Madison retrieved the letterhead. “Have you guys had any epiphanies on the ten-digit code yet?”
Cynthia stared at her, and Madison sensed she was shutting her out because she wasn’t happy about Madison going in—period.
“I’m going to take precautions,” Madison assured her. “Despite what everyone might think, I don’t have a death wish.”
Cynthia studied her as if hunting for even a hint of doubt in Madison’s voice. She must have passed because Cynthia glanced at Terry, then back to Madison. “The team’s been working on the numbers. We’ve spent actual time staring at it, even. You know, hoping something pops… But nothing.” Cynthia gestured to the mounted TV, where they had a photograph of the number on the screen. “We couldn’t just stare at it, though, as other things needed attention, but it’s never been far from our minds.”
Madison focused on the ten digits: 4734237437. They’d originally thought it was a phone number and that hadn’t worked out, but what if they hadn’t been too far from a clue with that? Her thoughts were filling in slowly. Viewed as a phone number, it would have been organized as 473 423 7437.
“Maddy?” Cynthia prompted.
“I’m just looking at the numbers.” She didn’t take her eyes off them when she responded.
“And are you seeing something?”
Madison glanced at Cynthia. “We thought it might have been a phone number.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t.”
“Right. But what if we’ve been complicating things?” Madison hurried over to Mark. “Piece of paper.”
He handed her one.
“Pen?” She held out her hand, and he put one in it. She scribbled down the numbers, arranging them as they would be as a phone number.
Cynthia came up behind her. “What are you—”
Madison held up a hand to quiet her. “Tell me the letters associated with each number on a telephone keypad,” she requested of Mark.
“Oh, this could be something,” Terry said.
She was just following the flow of her thoughts and had no idea exactly where they were leading her yet. It might not even end up being anywhere. The number could be any number of things.
Mark rattled off the letters associated with each number, and Madison wrote them under the number in a column and worked her way through. When she was finished, she had ten columns of letters underneath the numbers and no clue. She stepped back.
“I can’t make anything out of this,” she said.
Mark wrote the numbers and letters down on another sheet, but he did it in such a way that the numbers were together as they were on the letterhead. “The number four repeats three times and same with the number three and seven…”
Madison wasn’t sure what he was getting at. “I’m not sure what that means, if anything.”
“I don’t know if it means anything yet,” Mark began. “I was just making an observation. But what if we still ran with your theory of the numbers as letters and played with the arrangement…” He scribbled the numbers and letters down again. The first time making it four digits, then a space, four more digits, another space, and the final two digits.
Madison was starting to notice a bit of a pattern. Viewing the first four digits—4734—as a word, it could start or end with a G, H, or I. Building on the concept of this being a word, she’d first consider words that began with G and then move on to the next digit. It could be a P, Q, R, or S.
GP didn’t gel for her and neither did GQ—unless one was talking about the men’s fashion magazine. With GR she could be onto something. She continued, searching her brain for any words that started with GS, but none came to mind.
Think…
She stepped back, taking in the ten digits as a whole. The last number was seven and could be R. The second last number could be an E. She went back to the beginning and let her mind fill in blanks, just like the puzzles she used to be so good at. Her heart started racing as a name came to mind.
She took a deep breath. “Greg Berger.”
“Greg Berger?” Terry asked incredulously. “Why would his name be in code on a piece of paper?”
“I don’t know.” Madison didn’t claim to have all the answers.
“And why would Constantine want this?” Cynthia asked.
“Well, if we figure that Constantine was after this, and that’s why he tortured Bates and set up the cameras,” Madison started, “I can only think of one reason for Greg’s name to be encoded on a piece of paper. Dimitre was calling a hit on Greg Berger.”
Terry stepped forward. “And maybe Berger found out—”
“From the prison warden,” Madison finished. They’d discussed the possibility of the warden being on the payroll of Dimitre and a mystery third party. “Who must have known what the message was and passed it on to Greg.”
“Berger could have sent Constantine to kill Bates, retrieve the message, and stop it from reaching its intended target,” Terry surmised. “Aka whoever was going to be tasked with the hit. But if Constantine was on Dimitre’s payroll in the past—”
“Berger must have sweetened the pot,” she finished.
Terry nodded. “But that doesn’t explain why Dimitre would want Berger dead.”
She opened her palms. “I don’t know. Maybe he figured out that Greg was up to something.”
“Up to what, though?” Terry asked. “Is he trying to take over as head of the Mafia here in Stiles?”
“I don’t know, but I think we’ve underestimated Greg Berger,” Madison concluded.
“That seems like an understatement now,” Terry said drily. “He obviously had Dimitre’s attention.”
“And Greg would only carry all this out, stripping Dimitre of his power—”
“If he was suicidal,” Terry said.
She shook her head. “I was going to say if he had power behind him.” She paused, thinking her next statement through before saying it aloud. It was a leap, but a possibility nonetheless. “What if Greg Berger and Roman Petrov were close?”
Terry cocked his head. “Dimitre’s father is working with Greg to bring down his own son?”
“It could explain why Dimitre hasn’t been killed.”
“Punishment.” Terry’s eyes sparked. “For the mess from ten months ago, maybe?”
When she’d dug into her cold case and poked into the Mafia’s affairs, she’d unleashed secrets they’d preferred remain such. And to contain them, the body count had piled up.
“We need to take another look at Greg Berger, and see if we can connect him to Roman Petrov,” Terry said. “In the meantime, I’ll have officers bring him in immediately.”
“Well good luck with that.” Madison’s eyes darted to the clock on the wall. Her stomach twisted. It was game time. “I’ve got to get wired up.” Madison went to leave the room, and Cynthia pulled back on her and gave her a strong hug.
“You better come back to us.” Cynthia pecked a kiss on her cheek.
“I intend to.” Madison hurried from the room and didn’t look back.
It was time to save her sister.
-
CHAPTER
46
TROY HANDED MADISON A SMALL mic to insert in her shoe. “The wires and bugs stay in place unless he finds them and takes them off.” He paused a moment. “I told you I’m not crazy about you going in there.”
Thankfully, they’d been able to persuade Andrea to let Madison do this, but as Troy had said, not being wired wasn’t negotiable. Madison would be going in unarmed, though. Bringing in a gun could do more to incite Constantine to violence than it would to protect her or Chelsea.
“I’m not risking my sister’s life or mine.” Madison hugged him.
He put his arms around her, but it was a hard for them to get too close as he was suited up for war. His heavy-duty vest alone added at l
east thirty pounds to his frame.
It didn’t matter that they were in the mobile SWAT command center and that his men were watching them. If something went sideways with Constantine, they might never see each other again. She shook the sliver of doubt before it could cripple her confidence.
“I’ve got to go.” It was said with a desire to get on with saving her sister, but she was also hesitant to leave Troy. She took his mouth in a brief but deep kiss and pulled back. “I’ll see you soon.”
“You better.” Troy touched her cheek and blinked slowly.
She left and got into her Mazda. SWAT was positioned about a mile down the road from the meet-up spot and were concealed by brush that lined the edge of a field.
As she drove, images started to enter her mind, but she was able to squeeze them out. She’d save her sister and put this nightmare behind her.
She took the turn down the drive, her hands gripping the wheel so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. She parked the car about twenty feet from the barn and got out. A chill ran through her, but she wasn’t sure if it was the wind or her nerves.
She approached the barn and opened the door slowly. The wood moaned on the hinges. She peeked inside, and for the most part, it was dark, but in one corner, there was light coming out around the edges of what must have been another door.
She took the first step inside, still cautious about her surroundings and preparing to be ambushed, but nothing came. Constantine was still playing his game.
In fact, it was almost too quiet in here. She heard her own breath but not much else. A moment later, there was scuffling from behind her and the thwack of the barn door slamming shut.
She spun around and reached for a gun but remembered she wasn’t armed. It was too dark now to make out much of anything.
More silence and then a switch was flipped, and the barn was bathed in light. She stubbornly refused to close her eyes, even as they watered profusely. Through them, she made out a hazy silhouette—large and foreboding. It was Constantine, and he was holding a gun on her. There was no sign of her sister.
“Where’s my sister?”
“Did you come unarmed?”
“Yes.” She held up her arms, showing her hands.
“But you didn’t come alone, did you?” It wasn’t really a question. “You have a hard time following directions, Detective.”
“Call it a gift,” she retorted snidely, surprised at how she was standing her ground with him.
“Ha, you Americans think you’re so funny,” he continued through clenched teeth. “If you ever wanted to see your sister alive again, you should have come alone.”
“Please! They tracked the phone call,” she pleaded, hoping he would buy it. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
A flashback of him on top of her struck like a lightning bolt, and bile rose into her mouth. She swallowed it with disgust, cringing at its flavor. “Where’s my sister?”
“Oh, we’ll get to that.”
“Just let her go,” she begged. “Take me in her place.”
“And what? Have Stiles PD storming in here?”
“Please, I never wanted them to come.”
“But they did,” he roared.
Her heart was racing, and she could hardly breathe.
“Nonetheless, I am nothing if not prepared. And I’m sure they’re listening. But that’s all right because your boyfriend will get to hear everything but be powerless to stop me.” A sinister grin curved his lips. He still held the gun on her but reached into his pocket. He pulled out a cell phone. “One call and this barn, your sister, us, and everyone who moves in on us is dead.”
She was staring at his phone as if it held the secret of life and death, because it sort of did. “Just let her go. Let them—”
“You’re not in charge here.” He stepped toward her and leaned in, sniffing her hair, and ran his hand down her arm. Instinctively, she stiffened.
“Where’s my sister?” she asked again. If she just focused on getting to Chelsea, maybe she could tune out his touch.
“I told you we’d get to that.”
He circled her, sticking close to her body, mere inches between them. She sensed his raw strength and knew that, physically, she was no match for him. Even hopped up on adrenaline, it would be like an ant fighting a rat. But maybe if she could keep him talking, he’d somehow let his guard down long enough for her to get the jump on him.
“I brought the letterhead.” She held up her hands. “I’m just going to reach for it—”
He gripped her wrist tight enough, splotches of white light pinpricked her vision. “Where is it?”
“In my left back pants pocket.”
His hand touched her ass, and she strived to put herself out of body and distance herself from this nightmarish reality. But her mind was scheming ways to get her and her sister out of this mess.
She took in the barn, the rafters overhead, the few bales of hay on the floor in the corner, and the walls that held an assortment of tools. Of the ones she recognized by name: saws, picks, shovels, and hand cultivators. Some of them appeared old enough to have been left here a hundred years ago. But one thing they all held in common was they’d make good weapons—that was if she could get to them. But they were all mounted and at least fifteen feet away from her.
Constantine walked around in front of her, the letterhead in his hand. “Have you figured everything out yet?”
She stared through him, even as she felt his breath on her face.
He snatched the paper, crumpled it up, and tossed it to the floor. “I asked you a question,” he hissed.
“I figure there’s a power shift happening, and those numbers are a code that spells out Greg Berger.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “You have some of it right.”
“Is Greg the new head?” she wagered.
“As I said, you had some of it right.”
Her mind was spinning. Why did he want them to know about Greg Berger? What was it they had missed? Bates had been killed—something that would anger Dimitre. And then there was Yasmine’s murder, but Madison wasn’t entirely sure who benefited most from her death. Taking down McAlexandar would be another blow to Dimitre, though. All of this indicated someone working against Dimitre…
“Nothing, Detective? Has your mind gone blank?” He circled her, then moved in and nibbled her ear, and the pain from his teeth sinking into her flesh sent waves through her. But she wasn’t going to show him.
Instead, she remembered how he didn’t like it when she had seemed to cooperate with his advances. But there was no way she could bring herself to role-play—not again and not with Troy listening.
“Does your SWAT toy pleasure you?”
You sick bastard, she screamed in her head.
“Are you working for Roman Petrov?” she asked, bringing up her earlier theory about father teaching son a lesson.
“Now, you’re very hot.” He kissed her neck aggressively.
I’m going to kill you the first chance I get!
She pretended to like his attention, and she lolled her head farther to the side. He stopped and scowled at her. He took the barrel of the gun and put the tip to her lips, watching for a reaction. She refused to look at him and, instead, honed in on a pick on the wall and imagined drilling it into his head. But she couldn’t rush things. She had get him talking.
“What am I missing?” she asked, despite the placement of the gun.
He groaned and lowered the gun. “Why must we talk business?”
“Who do you work for? Dimitre or Roman?”
“What makes you think they’re on opposing sides?”
“You killed Bates, Dimitre’s link to the outside world.”
“I only kill under orders.”
“So why? And why Yas—”
He cupped h
er chin with one hand and squeezed with a viselike grip. She cried out, pain shooting through her jaw.
“I like it when you’re hurting,” Constantine snarled, his nose practically touching hers.
She could still see the pick to the side of his head, but it was so far away. She let her body fall limp, and with her resignation, Constantine again lost interest. He let go of her and put about six inches between them. Her jaw was throbbing so hard he may as well have been gripping it still.
Obviously, Constantine had actually cared for Yasmine. And what he had said about Dimitre and his father not being on opposing sides was starting to sink in, too, along with the fact Greg wasn’t the new power player. But why did he want their attention drawn to Greg? And why frame McAlexandar, assuming that was what had happened?
She opened her mouth to speak but quickly snapped it shut. The pain was almost unbearable. But she’d be strong—for Chelsea. “Take me to my sister,” she demanded, tiring of his games.
“You want to see your sister?” He yanked her hair, pulling it so hard and close to the scalp that her vision was again reduced to pinpricks of white.
“You want to see your sister, fine.” He spun her around and jerked her toward the lit room.
Her heart dropped when she saw a plane in front of the barn’s back doors.
That was his escape plan. It was also probably how he’d gotten into the country.
He hauled her into the room, and in the corner was a large built-in kennel. Chelsea was tucked away in the corner of it.
“Madison!” her sister screamed at the same time Madison called out to Chelsea.
Tears were falling down her sister’s face, but Madison was too angry to cry. Constantine holstered his gun and put his back to her as he unlocked the kennel.
Stupid, stupid mistake.
She scanned the room quickly. If only she could find some way to take him down. She spotted a shovel hanging on a hook seven feet away. Madison made eye contact with her sister, but that was a mistake because Constantine caught it and spun around. She darted to the hook, and her fingers had just grazed the handle of the shovel when it fell to the floor. Constantine was pulling her backward, his thick arms wrapping around her torso like she was a twig he could easily snap. She struggled against him, attempting to move forward, but she was making no headway. In fact, she was losing ground, and he was dragging her back toward the kennel.
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