fear. “We’re getting into Maxim Lubinov’s compound. Screw the legalities.”

  “Casey, wait.” Marc reached out and grabbed her arm. “Let’s take a rational breath. We don’t even know for sure that Slava took Emma to Burlington. He might be keeping her local while he reaches out to his boss. They might be discussing using her as a bargaining chip to get to whoever she’s working with—us.”

  “‘Might’ doesn’t cut it, Marc.”

  “I agree. That’s why we need to divide and conquer, not all jump in the van and race up to New England. Rescuing Emma is all that matters. We have to cover all our bases to do that.”

  He waited until Casey regained a modicum of control and gave him a tight nod. “What do you suggest? I’m not rational on this one,” she said.

  “Like I said, I suggest we divide up and close off Slava’s options.” Marc understood that Casey was asking him to run the show, something she rarely did. But he was her go-to guy, and she was a mess. Right now, she needed his level head.

  He naturally assumed the command and control that was pure Marc, the former Navy SEAL. “You, Claire, and Patrick will stay behind,” he instructed. “Your various skills are needed here.” He angled his head in Patrick’s direction. “You deal with the situation in Upper Montclair—the cops, John, Brian, the hospital—until you get some answers and, hopefully, find out if Slava is holding Emma nearby.”

  “Consider it done,” Patrick replied.

  “Bring Hero with you when you go to Upper Montclair,” Casey added. “He’ll be an asset.”

  Hero’s head came up, and he scrambled to his feet, as if knowing he was being called upon.

  Reflexively, Casey stroked his head. “He knows Emma’s scent. We have more than enough of her things for me to make scent pads. Whatever trail turns up, Hero will follow—with God’s help, directly to Emma.”

  “Excellent idea.” Patrick gave Hero the hand gesture to follow him. “I’ll make the scent pads. I’ll be in constant contact with all of you.”

  “Make sure of that,” Casey said. She watched them leave, her wheels turning and her leadership skills kicking in. She knew what Marc was about to say, and she knew he was right. So she said it for him.

  “I’m calling Hutch right now and getting the FBI ball rolling. We needed proof? Now we have it. And Claire…” A quick glance in her direction. “Do anything you can to pick up on Emma’s energy. Use it to figure out where she is.”

  Claire rose. “I’ll find a way. I have to. I need to go downstairs and get a few personal items out of her desk. Then I’ll hole up in my yoga room, where I have the serenity and clarity of mind to focus completely on Emma.” Emanating determination, Claire was off on her mission.

  “Am I missing anything?” Casey asked Marc.

  “Nope. We’re set.” He was now in SEAL mode. “Let’s go, Ryan. I’m getting my gear together, and we’re leaving for Vermont. Bring whatever techno-stuff is necessary. And I’m calling Aidan from the road. We need him on this.”

  Ryan was shutting down his computer and gathering up the equipment that went with it. “The rest of what I need is in my lair. I’ll grab it and meet you at the van.” He paused, visibly bugged by something.

  “What is it?” Casey demanded.

  “Don’t call Hutch. The last thing we need is a SWAT team bursting into Lubinov’s compound and screwing everything up. We can pull this one off fast and clean, without FBI interference.”

  “Forget it, Ryan,” Casey responded in a tone that told him it wasn’t happening his way. “I’m calling Hutch now. He can reach out to the appropriate field office and put them on standby. As soon as we have confirmation that Emma’s in Lubinov’s manor, SWAT can go in. I want you to work with them. No vigilante bullshit. I want Emma in one piece and Lubinov’s entire crime ring put away.”

  “And if we get there first and somehow figure out she’s inside—before the FBI’s red tape has allowed them to act?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Anyone standing in the lobby of the Best Western would have pegged Slava as an ardent lover rather than a kidnapper and a killer. He guided Emma along, keeping her slightly in front of him, one of his arms wrapped intimately around her shoulders, the other arm tucked subtly behind her, hidden from view. The sharp blade of his knife was pressed into the small of her back, ensuring that she didn’t make a sound.

  He kept up the charade until he’d maneuvered her up the stairs, down the hall, and safely into his hotel room. Once he’d double-locked the door, everything changed.

  He put down the knife. Whirling Emma around, he grabbed a handful of her hair and used it to yank her head back—so hard that tears came to her eyes and her mouth dropped open. Before she could cry out, Slava snatched one of the linen napkins folded near the takeout menu on the side table and crammed it into her mouth. With one huge hand, he locked her wrists behind her back and dragged her across the room to the bed. He backhanded her across the face, first once, then twice, sending her toppling onto the bed, red bruises already forming on her cheeks.

  Before she could recover, Slava had pushed her high enough up on the bed to accomplish his goal. He yanked off his belt and bound her wrist to one of the bedposts. He used a pillowcase to do the same to her other wrist. He spread her legs wide, shoving each foot between the bed frame and the bed, wedging them in so tightly that there was no wrenching them free.

  Emma was weeping now, choked sobs that were stifled by the gag. Her eyes were huge, filled with dread, and her breasts were rising and falling with the force of her breath. Her stare was on Slava, and there must have been a plea in her gaze, because his next words crushed it to bits.

  “Save your tears, dear Isabella.” His broken English was more than adequate for what he had in mind. His lips twisted into a cruel, triumphant smile as he stood back to admire his handiwork and revel in Emma’s primal fear. “We’ve just gotten started.”

  He walked over and retrieved his knife, returning to kneel between her legs. He leaned forward, holding the blade to her throat. Ever so slightly, he nicked the delicate skin there and was rewarded with a few drops of blood and a muffled whimper.

  He captured the blood with his fingertips, holding it up for Emma to see. Then he reached down to wipe the droplets across her lips, first her upper one and then her lower one.

  “Gag is coming out,” he said. “Taste bloo
d. Answer questions. If you scream or talk, except to answer me, I’ll slit your throat and you bleed to death. Nod if you understand.”

  Emma nodded.

  “Good.” He reached into her mouth and yanked out the gag.

  Emma winced as the gag was torn from her mouth. She stayed rigid and didn’t make a sound, unsure of what to do—or not to do—to avoid retaliation. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. So did the skin at her throat, where Slava had pricked it. She had never known white-hot panic like this. Then again, she fully realized what this animal had planned. What would come first? The torture? The rape? The murder would be last, after he’d dragged as much information out of her as he could.

  She should tell him nothing except to go fuck himself. She should spit in his face. She should be the ballsy girl she always was.

  She couldn’t do or be any of those things.

  She was so scared. Of all of it. Most of all, she didn’t want to die. Oh, God, she didn’t want to die.

  “Lick your lips,” Slava ordered her. “Taste blood.”

  Emma obeyed, gagging at the iodine flavor and praying for a miracle she knew wasn’t coming. Brian could be dead. No one knew where Slava had taken her. Even FI had no starting point from which to initiate a trace. They couldn’t find her.

  It was over.

  She flinched as Slava rose from between her legs, her gaze following him over to the nightstand, where he poured a glass of water and shoved it against her mouth. “Drink so you can talk.”

  Emma hesitated. She wasn’t sure she could get down the water, much less hold it down.

  “Drink or I hold your nose and pour it down your throat until you choke.”

  She had to do this.

  Closing her lips around the rim of the glass, Emma took a few tentative sips and finally what she prayed would be an acceptable swallow. She forced the water down past the lump in her throat. Then, she lay back and waited.

  “Good.” Slava set down the glass and returned to his kneeling position between her legs. His eyes were black with rage, their depths empty, devoid of humanity.

  “Your name,” he commanded. “Your real name.”

  “Emma.” Was that gravelly sound really her voice?

  “Emma what?”

  “Emma Stirling.”

  “Well, Emma Stirling, you picked wrong person to fuck with. No, maybe not in all ways,” he amended, considering his choice of words. The look in his eyes changed to lust, as he sat back and studied her body, taking in every inch of her.

  Emma’s insides turned to ice. She knew the customary Lycra workout clothes she was wearing clung to her figure—all she wanted now was to be swallowed up by an oversized T-shirt and baggy sweatpants.

  “Nice,” Slava commented, his lips twisting into a cruel smile. “Very nice. Maybe I put the gag back in for now. Talk can wait.”

  Emma gritted her teeth as he reached for it, locking her mouth shut. Simultaneously, she tugged frantically at the bonds around her wrists. Her primal instinct was to fight. She knew it wouldn’t help. It would probably make things worse. But she couldn’t help it. She was fighting for her life.

  “Lie still.” Slava pressed an elbow into her stomach until her head rolled with pain and she went still. “Now open your mouth or I open it for you.” The massive fists at his sides told Emma there’d be no contest.

  She obeyed his order.

  “Good. Now, first I take what you offered in Chicago. But different. No pleasure. Pleasure would have been for Isabella. Pain is for Emma Stirling.” Another cruel smile. “But much pleasure for me.”

  He stuffed the napkin back into her mouth. Flourishing the knife, he began to cut her Lycra top and sports bra, starting just above her breasts and slicing downward until he’d reached her waist. Then, he peeled back the layers and stared at her naked breasts.

  “Beautiful,” he said, ignoring the way Emma shrunk as far into the mattress as she could. “Just like I knew.” He cupped both breasts in his huge palms, and Emma swallowed back her vomit.

  He bent to take a nipple in his mouth. Emma cringed, squeezing her eyes shut.

  Slava’s cell phone rang. He ignored it, lowering his head until Emma could feel his hot breath against her skin.

  The phone kept ringing, over and over, stopping only to start ringing again.

  Slava angled his head to see the caller ID and then leaned over to grope at the nightstand, muttering a few choice words in his native tongue. Emma didn’t have to know Russian to know he was swearing.

  A temporary reprieve.

  Bless whoever was on the other end of that call.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Slava kept one of his hands clamped on Emma’s breast, furious that Max was calling right now. All he needed was an hour, one hour, with this gorgeous bitch, and he’d be sated. He’d have taken all her body had to offer and then some. He’d have punished her in ways that excited him even further. And he’d have oozed every ounce of pleasure out of his body and every ounce of life out of hers.

  One fucking hour.

  Why was Max calling? He knew that Slava had landed, checked into his hotel, and was surveying the necessary areas in Upper Montclair. He also knew that Slava didn’t like—or need—anyone to check up on him. So what the hell did he want?

  Snatching up the cell phone, he answered in Russian, his voice rough, gravelly, and pissed. “I’m busy.”

  “Whatever you’re doing to her, it stops now,” Max commanded.

  “How…?”

  “One of your new flunkies called me. He was trying to reach you for further instructions. He saw you take the girl, and he assumed you were on your way up here, which is exactly where you should be.”

  “I’ll leave soon.”

  “You’ll leave now. My private jet’s already on its way. It’ll land in Morristown, New Jersey in less than an hour. Get yourself to the airport and get on that plane—with the girl, who’d better be intact.”

  “She’s one of them.”

  “I assumed so. Which is the only thing that turns your blatant disregard for my orders into something I can live with. She’s crucial to safeguarding my work and to ensuring my freedom and yours. So stop thinking with your dick, and think with your brain. We need to know everything she knows—and we need it before she’s too traumatized to provide it. I’ll do the interrogating. You’ll provide the incentive. That part should entice you.”

  “Maybe.” Slava’s anger waned a bit. But not enough. He wanted absolute control over Emma Stirling’s body and her life. “Let’s say I do what you’re asking and you get what you need. Then what?”

  “Then she’s yours. Do with her as you please. I don’t give a damn. But for now, I need her alive, healthy, and talking. So get your hands and your instruments off of her. Tie her up, throw her in the van, and drive to the airport. Your reward will be as sweet as you want it to be.”

  Cupping Emma’s breast, Slava pondered Max’s promise and then reluctantly withdrew his hand. “Fine. But don’t forget what I’m owed, or I’ll be happy to remind you.”

  Hutch was beyond frustrated.

  He’d been in solution mode since Casey had called and blurted out the details of the crisis with Emma. He’d burned up the phone lines, setting the process in motion by appealing to his ASAC, who’d called the ASAC in the Albany Division—the division that handled Vermont. As shit luck would have it, their SWAT team was out of town training. The SWAT supervisor was willing to call them back, brief them, and devise a tactical plan. Then, given that the United States district attorney would be prepping the warrants, they would travel to Lubinov’s compound and be ready to move in. Hutch had stressed that this was exigent, but he knew that SWAT wouldn’t budge without those warrants.

  So, despite all his hard work, he was facing a brick wall that he knew Casey
would refuse to accept.

  It was time for a blowout with his stubborn, reckless girlfriend.

  Casey answered on the first ring. “Finally,” she said in greeting. “What do you have for me?”

  “We’re screwed on the make-it-happen-now front,” Hutch stated bluntly. He went on to explain the dilemma they were facing. “So the wheels are in motion, but we’re going to need some time.”

  “We don’t have time,” Casey countered. “Emma’s life is on the line.”

  “You’re not even sure she’s in Burlington.”

  “I know the odds are good.”

  “You’re waiting until the Bureau can get there.”

  “The hell I am.”

  Hutch slammed down his fist. “Dammit, Casey, you can’t just—”

  “Watch me. Marc and Ryan are already en route. That means they’re hours ahead of the FBI. I’m giving them the go-ahead. If the SWAT team shows up first, they’ll back down. If not, they’re going in.”

  The line went dead before Hutch could respond.

  Marc’s conversation with Casey was a minute long.

  With a terse sign-off, he disconnected the call and turned to Ryan, relaying Casey’s orders.

  Ryan nodded, flooring the gas just a tad more than he already was and speeding up the highway.

  “Don’t get a ticket,” Marc instructed. “We can’t afford the time, and we can’t give an explanation.”

  “I’ve got my eye out for cops,” Ryan replied. “But we’ve got to push it as much as we can.”

  Marc didn’t argue. Instead, he picked up his iPhone and pressed a private number.

  “Yup,” Aidan answered. Abby’s voice in the background told Marc that his brother was working at home.

  “Black Hawk.” Marc uttered the two words tersely.

  There was a long pause at the other end. “Are you drunk?” Aidan finally asked.

  “Not even a little.”

  “Black Hawk? Marc, we haven’t played that game since we were kids.”