by Tee O'Fallon
He leaned in until his face was inches from hers. “Who did you tell about my chat room conversation?”
“No one.”
“You work for the CIA. There is protocol. There must be a printout of what you overheard. Who has it?”
“I don’t know.” She did, and he knew it. Matt, Wayne, and Genevieve. But she’d never say their names. Never.
“You’re lying.”
“What’s the difference?” She snapped. “You’re going to kill me anyway. You’ve already tried and failed twice before.”
“Yes, that’s true. The difference now is that you have something I want.”
“What?”
“Information.”
“I’ll never tell you anything.”
He gave a soft chuckle, reminiscent of the way her grandfather used to laugh when he bounced her on his knee. But his grandfatherly demeanor was nothing but a grand facade. This man was a cold-blooded killer.
“We shall see, we shall see.” He plucked another peppermint from his pants pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. He nodded to one of the thugs, who handed him a syringe.
“No.” She began shaking her head back and forth. “Please don’t.” She twisted and pulled futilely at the restraints.
A hand clamped over her forehead, jerking her back against the headrest. The leather strap she’d seen earlier was tugged across her forehead and buckled tight.
Lukashin pushed up the sleeve of her T-shirt, and she cringed as the needle moved closer. I’m going to die. The needle was sharp as it pierced her skin, and as he slowly depressed the plunger, her last thought was of Matt.
I love you.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A few blocks from the address Fenway had given him, Matt glanced down at the handheld locator on the seat. Nothing yet. Dammit.
As soon as he rounded the corner, the number of vehicles with blue flashing strobes nearly blinded him. The sidewalk in front of the safe house was jammed with Crown Vics, Chargers, Impalas, and every other make and model in the U.S. government’s fleet. A few curious neighbors stood on their front porches, watching the bevy of police activity.
The house was a two-story 1970s tract house that looked like every other house on the block. It should have been perfect for a safe house. Lotta good that had done Trista. He wondered how the fuck they’d found her. “Goddamn FBI,” he muttered through clenched teeth as he double-parked next to a black Charger.
He hooked the locator onto his belt, then grabbed Sheba’s leash and the last garment he’d seen Trista wearing: the green T-shirt he’d bought her the day he’d purchased the charm bracelet.
His friends hadn’t arrived yet, but he didn’t doubt for a second that they’d be there for him.
After he leashed Sheba, she bounded from the Explorer. Even his dog knew serious shit was about to go down. “Let’s go, girl.”
Fenway met him at the front door. Over the agent’s shoulders, he glimpsed a half dozen crime scene agents wearing gloves, brushing for prints and photographing the interior.
“Connors,” Fenway said.
It took every ounce of his restraint not to deck the fucker, but that would waste precious time. Later, he promised himself. After they got Trista back. “Find anything useful?”
“Negative.” Fenway shook his head. “My guys are processing the scene. No one goes in until they’re done.”
“Fuck that.” Without waiting for a response, he shoved the agent aside. As soon as he walked into the house, he smelled it. The coppery scent of blood and the awful stench of death. In the living room adjacent to the hallway lay the bodies of two dead FBI agents. He was saddened by their deaths and angry that they hadn’t been skilled enough to stop Trista from being taken.
“Connors, dammit!” Fenway shouted, but Matt ignored him.
He grabbed Trista’s T-shirt from where he’d tucked it into his belt and let Sheba sniff it. Immediately, the dog headed for the stairs. Keeping her on the leash, he followed. Sheba beelined for the second door on the left side of the hallway. He didn’t have half the nasal receptors a dog had, but even he would have known this was the room Trista had occupied for the past two weeks. Her scent was everywhere. Flowers, vanilla and spice, and that shampoo at his house that she’d come to like. The FBI agents must have purchased some for her.
He ripped the receiver off his belt, desperately hoping to get a blip, but there was none. It had been a long shot at best. Now he’d have to drive in all directions, praying like hell that he’d get a hit.
Sheba whined, dragging him to the far corner of the room behind the bed. Cowering on the floor, every white hair on his furry body on end, was Poofy.
“Shit.” The last thing he needed was a cat in a K-9 vehicle, but he couldn’t leave the poor thing there to fend for itself. Besides, if Trista ever found out he’d abandoned her precious feline, his ass would be toast.
If. If she was even still alive. Don’t even think it.
Sheba strained at the leash, trying to touch noses with the frightened cat, but Poofy wasn’t having any of it and pressed himself farther into the corner.
“Easy, buddy.” Pulling on his dog’s leash to keep the two animals separated, Matt leaned down and scooped up the cat, tucking him under his arm.
Seconds later, he and Sheba were running down the walk to his Explorer. He deposited Poofy on the floor in front of the passenger seat, then quickly shut the door before the cat could escape.
“Matt!”
He turned to see six men in uniform coming toward him. Somehow, Nick, Jaime, Dayne, Eric, Kade, and Markus had gotten out of their nightly assignments to come to his aid. He didn’t want to know how they’d managed it without getting their asses chewed.
“What can we do?” Nick gripped his shoulder.
“Name it,” Kade added. “We’ve got the dogs, and we’re ready to roll.”
He quickly gave the details of what had gone down, who they were dealing with, and what his plan was to find Trista.
“Let’s go kick some Russian ass.” Dayne clenched his fist in the air.
“Damn straight.” Eric fist-bumped Dayne’s fist. “If those fuckers hurt our little pixie, we’ll pound their faces into the ground.”
A stab of fear cut through Matt’s heart at the idea of Trista being hurt, in pain, or…worse. Dead. Taking a deep breath, he shoved his fears aside. “Let’s roll. I’ll update you over the radio.”
As the other men headed back to their SUVs, he caught sight of Fenway practically running toward him.
“Connors!” The agent grabbed him by the arm. “Let me send some of my team with you.”
“Your team?” He leaned down and got in the other man’s face. Beside him, Sheba growled deep in her throat, sensing his barely controlled anger. “If your agents hadn’t just made the ultimate sacrifice, I’d bring up the fact that I managed to kick one of your teams twice that size, and I did it single-handedly.” He pointed to the front door. “Those dead agents…that’s on you. Two clearly untrained agents were a cakewalk for a crew of Russian operatives who were probably all military-trained. So fuck you, Fenway. I’ll find her, and I’ll do it with my team.”
Fenway began sputtering, and Matt knew why. The man’s career was on the line. He’d let a key witness in the biggest case in decades get grabbed, and now he wanted to be part of the rescue team so he could at least save face.
Fuck. That. At this point, Matt wouldn’t even trust the man to safeguard the cat.
Ignoring the man’s protests, Matt punched the fob on his vest and the side door of the Explorer swung open, nearly whacking Fenway in the ass. Sheba gave the other man a parting growl, then leaped into the SUV.
When Matt pulled away from the curb, six other Explorers followed closely behind, red-and-blue strobes flashing. In the darkened interior, he glanced at the receiver, still getting nothing from the tracker.
Goddamn FBI. No offense to Dayne, who was FBI K-9. Dayne was a different breed than Fenway and his incompetent
agents. If Dayne had been on the team guarding Trista, Matt had no doubt she would still be there.
Twenty minutes later, he hung a 180 and headed in the other direction. The handheld receiver alone without the satellite link wasn’t nearly as capable. Not quite a needle in a haystack, but driving around until he got a hit would take time, particularly since he didn’t know in which direction to head.
An hour later, there was still no blip on the screen. For the third time since they’d been driving around, he tried the satellite link, but it was still down. He pounded the steering wheel with his fist. “Damn.” They were wasting precious time.
Reacting to his outburst, Sheba stuck her head through the cage opening and rested her snout on his shoulder. Matt glanced at the floor in front of the passenger seat to gauge Poofy’s reaction, but the cat was nowhere in sight, having crawled somewhere underneath the seat.
Eric was right. If those Russian fuckers had hurt Trista, he’d do a helluva lot more than just pound their faces into the ground. He’d unleash a painful shit storm the likes of which they’d never seen. He’d make them wish they’d never been born. He’d—
His heart squeezed, and he sucked in an unsteady breath. I will find her. Then he’d do the right thing and let her go. I have to. Because I’m in love with her. Totally, absolutely, fucking in love with her.
A weak beep came from the receiver, and he jerked his attention back to the screen. The blinking blip flickered in and out, indicating it was at the very edge of the handheld’s range, but it was there.
His heart raced as he slammed his foot on the accelerator and prayed.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Trista’s head lolled from one side to the other. Not that she was sleepy, exactly, more like dopey or drunk. Having difficulty focusing, she squinted, then forced her eyes open wider.
“There you are.” Lukashin smiled.
“For a diabolical killer, you have a nice smile.” She grinned, somehow realizing that was the last thing she ought to be doing under the circumstances, but she couldn’t help it, and she just didn’t care. “I’m guessing that’s how nobody ever sees it coming.”
“You may very well be right.” He bestowed her with another charming smile. “What is your name?”
“Trista Gold.”
“Who do you work for?”
“The CIA. But you already know that, silly.” This time, she was the one to laugh, and somewhere in the back of her brain, she understood her reactions were inappropriate, given the situation. “Why am I saying such stupid things?”
“That’s the sodium pentothal I injected into your arm. In James Bond movies, it’s called truth serum. In reality, it shuts down the higher thinking parts of the brain. It’s more difficult to lie than it is to tell the truth, so people tend to be uninhibited, saying whatever pops into their brains.”
“Oh, okay.” She nodded absently. That makes sense, although he’s going to kill me, so why am I answering his questions? Because he’s right. I just don’t give a shit. Shit. Her favorite new word. “Shit, shit, shit.” Somehow that word seemed more appropriate, and yet she did care and vowed then and there not to tell him anything of importance. Fight it. Fight it! You can do it.
“Did you read the article Thomas George wrote about Senator Ashburn?” he asked.
“You betcha.” She nodded emphatically. “Quite a shocker, huh?” Oops. Had she admitted to reading the article already? I suck at this.
“Indeed.” He, too, nodded. “Where did you read the article?”
“M—” She clamped her mouth shut. She’d been about to say Matt’s house but caught herself at the last second. “My computer.” She smiled broadly, quite pleased with the quick recovery. See, it isn’t that hard fighting truth serum. I’m as good as James Bond. 007. “On the external hard drive I stole from Thomas George’s apartment.” Oops again. Didn’t mean for that to slip out. Shit, sodium pentothal really works!
“Ah.” His brows rose. “Did you show the article to anyone?”
Matt. Technically, he was the only one she’d shown it to. No! Do not say his name.
“Who did you show it to?” Lukashin persisted.
“Nope, not gonna tell you.” She shook her head, which had begun to feel as if it weighed a hundred pounds.
“Who?” He leaned in so close she got a heavy whiff of peppermint-laden breath.
Think before you answer. Take your time.
“Handsome man,” she answered on a sigh. “Very handsome man. He’s totally hot.” She snickered. Yeah, go with that answer. It wasn’t a lie, after all.
“What is the handsome man’s name?”
She bit her lip to keep Matt’s name from dribbling through her lips. I got it! “Hot Guy. His name is Hot Guy.” She couldn’t stop from grinning like an idiot. “No, make that Totally Hot Guy.”
One of the thugs snorted, but to her delight, Lukashin straightened, his lips compressing into a thin line.
“What did you do with the hard drive?”
“I gave it to Max.” Shit. She hadn’t meant to say his name. I’m slipping.
The rezidentura grinned, reminding her of the devil. “You were under the protection of the FBI, so would that be Special Agent Max Fenway?”
“I guess the cat’s out of the bag now, eh?” Eh? Where had that come from? She wasn’t Canadian. And she suddenly felt inordinately tired.
“Unfortunately, my dear, it seems everyone knows about the article. The FBI. The CIA.”
“Good. Can I go to sleep now?”
He looked at Thug One and Two. “Take her to the cemetery.”
“The cemetery?” She frowned. “Why would I want to go to a cemetery? That’s where dead people go.”
“You are correct.” He picked up another syringe from the metal tray, and the smile he gave her this time was anything but grandfatherly.
Chapter Thirty
The beep had been getting louder by the mile, the red blip progressively brighter as Matt tracked it on the digital map.
Behind him glowed the steady, comforting headlights of the other six SUVs. His friends would always have his back. He only prayed they’d be in time. Fear and worry snaked through him that they’d be too late.
They’d long ago gotten off I-66 and been driving steadily north along a narrow, twisting two-lane road skirting the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. There wasn’t much around except wild game and a whole lotta Christmas trees—another thing that didn’t bode well. Whatever those Russian fuckers had planned, it was clear Trista being released wasn’t part of it.
Sheba whined, pawing at the partition separating her from the passenger compartment before sticking her head through the opening and snorting in his ear. Craning her neck toward the green T-shirt on the seat, she let out a mournful howl. Sheba knew Trista was in trouble.
The road got steeper as they headed farther and farther north into the mountains, and with each passing mile, he gripped the steering wheel tighter. She’d been gone for more than two hours, and his mind raced with horrific scenes of the pain and suffering she might be enduring. God, no. Not that. He couldn’t take it if she was in pain.
As he rounded the next bend, an elevation sign came into view, thirteen hundred feet. The next sign took him by surprise. Blue Ridge Psychiatric Center. He’d forgotten the place even existed. As far as he knew, it had been abandoned for decades.
But the buildings are still there. A silent, morbid reminder of the brutal and experimental electrical and psychoactive drug treatments administered to mentally ill patients back in the day. The place even had its own cemetery, filled with poor souls who hadn’t been cured.
If it wasn’t for the lousy road condition, he would have stomped on the pedal even harder. But the driving was treacherous enough as it was.
Light rain began to fall, forcing him to flip on the wipers. “Shit.” Rain would kill any scent residue, making it harder for the dogs to track. This time he did pound his foot on the accelerator, sending the Explore
r perilously close to the edge of the unfenced road.
At the next bend, the road straightened, and another sign announced the entrance to the psychiatric center. He slammed on the brake and cut hard left onto a broken, rutted laneway. Just as the facility’s massive gates came into view, the receiver shrilled, indicating he was practically right on top of the tracking device.
Right on top of the charm bracelet.
Slamming the brake pedal again, he waited for the Explorer to come to a halt, then hit Sheba’s door release. The dog flew from the SUV and bolted around the hood. Matt took off at a dead run, following with a flashlight to illuminate the darkened woods. There was no need to look over his shoulder to verify his friends were right behind him. They’d always have his back.
Sheba barked once, then went silent. Breathing hard, he pounded through the trees, barely feeling the tree limbs smacking his face. Up ahead, the flashlight caught Sheba’s eyes, making them glitter like gold diamonds. She lay on the ground, panting, looking up at him. Crouching, he shone the light between her outstretched paws, immediately spotting what she’d hit on.
Trista’s charm bracelet.
He picked it up, clenching his jaw. “No!” For a split second, he squeezed his eyes shut, then stood and swung the flashlight in a 360, already knowing she wouldn’t be there. If Trista was anywhere in the immediate vicinity, Sheba would have hit on her first, instead of the bracelet.
The sounds of trees rustling and men running came to him.
“Matt, whatdya got?” Nick rested a hand on his shoulder.
He was quickly surrounded by Kade, Markus, and Jaime. He assumed Eric and Dayne had remained behind with the other dogs and vehicles.
“She was here, dammit.” He held up the bracelet, then closed his fingers around it.
“The other dogs are in the trucks,” Nick said as he caught his breath. “You want us to get them out here?”
“Not yet. Sheba knows her best.” Matt let the dog sniff the charm bracelet again, then swung his arm in a wordless command. Sheba took off in the direction of the other vehicles.