by Holly Bargo
He nodded and rose. She took a final sip of that heavenly brew and set down the cup. Iosif escorted her back to their room where she retrieved her purse, a dainty macramé affair that held little more than identification, credit card, cash, and a small pack of tissues. One never knew when one might sneeze.
The hotel dispatched one of the shuttles maintained for the convenience of their guests. The driver looked twice at Latasha before an icy glare from Iosif stopped the other man’s obvious appreciation of her uncommon beauty. The big Russian made sure to seat himself so that he would be between anyone else in the vehicle and his bride. That prickly feeling at the back of his neck still hadn’t disappeared. He just wished he knew whether the danger pointed toward him or Latasha.
They arrived at the local market without incident. The driver offered to return to pick them up at the drop-off point in a few hours. Iosif made note of the location and time and took his wife’s slender hand in his. Slowly, slowly, they wandered from stall to stall, fending off vendors seeking to sell overpriced trinkets to rich North American tourists. Iosif stood guard over Latasha as she sifted through handmade jewelry, hats, scarves, and other goods. Twice he saw the two men who had occupied the hotel’s outdoor terrace during breakfast. He wondered if the two men were merely enjoying the market. Iosif didn’t believe in coincidences. A flicker of motion caught his peripheral vision. Reflex, not thought, governed the hand that shot out and caught the skinny arm of a juvenile pickpocket.
“Give it back,” he ordered, his voice low and menacing.
The boy’s eyes widened, first in wily denial, then in fear as the hand gripping his arm tightened. The pain from the big tourist’s grasp would doubtless leave bruises, the boy knew. Bowing to the inevitable, the boy offered a smile, not even slightly apologetic, and handed back Latasha’s wallet.
“Latasha,” Iosif said, catching her attention.
She turned around and gasped to see her husband holding a boy in his cruel grip in one hand and her wallet in the other.
“Pickpocket,” he explained curtly.
“I should have been paying more attention,” she admitted.
Iosif didn’t bother denying that. “Look in your wallet and make sure everything is there.”
With shaking hands, she took the wallet from his hand and quickly checked its contents. She directed a glare at the boy and said, “Give it back.”
“¿Que?”
“Mi dinero,” she hissed and looked up at Iosif. “He took about half of my money.”
Iosif grasped the boy around the throat, exerting a firm squeeze that left the young thief in no doubt as to the big man’s ability to choke the life from him with little effort. The boy shrugged and dug in his pocket to retrieve the folded bills he’d managed to extract from the pretty lady’s wallet before the big man had caught him. Latasha took the money from his grubby hand and counted it.
“It’s all there.”
“Don’t let me see you again,” Iosif snarled in an undertone that frightened the boy more than shouting would have.
“Vete a casa, muchacho,” Latasha said as she returned the bills to her wallet and the wallet to her purse. She zipped it shut and closed her hand over the shoulder strap. She looked back to Iosif and said, “Let him go. He won’t bother us further.”
“You’re sure about that?”
She shrugged. “He won’t bother us again today. And I’ll do better at paying attention.”
Iosif released his hold on the boy’s neck. The child dashed away, not being so foolish as to linger. With stern control, Iosif quelled his rage. Seeing his fury, Latasha settled a hand on his arm.
“It’s okay, Iosif. We’re okay.”
Not until the hard flesh beneath her hand relaxed and he took a deep breath to release the stress, did she lift her hand from his arm. Iosif immediately captured it and brought her palm to his mouth for a kiss. He closed his eyes for a second, simply grateful that her touch calmed him. He could very well have killed that little thief.
“Let’s head back to the hotel,” Latasha suggested, no longer in the mood to shop.
“You’ll be hungry,” he said. “Lunch first.”
“And you,” she said. “You’ll eat, too.”
“Da.”
They strolled through the market’s crowds of vendors and vacationing tourists until they entered the shade of a restaurant that had actual customer seating. A smiling host seated them at a small table. Another smiling young man approached and rattled off the day’s specials in charmingly accented English. Latasha and Iosif ordered their food and settled in to wait.
“They are following us,” he murmured as he saw the same two men enter the restaurant and be seated by the host.
“What? Who?”
“The two men who were just seated.”
Latasha wanted to protest his paranoia, but she merely set her hand lightly on his forearm and said, “They probably just like this restaurant. I’ve always heard the best places are where the locals eat.”
“Mm-hm,” he hummed lukewarm agreement, which Latasha knew was his way of placating her without admitting fault. “If they are locals, then why were they eating in a hotel restaurant?”
“Maybe they really like the food there?”
Iosif shrugged, neither accepting nor refusing her explanation.
“Iosif? Does the Bratva work with Hispanic gangs?” Latasha inquired, keeping her voice low so as not to be heard by anyone other than her husband.
“Like the Culebras?” he asked, maintaining an equally quiet tone as he referred to the criminals who had mistakenly kidnapped Giancarla, one of his bride’s best friends who was now married to one of his best friends and the mother of that man’s children. “Bah. Undisciplined animals.”
He cast a covert glance at the two men from the hotel restaurant. No, those two did not look like street thugs. Their more sophisticated grooming proclaimed them something higher in cartel hierarchy, but not top tier criminals. No—
“Maybe they’re just businessmen,” Latasha reasoned.
Oh, they were businessmen, all right. Iosif could guess what business they conducted.
“Perhaps they are merely here for drugs,” he whispered.
“Merely,” she repeated faintly.
Iosif met her gaze steadily. “People who avoid illegal drugs need not fear those who deal in them.”
She shook her head. “I see too much in the emergency room, Iosif, people who will do anything to get enough money to buy their next fix.” She closed her eyes against a recent memory and, opening them said, “Last week, an addict traded his twelve-year-old daughter for drugs. Her brother tried to rescue her and ended up in the emergency room with three gunshot wounds. He died on the table before the doctors could help him.”
He could not refute the truth of that. He covered her hand with his and said, “Then we will simply avoid them.” Her green eyes, dark with sorrow and painful memories, flickered up to meet his gaze. “We will enjoy our honeymoon.”
Before she could respond, their waiter returned to set plates of steaming seafood and vegetables on the table.
“Honeymoon?” the waiter repeated, eyes and smile bright.
“Yes. We are just married,” Iosif replied and brought his wife’s hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles.
“Congratulations!” the waiter exclaimed. “I bring you wine, wine to celebrate!”
Before either Iosif or Latasha could decline, the waiter headed toward the kitchen, intercepted by one of the two suspicious men who walked toward the restroom. The other of the two men rose from their table and approached Iosif and Latasha’s table. He tipped his hat to Latasha, smiled, and said, “I could not help but overhear that you are newlyweds. Allow me to offer congratulations.”
Latasha smiled and murmured a blushing thank-you.
The man looked at Iosif and commented with an oily smile, “She’s a most unusual beauty. It is a fortunate man who possesses her.”
Iosif didn�
�t like the cold gleam in the other man’s eyes, but polite behavior demanded that he accept the man’s praise. He nodded and murmured his thanks. Beneath the table, his hand fisted.
“Ah, but you must eat your meal while it is still hot and fresh,” their unwanted guest commented. “Enjoy your day.”
The man returned to his table just as the waiter returned bearing two glass flutes of sparkling wine. Setting each glass on the table, he said, “With the chef’s compliments!”
“Oh, how sweet!” Latasha exclaimed and tasted the fizzy liquid. She held the glass away from her for a moment, giving in to the urge to sneeze as the bubbles tickled her nose. She frowned at the glass. A second sip brought a small smile of appreciation. “I don’t know what kind of wine this is, but it’s not sickly sweet. It’s actually rather pleasant, kind of like a semi-dry Riesling.”
Iosif took a small, exploratory sip, then set the glass down. He’d had more time and opportunity to refine his palate than had his young bride. The wine was barely adequate. But he simply nodded and said nothing as she finished it off while she ate her lunch.
“Are you not going to drink that?” she asked, looking pointedly at his wine.
“Nyet. I prefer red.” He gestured at her to take it.
She nodded, accepting the offer because she did know that he preferred bold, very dry, red wines. She’d looked up some of the bottles he kept in a special cooler just for wine: her husband was a wine snob just like Cecily was a food snob. Latasha didn’t mind. The quirks just added depth to their characters. Regardless, she enjoyed the light, fizzy beverage. It complemented her meal nicely.
They finished their meal and wandered further through the market. Iosif either held his bride’s hand, settled his hand in the curve of her lower back, or wrapped his arm around her, never allowing her to venture beyond his reach. Instinct warned him of danger, but he could not see from where it might come or upon whom it was focused. Not wanting to disturb her pleasure, he said nothing and maintained a quiet watchfulness even as he gladly purchased Latasha a charming seashell bracelet and floppy straw hat.
They returned to the drop-off point to wait for the shuttle, taking advantage of the sturdy benches placed in the shade beneath thickly clustered palms.
“I cannot believe how beautiful it is here,” Latasha gushed, leaning against Iosif’s side.
“Da,” Iosif agreed and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. She giggled, still a little tipsy from the wine imbibed with lunch.
They sat in companionable quiet, listening to the murmur of conversation from the market beyond and the soughing of the tropical breeze through the lush greenery surrounding them. The shuttle arrived as promised and they boarded, along with a handful of other resort patrons who had also enjoyed the festive market.
Sitting together, they chatted with lazy amiability about the market wares, the food, the sights, and what they planned to do the next day.
“Zip lining through the rainforest,” Latasha decided with a brilliant grin. “Ever since I saw Bill Engvall’s skit about his zip lining adventure, I’ve always wanted to go.”
“Bill Engvall?”
“He’s a comedian, funny as hell,” she explained. “Back when we were living in the apartment, Gia rented the DVD that we watched on the old DVD player that Cece’s parents gave to her. I made popcorn and we laughed ourselves silly that evening.” She sighed. “Ah, good times.”
Iosif’s expression maintained careful neutrality, though he wondered how Latasha could have fond memories of the deplorable pit in which she and her roommates lived for three years. He supposed it was human nature to find joy even in the meanest circumstances, and he appreciated that ability in his lovely bride.
They looked up in surprise as the shuttle creaked to a halt.
“What’s going on?” Latasha murmured, peering out the window.
A rap at the driver’s door yielded the driver’s side window rolling down. The driver managed one word—¿Que?—before he slumped sideways in a spurt of bright red blood and the pfft of a silenced pistol. A tanned hand yanked open the vehicle door and another hand grabbed the dead driver and jerked his body out of the vehicle. The heavy click of the door locks disengaging sounded ominous in the heavy quiet, broken only by the muffled whimpering of one of the other passengers.
Latasha felt steady pressure on her shoulder and realized that Iosif was pushing her downward. She glanced up at him, eyes wide with terror.
“Spuskat'sya,” he murmured, ordering her to get down.
Latasha wasted no time arguing and slowly sank toward the rubber mats on the vehicle’s floor, even as the front passenger side door flew open and a man jumped into the vehicle. Internally, Iosif frowned; however, he maintained an impassive expression and watched, memorizing, calculating.
The second man quickly scanned the 10-passenger van and grinned with evil intent when he noticed the empty seat next to Iosif.
“You, big man,” the thug said as he leveled his pistol at Iosif. “Send your woman forward.”
“Come and get her,” Iosif muttered a challenge.
The man laughed as though the Russian had cracked a joke and, with nonchalant cruelty, shot one of the other passengers. Blood spurted at the sickening sound of the bullet penetrating flesh. Screams erupted as the passenger groaned and slumped over in a widening pool of blood.
“Send your woman forward or I kill another one,” the man ordered.
Latasha looked up and saw from her husband’s expression that he was prepared to sacrifice every other life on board that vehicle to save hers. She bit her lip and rose, unable to endure the guilt that his decision would dump on her conscience.
“Latasha, nyet,” he whispered, his voice harsh as he recognized the determination in her eyes, the bleak courage of what she was doing. “Don’t, please.”
“I can’t be responsible for killing innocent people, Iosif. I’m a nurse. I save lives.”
He took hold of her hand. “Do you know what they’ll do to you?”
Her whole body trembled in terror, and she felt her bowels liquefy. She nodded once and whispered, “I know.”
“Survive,” Iosif growled through clenched jaws, so he wouldn’t beg. “Stay alive. I will find you.”
A glimmer of trust flared in her eyes. She nodded, unable to speak if only because her abductor had edged forward and grabbed her arm. He leveled his gun at Iosif who began to rise.
“No, big man. Say good-bye!” With a high-pitched giggle, he squeezed the trigger.
Iosif anticipated the shot and dodged before the firing pin could send the bullet on its way. He crouched down behind the seats as the man dragged his bride outside and fired a few more shots for good measure. He leaped up and rushed to the front of the van, just as the man shoved Latasha into a car. The car’s engine revved. Smoke shrouded the tires, which screeched as the driver peeled away at high speed.
Iosif turned around to see two of the passengers holding their cell phones aloft, recording the incident. He had no need of their electronics; he’d already memorized the car’s license plate. Knowing the police were likely on their way and not wanting to deal with law enforcement, he disembarked and walked toward the market and melted into the oblivious crowd as lights and sirens congregated around the hotel shuttle, two fresh corpses, and the remaining passengers. With rough purpose, he pulled his own cell phone from his pocket and dialed.
“Iosif, you’re on your honeymoon. Why do you call?” Maksim’s voice boomed across the connection in English.
Speaking in terse Russian, Iosif explained what happened.
Maksim wasted no time cursing the situation. “I’ll set Gennady to running the license plate. I do not have a formal agreement with the cartels down there, but I do have a connection with someone who will help. For a fee.”
“Pay it,” Iosif demanded. “I will reimburse you.”
“Of course, you will. Tell me what you need and I’ll relay the list.”
Thinking quickly, Ios
if listed several items.
“I shall send Bogdan to assist.”
“No. There’s no time to waste.”
“All right.” Maksim hesitated, then growled with deep-throated viciousness, “Kill them. Kill them all.”
Iosif thanked his boss and disconnected.
He waited, fairly vibrating with impatience. But these things took time. Maksim would have to negotiate terms with his contact, and then Russian boss’ connection would have to procure the illegal supplies he specified if they weren’t ready-to-hand.
Finally, Iosif hailed a taxi and returned to the hotel. Once in his room, he took a quick, cold shower and grabbed the small pad of paper and pen the hotel offered to all guests. With sharp jabs of the pen to the paper, he jotted down notes, everything he remembered about the two men: their appearance, their apparel, their voices, their weapons, the make and model of their car.
Damnit, he should have bugged her clothes with trackers.
The phone rang. Finally.
“Can you talk?”
“Yes,” Iosif answered.
“Go to the lobby in forty-five minutes. You will meet Carlos Grullo. He knows what you look like; I sent him a picture. He has agreed to provide you with what you need.”
“Thank you, Maksim.”
“Do what you must, Iosif, then come back home and bring your pretty wife with you. She’ll need to talk to Livvy.”
Once again, Iosif could only thank his boss. Yes, he silently acknowledged, Latasha would need Olivia, who’d once been sold into sexual slavery and liberated by the Bratva boss who married her.
Chapter 4
Latasha trembled. Sweat bloomed cold and clammy, acrid to the nose. Her heart raced and her breathing kept time, shallow and rapid. Terror accurately described her emotional state. Dear God, she wanted to avoid the abuse headed her way. No good deed goes unpunished, a nasty little voice whispered inside her brain.
In the way the mind protects itself, Latasha started to feel distant from her predicament, almost as though her consciousness hovered outside her body. The out-of-body disconnection manifested in an inappropriate bubble of laughter, which she recognized with clinical calculation as hysteria. She’d witnessed it in the emergency room often enough.