Vanishing Act

by Linsey Lanier

  “It’s a big one,” Cooley said.

  “I’ll put three men on Tamarkin’s tail. He may not go to Boston right away, but I think he’ll get there eventually. They’ll watch him twenty-four-seven.”

  Cooley pursed his lips. “I can’t give you three men.”

  “Two then.”

  “I can only spare one.”

  Sloan felt his gut churn. “That makes it even riskier.”

  “Are you changing your mind about this plan?”

  Sloan weighed it over, chafing at the constraints the committee was putting on him. Didn’t they know what they were doing? This was human trafficking. Drugs. More. Apparently not. But he couldn’t let that stop him. If he didn’t do something with Tamarkin, the man would rot in that prison, and they’d never find the guy in Boston.

  “No, I’m not changing my mind. I’ll do it with one man.”

  “Not O’Cleary.”

  “No. I’ve got someone else in mind.”

  Cooley looked at him the way he used to when Sloan beat him at the three hundred meter sprint. “Okay. I’ll sign the order and get things rolling. Tamarkin will be free by tonight. I’ll call you with the details.”

  “Thank you, Cooley. We’re close on this. It could be the end of Group 141.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Sloan shook his friend’s hand, got up, and went to the door.

  “And Sloan?”

  Sloan turned back. “Yes, Cooley?”

  “If your idea blows up in our face, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Washington DC at night was a mass of monuments and city lights and traffic and clubbers, and yet even with the chill of mid-February, one thing distinguished it from any other city in the country.

  The smell of power in the air.

  Donovan Santana stood at the bar of a smoky private room off E Street, taking in the soft jazzy background music and the muted blue-and-gold décor, elegant and refined under the low lights.

  As he eyed the attendees of the Capitol Hill reception he’d been invited to, he sensed that distinct odor was particularly concentrated in this room.

  He could see the lust for it in the causal laugh of a chief of staff, in the hearty handshake of a house leader, in the twinkling eye of a female congresswoman as they all worked each other for support of whatever their pet campaign was at the moment.

  Santana sipped his Old Fashion and let the atmosphere seep into his veins.

  This was where he belonged. He’d be here soon. One way or another.

  Across the room he spotted the oversized man in the tailored suit who’d given him his invitation. Senator Webster Griffith Beasley.

  He was chatting with several other congress members. Puffing on one of his imported cigars, Beasley slapped another Washington dignitary across the back, laughing loudly at a shared joke.

  The man disgusted Santana. But he was useful.

  After a moment, the large man left his group and caught Santana’s eye. He gestured for him to join him.

  Santana picked up his drink and crossed the room.

  The man led him into a narrow dining area divided from the rest of the room by frosted sliding doors.

  “Good evening, Senator,” he said to the man, summoning his best smile.

  “Good evening, Donovan. I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “I’ve never had a better time,” he lied.

  “Pull those doors closed.”

  He did as requested and the chatter and music died down.

  The Senator pressed his thick lips together as he eyed the hazy forms through the frosted glass. “Our illustrious leaders. Hah, none of them have a clue as to what they’re doing.”

  “Precisely,” Santana agreed “Why should we have elected officials? People have too much freedom as it is.”

  The Senator pointed at him with his cigar. “And because they do, they get into trouble. Why else is there so much chaos in the world? We need to control the masses.”

  Santana smiled and took a sip of his drink. “And that’s what we’re about to do, aren’t we? I assume that’s why you invited me here tonight.”

  “You don’t think it’s because I enjoy your company?” The Senator chuckled.

  Hiding his disdain, Santana remained silent.

  The big man found an ashtray and flicked the end of his cigar into it. “As usual, you are correct. I wanted you to know I’m taking care of that special FBI unit that’s been giving you so much trouble.”

  That news surprised him. He didn’t realize the Senator had that much influence. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I haven’t put them out of business, yet. But I’ve clipped their wings.”

  Good to know. “Is that all?”

  Beasley took a drag of his cigar and blew out a smoke ring. “You are sharp. No, that’s not all.” He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “I’m also pleased to tell you that the next phase is to begin.”

  It was all Santana could do to keep from letting out a shout of victory. “Do you mean—?”

  Beasley’s eyes twinkled. “Yes. I have a date for the arms shipment.”

  Santana’s pulse quickened. He hadn’t quite believed the man could pull off his part of their bargain, but he apparently had more pull in foreign countries than he’d thought.

  The Senator took out his cell phone and showed him a date on it.

  It would be tight, but it could be done. Santana nodded. “I’ll have the place where that shipment is to be received ready by then.”

  “And the rest of the plan? Are you ready with that?”

  “It’s going as expected.”

  The Senator’s gaze narrowed. “Santana, that’s not what I asked.”

  Santana finished his drink and set the glass down on a nearby table. “That part will be ready, as well.”

  “Good to know. I’ll be in communication with you. I want to know your progress every step of the way.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  A cry arose from the other side of the frosted doors, as someone popped open a bottle of champagne.

  Beasley shook his jowls in disapproval. “They’re celebrating a pre-mature victory in the House. Those fools are so worried about Iran and North Korea. Little do they know they should be looking right under their noses.”

  Santana chuckled.

  “Nonetheless it’s time we returned to the soiree before someone suspects we’re up to something.” The Senator reached for the door, as if about to usher Santana back to the main room, then paused. “One more thing.”

  “Yes, Senator?”

  “The Doroshenko matter.”

  Santana scoffed. “That hardly matters at this stage, does it?”

  “Still, I would like it taken care of.”

  It was a power play. Santana knew he had to comply. Or pretend to.

  “It will be handled.”

  “Excellent. Oh, one last thing.”

  “Yes?”

  Again he lowered his voice. This time there was a threat in it. “You cannot fail in this, Santana. If I go down, I’ll take you with me.”

  Now Santana’s grin was genuine. The man had no idea what he was capable of.

  “Senator Beasley,” he said confidently, “failure is not in my wheelhouse.”

  And he pulled the door open himself and returned to the merriment.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Santana took a late flight back to Boston.

  He was tired from the long day and the travel, yet he felt exhilarated by the Senator’s news. Soon the dream he had worked for for so long would come true. His mother would have been so proud of him.

  He dismissed his chauffeur, gave a nod to the doorman and the concierge as he stepped inside the towering glass building and rode the elevator up to his luxury penthouse on the sixtieth floor.

  As he opened the door to his domicile, he wondered whether he should order a lady to help him celebrate.

  H
e pressed a switch on the wall and light streamed over the rich décor of his open-design living space. The vaulted ceiling, the large circular sofa and barrel chairs in pure white Edelman leather, the blackened-steel console, the custom-made rug, all fashioned by top New York designers.

  He started toward the stainless steel wet bar, about to pour himself a nightcap and enjoy the view of the harbor through the glass curtain walls, when he started.

  Heart pounding, he stared at the figure in the white leather chair near the ivory fireplace.

  It took him a moment to find his voice. “What are you doing here?”

  After regarding him blandly for a long moment, the man replied in a thick Ukrainian accent. “They let me go.”

  Doroshenko.

  Santana recalled he had given the man a keycard to his place years ago. He had been one of the homeless boys from the streets of Kiev. He had come to the US as Anatoly Tamarkin to work for the organization. He had tried to leave. He’d stolen a car and tried to change his identity himself. Tom Jones was the name he had used.

  Ridiculous.

  He’d gotten caught. Santana had gone to Rikers to bail him out himself.

  He had intended to eliminate him. But for some reason, he’d taken a liking to the young man. In some ways, he reminded Santana of himself at that age, alone, without family, trying to make a place for himself.

  So instead, he took him under his wing for a time. Before he sent him to Kennesaw to work with DeBow. And he’d given him a new name. The one he had now.

  Yakiv Doroshenko.

  Santana took in Doroshenko’s large frame, the dark clothes, the bald head, the tattoos. The man had been in prison for the last five months. That was where he was supposed to be now.

  “What do you mean, they let you go?”

  Without moving, he eyed Santana carefully. “They made up some story about not having enough evidence to hold me, and they released me.”

  Santana didn’t believe him. “It was a ploy.”

  “I know that.”

  Feeling disgusted, he turned around, completed the trip to his wet bar, and began to make himself a drink.

  In a drawer under the counter he had a Colt 45. The Senator wanted him to get rid of this man in prison to keep him from talking. He had attempted it three times and failed. Now Doroshenko had made it easy.

  “Have you led them to me, Doroshenko?”

  Something like disappointment came over the large man’s leathery face. “I would not do that. You are like a father to me.”

  “In Kennesaw you let yourself get captured.”

  Now he became defensive. “It was those detectives. You do not know—”

  “I know all about those detectives. How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Slowly he opened the drawer.

  Doroshenko eyed his movement. He was not a stupid man. “I rented a car and drove here. I saw someone in an old Buick behind me right away. Outside of Framingham I pulled over for a pit stop, as you call it.”

  “And?”

  “And the man following me in the Buick had to pull over, too. He had no choice on the highway. I went into the woods. I grew up around woods. I know my way very well.”

  “And?” Santana said again.

  “And he must have needed a pit stop, too. He followed me.”

  Santana waited for the rest.

  Finally the man spoke. “And in the morning in a ditch under the trees, they will find a dead FBI agent.”

  His fingers on the gun, Santana paused. He thought about the date the Senator had given him tonight. He would need all the manpower he had to pull things together by then.

  After that one episode that landed him in Rikers, Doroshenko had always been loyal to a fault. He always did as he was told. And Santana did have something of a soft spot for him. He was the closest thing to a son he would ever have.

  There was no need to waste resources.

  He closed the drawer and took another glass from the cabinet for his new houseguest.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He set down the glass and quickly read the text.

  It was from overseas. From someone in the company he had founded years ago in Kiev. The shipment from Odessa had been confiscated by the authorities. He would not be receiving his share of that deal. There was more. The company was destroyed. Everything was gone. The police were shutting it down.

  Gone? Everything? Shutting it down?

  And then he focused on two names that appeared on the screen. Miranda Steele. Wade Parker. They had been working with the authorities in Kiev. Somehow they had been involved in the take down. What were those two doing in Ukraine?

  Santana began to quake.

  Anger possessed him like a demon. A white hot rage, searing his stomach, burning through his veins, pounding in his heart until he couldn’t breathe. He had to kill them. He had to destroy them now!

  And then, just as suddenly a quiet calm came over him as he thought of the Senator’s words tonight. I have a date for the arms shipment.

  He took a deep breath and felt his body relax. It would be all right. Everything would be all right.

  Of course, he wanted the money from the drug deal, but the manpower was a different story. After the final stages of his plan with the Senator were underway, he wouldn’t need thugs he had to cajole and bribe to do his bidding. That process took too long, anyway.

  Soon it would be so much easier.

  He put his phone back in his pocket and reached for a bottle. As he poured the whiskey, he thought of his latest side project. The girl in Atlanta he’d been chatting with online.

  An idea came to him. Yes. That would work. That would simply be perfection.

  He took the drink over to Doroshenko and handed it to him. “You can stay here for the time being. I have work for you.”

  Nodding, Doroshenko took the glass and gulped down half of it. “I am here to serve.”

  Watching him closely, Santana took a seat across from him. “Good, good.”

  “I have much to tell you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  And as Doroshenko began to relate his latest experience in an FBI interrogation room, Santana was more certain than ever of his plan.

  There was that name again. Wade Parker. How that infuriating man had ever managed to find Doroshenko’s sister he would never know. Wade Parker. How he loathed him. It was more than just what he’d done to him. It was an inexplicable hatred.

  Santana thought of how many times the man and his wife had escaped him. No more.

  “I have a question,” Doroshenko said.

  Santana came out of his reverie. “What is it?”

  “When I was recruited I was promised the organization would take care of my family. Wade Parker said that was a lie.”

  Santana scoffed, bristling at the name again. “And you believe him?”

  “I am asking you if it is true.”

  He had better tread carefully here. He needed this man’s trust. “If it was promised, then it was done. Haven’t we always treated you well?”

  “My sister said they received no money.”

  Santana paused a moment. Then he smiled kindly at the man. “It must have been an oversight. I’ll look into it in the morning. If they weren’t paid, I’ll make sure they get all the money you were promised.”

  The man’s hard face turned to one of a grateful child. “Thank you, sir.”

  He was so simple.

  Santana put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get you settled in. We start tomorrow morning on a new plan.”

  “New plan, sir?”

  “Yes, a great one. One that will make history. And you will be a part of it.”

  Feeling a new surge of excitement, Santana showed Doroshenko the way to the guest bedroom and closed the door.

  Then he went to the wet bar and retrieved his gun. No sense taking chances with the giant in his home. He would sleep with the pistol on his nightstand.

  But he couldn’t indulge in fear now.
Nothing could dampen the thrill he was feeling.

  As he headed into his own room, he paused at the sleek desk that held his laptop and thought of his next conversation with the girl. He would be persuasive, charming. He would get her to do his bidding.

  And then?

  And then at last, all his plans would come together. He would take care of Miranda Steele and Wade Parker and everyone related to him.

  At last, he would have his revenge. At last, he would destroy them all. And he would rule the world.

  With a gleeful chuckle, he headed for the shower.

  ###

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for reading Vanishing Act, the thirteenth Miranda and Parker Mystery. I’m working hard on the next book now.

  If you’d like be among the first to be notified when the book comes out, feel free to join my no-spam newsletter list here. You’ll get some free stories as a bonus.

  Thanks again.

  I love all my readers and am truly grateful for your support!

  Linsey

  PS: I love getting reviews.

  PPS: Most of my books are now on Amazon exclusively. If you missed a book in the series, did you know you can read Kindle books on your iPad, iPhone, tablet, or Android? All you need is the free Kindle app and an Amazon account. You can purchase the books from Amazon and read them on your iPad or other device with the Kindle app. Pretty cool, huh?

  Copyright © 2018 Linsey Lanier

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.