"He wants Nikitin's front line," Ilya said. "He's looking to take over his business."
Aleksandr nodded. He'd worked for the Russian police for years and then Interpol, and still had the connections. "That's what we suspect. The DEA has been keeping an eye on him for a long time. Homeland Security has their hand in as well. We stepped on a few toes getting that information and we called in a few favors owed. Dominic is bad news. He has a large organization, has mobilized a lot of gangs, mostly from being inside, and his particular plague has spread like wildfire."
"Do you think he had Dean killed?" Ilya asked.
"If the kid was working for Nikitin, bringing him the girls, then yes, I have to say, that's a good bet," Jonas said. "He made it look like a Russian hit to throw suspicion on Nikitin--or you. My guess is, John Dylan took professional pride in showing his uncle he knew how to do a solid hit." Jonas glanced at the door and lowered his voice even more. "Is it possible the bus was meant to take you out? Had anyone seen you with Joley? Could someone have connected you and put you there?"
"Brian knew. Her driver, probably. It's possible Brian voiced his concerns to the other band members. Certainly Tish knew, and if she did, Logan probably did." That hadn't been discreet of him. He could have gotten her killed.
He had known from the beginning that getting involved with her would be dangerous to both of them. He shook his head at his own stupidity. He'd been thinking with other parts of his anatomy rather than his brain. "Yeah. Others knew." He hated to admit it, hated making such an amateur mistake. In his entire career he'd never made such a selfish, risky error. He couldn't blame it on Joley and the spell she cast over him. The ultimate responsibility was his.
Aleksandr tapped the folder. "This man, Dominic Dylan, is a huge arms dealer, Ilya. He's been photographed with Kolochek and the German, Heinzman. They only talk to the top men in the business. Word on the street says Dylan wants a bigger piece of the pie. Human trafficking brings in tremendous revenue, as you well know. Anyone who has done their homework knows they have to get rid of you to get to Nikitin. Without him, that branch goes down here in the United States and creates a vacancy."
"And Dylan wants to fill the vacancy."
Jonas nodded. "That's what we think. So the hit could have been on you, and Joley could have been a by-product. Whoever put the bomb there really didn't give a damn who they killed as long as they took you out. It makes more sense. They create a problem for your girlfriend by using Lucy, feeding her anything that would make her believe Joley was her enemy."
"Great distraction," Ilya said. "And it was. I was very focused on Joley and asked Nikitin for a few days off to help her out."
"They may still come after her to keep you off balance. We'll have our own people all over her tonight, Ilya."
"I've got to put Nikitin somewhere safe. I've spent three years on this investigation and I'm not blowing it. No way does Dominic Dylan take over the human trafficking market. I'm shutting it down for good on this end. What about Elle? Is she out?"
"As far as we can tell, she's not investigating Nikitin. If your paths have crossed, she may be working to nail Dylan, but she didn't respond to Jackson's calls," Jonas admitted, referring to his deputy. "He's pretty pissed. He doesn't get like that often, but when he does, it isn't something anyone wants to witness. We don't know exactly who she's working for. Have you asked Joley? Elle's the loner of the family, keeps everything close to her. If anyone really knows what she's up to, it would be Joley."
Ilya sighed. "Even to me, I doubt if she'd betray her sister's confidence. And if she does know, she keeps it buried deep. As much as I'm in Joley's mind, I've never seen a reference to anything Elle's doing." He glanced at his watch. "I've got to go. I've got a bad feeling that Nikitin is in trouble tonight. You keep close to Joley. If you think, even for a moment, that she's in danger, just get her out, don't wait for her permission."
Jonas shrugged. "You don't have to worry on that score. I'm used to her being upset with me. She gets over things fast."
"That's good to know, because when she finds out I'm not teasing her about the seventh son of a seventh son, I have a feeling she'll be really angry."
Jonas drew in his breath. "That's not right, Prakenskii, you can't do that to her. Are you sure?"
"I don't know much about my family, but I do know I'm the seventh-born son. I don't know if the Drake sisters have exactly the same fate we do, but essentially the seventh carries all the gifts and his partner is destined. In my bloodline, all partners are destined, but they don't seem to have the birth control problems the seventh runs into."
As he spoke, Ilya walked back into the main sitting room. He reached out his hand to Joley. She let him pull her to her feet. He caught a glimpse of her surprised expression as he tipped her face up to his and took possession of her mouth. There was no hesitation on her part; she kissed him back, melting into him, giving herself to him the way she always did.
You're coming back to me. Don't say good-bye.
I'm not saying good-bye. He tried to be reassuring, but he was saying good-bye. In his business, there were no guarantees, and he had a bad feeling about the night. I'm saying, no matter what, I love you with every breath in my body. His hand slipped over her hip to press between their bodies, to feel her flat stomach where his child would grow. He wanted that. Wanted everything from her in the same way he had given everything of himself, body and soul, to her.
I love you, too. Joley clung to him, holding him tight. Ilya, if there's a chance something can happen to you, don't go. Stay here. I won't perform. I'll stay with you.
The enormity of what she was offering made him soft inside when he needed to be steel. With great reluctance, he lifted his mouth from hers. "Please stay safe, Joley."
"You too, Ilya."
She didn't cry. And she didn't try to stop him. He was proud of her for that. He lifted a hand to her family and slipped out the door, looking back at her face once before he went out. He wanted to memorize every detail. Feel her bone structure on his fingertips. He wanted to know that if he died this night, her face would be his last memory.
Chapter 18
NIKITIN had always preferred to rent houses, even if he was only staying one night. He liked upscale neighborhoods, and he'd move in and make himself at home for however long he could stay. Ilya had noticed a difference in him the past year. He'd gone from surly and mean to a much more mellow and happy man. That didn't matter, however, when it came down to his job. Nikitin carried hundreds of deaths on his shoulders and had no compunction about ordering the torture and killing of entire families if anyone stood in the way of building his empire.
Ilya drove through the neighborhood slowly. As usual, he'd chosen a car that would fit in. He drove past the house Nikitin was renting, not too slow, not too fast, careful to not to draw attention. There were three men standing just inside the gate, bending over a fourth man. At first glance the three men looked like Nikitin's guards, but they weren't men he recognized, and the one on the ground was Eddie, a solid man Nikitin often used for intimidation at his front entrance.
Ilya parked his car down the street and moved into the shadows as he made his way back to the house. The three intruders were inside the gate, which meant he had to go over the wall without being seen. He walked beside it, running a gloved hand along the brick until he found a small indentation he could work with. He jumped, caught the indentation with the toe of his shoe and went over the wall, landing in a crouch on the other side. He waited, orienting himself to the layout.
A low, mocking laugh was followed by a grunt as the taller of the men dragged Eddie up by his hair and shoved him against the wall. "You're gonna die," he said harshly, and kicked Eddie in the stomach. "But we're gonna have us some fun first."
The other two men laughed.
"You should have stayed in Russia," one with a barbed wire tattoo across his arm added.
The third pulled a club from under his coat. "Guess you picked the wron
g boss."
Ilya broke into a sprint as they closed in on Eddie, forming a loose semicircle. Eddie spat on the ground in front of them defiantly, his eyes bright with rage.
Ilya came in fast and silent, grabbing the bat as it swung toward Eddie's head. He kept turning as he yanked it from the man's hand, swinging at the taller man's hand as he pulled a gun. The club struck him hard enough to break bones and the gun went flying. The tall man swore as he stumbled back.
The man with the tattoo punched at Ilya's open ribs, brass knuckles glinting in the light spilling from the porch. Ilya blocked the shot with his forearm, continued his forward spin going inside and slammed his elbow with full force against the man's sternum. He dropped like a stone, clutching his chest and gasping.
Cursing, the first man, who'd pulled the club, drew a knife and lunged. Ilya stepped into the attack, slamming a brutal fist into the exposed wrist with a short, chopped blow. The knife fell to the ground. Ilya brought up his knee hard into the man's crotch and then turned, shooting the same leg out to slam his foot into the ankle, shattering bone and knocking him to the ground.
"Hell, Ilya, you didn't give me a chance to help out." Eddie picked up the gun the taller one had dropped. He walked to where he was still rolling on the ground moaning. He put the gun to his attacker's head and pulled the trigger.
"How many?" Ilya asked.
"I didn't get a chance to count, but it looked like a fuckin' army to me," Eddie answered and shot the second and third man. "They went around to the back, but they're wiping everyone out where they find them."
Ilya ignored the statement, already moving across the lawn to the house. He put his hand on the doorknob and turned slowly. The door was unlocked, which meant the assassination team was already inside. He listened in an effort to get a sense of where everyone was and what was happening. There was a brief murmur of voices. Footsteps. The gun Eddie had picked up had a silencer, so the team was probably similarly equipped. They didn't want a visit from the local police. Neither did he. He bent to pull a knife from his boot, indicated the need for silence from Eddie, and slipped inside.
The living room was empty. The television set remained on, playing the local news channel. Beside the couch, on the small end table, a cut crystal glass sat half-filled. A second glass was on the coffee table, beside several magazines. Nikitin hadn't been alone when the intruders broke in. The secret silent alarm Ilya always set up for Nikitin would have gone off, giving the Russian time to make it to the safe room they always meticulously set up when they occupied a house, whether it was for one night or ten.
With his gloved hand, Ilya lifted the glass and took a small sniff. Cognac. The good stuff. He shook his head as he replaced the glass. Nikitin only drank cognac with one person. Brian Rigger, lead guitarist for Joley's band. She would be so upset if Brian didn't make it out alive. Damn his stupidity. He'd been warned to stay away. There was a part of Ilya that understood. Brian, and Nikitin for that matter, had been every bit as lonely as Ilya had been, and he hadn't been able to stay away from Joley, even though it put both of them in jeopardy. But having Brian there was an unexpected complication.
He did his best to protect Brian, hastily wiping prints from both glasses and any surface he could find that it seemed likely Brian had touched. It was the best he could do when time was short and the enemy was too close.
Ilya began a cautious tread down the hall. Overhead, he could hear footsteps as the assassination squad searched the rooms above him. Eddie caught his sleeve and indicated up the stairs. Ilya shook his head. No one else was ever privy to Ilya's plan to extract Nikitin should there be trouble. If there was a traitor, there would be no chance that he would know where Nikitin would be.
In the first bedroom, a man lay faceup, blood soaking into the carpet from his slit throat, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. Ilya cleared the room, found no target and went to the next one. It was the pool room. Four of Nikitin's soldiers lay dead. One was draped over the pool table with a gun in his hand and the back of his head gone. A second was at the sliding glass door, as if he'd run, a gun inches from his hand where he'd fallen. The third man had been shot first, dead center and never saw it coming. He was slumped just inside the door, a glass of wine soaking the carpet along with his blood. Overturned furniture showed that the fourth man had managed to put up a struggle. He'd been shot several times and lay a few feet to the side of the pool table.
They'd been surprised, which meant either they hadn't noticed the strobe going off--which was difficult for Ilya to believe--or someone inside was a traitor--and that was more likely. "You have any idea how many soldiers we had here tonight, Eddie?"
Hopefully Nikitin had noticed his personal alarm and done exactly as Ilya had instructed--gone without speaking to anyone and hidden. That had probably saved his life. Had the traitor known where he was, certainly he would have given the information to the hit team.
"Hell, Ilya." Eddie wiped his mouth with his sleeve, shaking a little after seeing his friends dead. "Pavel Demidov was here, too, along with Ivan and Klaus."
Continuing down the hall, Ilya peered quickly into the kitchen. Ivan and Klaus lay on the floor in pools of blood, with two men standing over them. One was a stranger and the other was Pavel Demidov, Nikitin's trusted bodyguard. Ilya was certain he was privy to the workings of the human trafficking ring, the one Nikitin had been careful to keep Ilya away from. This assignment was the one time that Ilya's reputation for protecting women and children had hindered him. Nikitin often sent him on errands, or just out of the room so he could talk to this man--Pavel Demidov. He had found his traitor.
The man with Pavel started to turn, and Ilya threw the knife, spinning as he did so and yanking the gun from Eddie's hands to fire three rounds into Pavel's left eye. Both men dropped, and Pavel's gun hit the tile with a clamor. Ilya waited a heartbeat, listening, and then handed the gun back to Eddie. "Make certain they're dead, but don't make a sound. And collect their weapons. We may need them. Get my knife, wipe it on his shirt and give it back to me."
He wasn't about to leave his weapon on scene, or risk leaving evidence if he could help it. He'd always been a ghost at a kill sight; he couldn't afford to let this one be any different.
Eddie nodded and hastily bent over the bodies while Ilya made his way to the den. The door stood wide open as if in invitation. The room had obviously been checked and dismissed. A small gas fire lit it and threw flickering light over the deep wood panels. He moved around the desk toward the small closet. The door stood open there as well, several coats hanging. The closet was very narrow, barely allowing the hangers to fit between the back wall and the front.
Ilya stepped inside and knocked in the prearranged pattern. The back wall was a false steel panel Ilya had designed to fit most standard hall closets. The one in this house by the front door had been too large, but the den unexpectedly had a smaller room which served their purposes perfectly. Staying behind that thin steel panel with its wooden front required endless patience, nerves of iron and the ability to stand for long periods of time.
Ilya didn't hurry, although Eddie hissed a warning at him. He didn't want to make a sound as he stealthily pulled the false back away to reveal Nikitin and Brian flattened against the wall. Both men were soaked with sweat, and Nikitin held a gun, rock steady in his fist.
"Let's go," Ilya said softly. "Stay close to the wall. Make no noise."
Nikitin indicated to Brian to follow Ilya to the door of the den. Brian was trembling almost uncontrollably, but he did as Ilya said, sliding one shoulder along the wall, maintaining contact and staying as close to the bodyguard as possible.
At the door. Eddie handed Ilya the knife and dropped back to guard the rear. Ilya slid the knife into his boot and pulled his gun. There was no silencer on the barrel, so once he fired, he'd bring everyone down on them, and they were severely outnumbered. He hoped they'd make it out clean, but he needed the firepower just in case.
He made his way back t
oward the kitchen. They'd have to go out the back to avoid the stairs, but no self-respecting assassination team would leave the back open as a means of retreat. They would be walking into their enemies' hands.
He heard Brian gasp when he saw the carnage on the kitchen floor. Glancing back with a hand signal for silence, Ilya glimpsed Brian shoving his hand against his mouth, his stomach obviously rebelling.
Nikitin put his hand on Brian's back. "Don't look. Just follow Ilya out. You'll be all right," he said encouragingly, his voice a whisper. "Prakenskii is the best."
Ilya glanced at Brian's white face. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, but he kept moving, trying not to look at the blood and gore on the floor.
Brian swallowed hard and nodded. He reached up and, for one moment, clasped Nikitin's hand. Ilya looked away, feeling he'd caught a sad, intimate moment that was too private for witnesses.
He heard movement and held up his hand, signaling the others to stop. He continued forward, to the back door. Behind him, Brian crouched down against the counter, Nikitin blocked his body with his own, and Eddie placed himself in front of his boss. No one moved, no one breathed.
Ilya listened for movement again, trying to get a sense of how many he was up against and where they were. Again he held his hand up to emphasize that no one move. He had to risk drawing fire in order to get positions. They couldn't wait; the rest of the team that had been searching upstairs in the house would be coming in behind them. They'd be caught in a squeeze trap, with no way out.
The door was a no-win. Once he was through it, every gun would be on him. They expected the door to be used. Ilya went from a crouch to a sprint, leaping and going through the window feet first, gun firing in the direction of the voices he'd heard. He landed and rolled, watching for the flashes of return fire even as he scrambled for cover.
He knew the exact layout of the backyard. It was essential in his business to be familiar with any potential battlefield in or outside a house. It was three feet to the relative cover of brush and an additional two feet to the large boulders placed artistically around the waterfall that flowed down a small stream into a large pool.
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