Cat's Paw (Veritas Book 1)

by Chandler Steele

  When Alex reached the porch, he hesitated. This was going to be ugly, but they had no choice but to get through it, even after some of the vicious things he’d said to her. Things he regretted now.

  “Morgan?” he called out.

  As he opened the camp door, he found her sitting on the couch, her eyes filled with warning. She wasn’t alone. Three men were with her, all armed. The Russians had found them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  To Morgan’s relief, their captors hadn’t put a bullet in their skulls and dumped them in the water. Instead, they were herded into the back of a black sedan, which had arrived shortly after she’d been taken prisoner. A man named Vasily sat up front with the driver, while two other goons followed them in another car.

  Morgan had been so caught up in her own misery, she hadn’t seen them coming. She’d heard something on the water, and then there was a boat, men, and guns. Then this smiling Russian who’d insisted that he just had to talk to Mr. Parkin.

  On the other side of the backseat, Alex stirred. “How’d you find us?” he asked.

  “It was very simple,” Vasily said, looking over the seat at him. “You don’t have that many friends you trust, so we checked into Mr. James and found he owns a cabin. We had someone watching it from the water, and when the lights went on tonight, we knew it was probably you.”

  It was a smart move, and one Morgan hadn’t anticipated. From the deep frown on his face, Alex wasn’t happy about it either.

  “There better be a damned good reason you’ve outed me in front of her,” he said, angling a thumb toward Morgan. “Because now Veritas is going to be gunning for my ass.”

  “Perhaps yes, perhaps no.” The Russian looked at Morgan. “Mr. Buryshkin wishes to see both of you. Consider it breakfast, for two.”

  Breakfast? Morgan looked out the side window. She had no way to send a text message—they’d been relieved of their phones, and her gun—so there was nothing to do but wait and hope this day was survivable.

  She looked at Alex, but he stared at nothing. I didn’t keep you safe. And I hurt you. Both regrets carried equal weight.

  The car abruptly swung off the highway onto a side road. It wound its way through some of the most magnificent old trees Alex had ever seen, each draped in Spanish moss. The driveway circled in front of a large plantation house. As they exited the car, Alex studied the structure.

  “This is new. He didn’t have this when I went into prison.”

  “Built it a couple years back,” Morgan said, her eyes still red from crying. He’d done that to her, and right now, it made him feel guilty. He wished he could talk to her about what had happened between them, but it was best that the Russians didn’t know. Though they might be able to figure it out, what with the rumpled sheets on the bed.

  Knowing he needed to have his head in the game, he switched his attention to the scene around them. The house, set far back from the main highway to avoid prying eyes, appeared to have two points of access: the driveway and the bayou beyond. The place was well secured, with video cameras and guards, all toting AK-47s.

  Alex wasn’t sure what a Russian crime lord’s dwelling should be like, but this one channeled the Old South like Gone with the Wind, shady backroom politics, and collard greens. Apparently modeled after one of the grand plantations of the mid-eighteen hundreds, it was done up in a pale yellow and teal color scheme, with twin stairways that led to a grand entrance on the second floor.

  Whoever had installed the gingerbread work and the iron railings had gone overboard, in Alex’s opinion, but the final result spoke of money and power. It also spoke of Buryshkin’s cunning, how he’d utilized classic Louisiana architecture to signal to his visitors that he was lord and master of this place.

  A young man walked toward them from the house, tall and blond, with the grace of a dancer. He wore a tailored, dark-brown suit that said he’d be better suited to a boardroom than working for a notorious mobster.

  “Good day, Mr. Parkin, Ms. Blake. I am Ruslan Kuznetsov.”

  Morgan’s eyebrow rose as she made the connection.

  “Good morning, Ruslan,” Alex said politely. “Grigori sends his best.”

  “Thank you. We are all very eager to see him free again.”

  Some more than others.

  “You are invited to breakfast,” the man said, gesturing toward the house.

  Alex looked at Morgan. “Hospitality. It’s a Russian thing. Usually it’s offered right before they kill you.”

  “It’s the little touches that make life worth living,” Ruslan said, apparently not offended by his comment.

  Alex laughed. He could see why Grigori cared for this guy.

  As they ascended the stairs to the house’s second floor, Alex took a casual look over his shoulder, cataloguing the guards’ positions. To get out of here, they’d need weapons. Given the number of guards, obtaining one wouldn’t be a problem. Getting to the car alive was another matter.

  Still, sometimes fate worked in your favor, which was why he’d made note that their driver had placed the car keys in his left pants pocket, and the man had a knife stuck in a sheath under his right trouser leg.

  Above them, a set of French doors swung open, and the supreme boss of this swampy kingdom strode out to greet his “guests.” The mobster was in his late sixties, stocky, with silver hair and thick jowls.

  He’d begun his life as a soldier, then worked for the KGB in various countries, including what used to be East Germany. There, he’d spent time with another ambitious—and equally ruthless—man, with the same first name: Vladimir Putin, Russia’s current president.

  Buryshkin had quit the KGB right before its failed coup against Mikhail Gorbachev and started a small import/export business. It proved a savvy move, and Alex had always wondered if Buryshkin had been warned about the plot ahead of time. The man’s many connections, both inside his own country and throughout the world, paved the way for him to assume control of this part of the U.S. for the Russian mafia.

  “Welcome, Mr. Parkin. Or should I call you Sasha?” the man asked, offering his hand.

  “Parkin will do,” Alex replied. They shook hands like civilized people, a micro-thin polite veneer that could vanish in a second.

  Buryshkin’s grip was strong, but not overdone. This man was sure of who he was, what he could do, and whom he could intimidate. He wore a light-brown short-sleeved shirt and dark-brown slacks. Blackwork tattoos were visible on his arms, the kind the Russian mobsters liked so much.

  “Ms. Blake,” Buryshkin said, offering his hand to her as well.

  Keep it cool, lady.

  Pissing off their host would only get them dead that much quicker. Buryshkin had to have a reason to be this social, so it was best to play it out to the end. For a second, Alex thought Morgan was going to spit in his face, and given how the Russian had ruined her life, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

  To his relief, she shook the man’s hand. “Mr. Buryshkin.”

  “I have long regretted that you did not come to work for me,” the mobster said amiably, waving them across the balcony that ran along the outside of the building. “I was dismayed to learn that you went to work for Wilder instead.”

  “I wasn’t dismayed at all,” she replied.

  Buryshkin laughed, clearly not upset by her response. “Wilder chose well. You have done right by him.” After a look at Alex, he added, “Come, we must talk about the future, and how you will repay your debt to me.”

  Morgan gave Alex a puzzled look, and all he could do was shrug in reply.

  They followed their host to the rear of the house, where the view from the balcony was impressive, to the expansive lawn and the bayou beyond. A pair of white ibis waded near the shore, in search of small fish. A well-maintained dock jutted into the water, three boats tied to it. Armed guards patrolled the water’s edge as well.

  Set near the balcony railing was a white-linen-draped table with three place settings. A low floral arrangement
of water lilies sat in the very middle. The china was expensive, the crystal equally so. It paid to be a crook.

  Alex hadn’t missed the admiring gaze the Russian had given Morgan, so he pulled out a chair for her, which earned him an amused look from their host.

  “A gentleman. That is rare nowadays,” Buryshkin said.

  “I only do it when I’m in the presence of a lady,” Alex responded.

  He felt Morgan tense, but ignored it. Besides being polite, Alex used the gesture as a distraction, allowing him to size up the guards around them. There were two on each side of the table—armed, if the bulges under their suit coats meant anything. Ruslan hung in the background, like an executive assistant awaiting orders.

  “There is coffee or tea, if you wish,” Buryshkin said, gesturing expansively.

  “Thank you,” Alex replied. He poured himself coffee as Morgan made herself a cup of tea. He knew she was doing the same thing as him: calculating their odds of survival and arriving at the same dismal conclusion.

  “I heard about the attempt on your life the other day at the hotel. I am pleased you were able to stop the assailant,” Buryshkin said.

  Here we go.

  “The assassin was Boris Kaminsky,” Alex said.

  “Ah, yes. I also hear he suffered an accident on the way to the police station. Does that news trouble you, Parkin?”

  “No,” Alex said. “Not after what he did to my sister.”

  Buryshkin nodded. “As I thought. Do you have any notion of who he was working for?”

  “We thought it was you,” Morgan said, dropping a teaspoon of honey in her tea.

  Jesus. Was she trying to get them killed even quicker?

  “Nyet,” the man replied, shaking his head. “I am not a fool. I tried to have your boss killed once, and failed. I learned that he is a very dangerous man to cross.”

  The Russian feared Crispin? Well, hell.

  “Yet you told Vasily to have me scout Wilder’s security arrangements.”

  “A wise man always knows his enemies,” Buryshkin replied.

  Before Alex could follow up, two uniformed maids bearing serving trays appeared, and breakfast was laid before them in all its glory. If he was going to die, it might as well be on a full stomach.

  Over the next few minutes, plates were loaded with food and they savored the meal.

  “This sausage is very good,” Morgan said, sounding surprisingly pleasant. “Do you have it specially made?”

  “Yes, I do,” Buryshkin said, clearly pleased at the praise.

  It was like having breakfast in Wonderland, except the March Hare was a Russian mobster and Alice was fighting not to slit his throat. Alex kept waiting for the Mad Hatter to show up.

  Speaking of which . . .

  “Will your daughter be joining us?” he asked, his voice as smooth as the honey on the table.

  The Russian’s face went unreadable. “Anya is not here at the moment.”

  “Ah, I see. I met her recently in the city. She gave me this,” he said, pointing toward the healing wound on his neck. “Can’t say I appreciated it.”

  Buryshkin shrugged. “She has, how do you say it? Issues?”

  Morgan choked and then took a hasty sip of her tea. “A few, maybe.”

  Time to get down to it.

  “So, this is very kind of you,” Alex said, gesturing at the meal. “But why are we here? Or at least, why is Morgan here? I can understand you wanting to talk to me.”

  “He has told you of our agreement, then?” Buryshkin asked Morgan.

  “We figured you’d try something like that.” She gave Alex a tight smile. “If he betrays us, he’s dead.”

  That sounded a little too honest.

  Buryshkin smiled. “You are a she-wolf. I think that is why I respect you.”

  “If you respected me that much, you wouldn’t have had your daughter sleep with my husband.”

  What are you doing?

  “It was purely a business arrangement,” Buryshkin replied. “Such things happen.”

  “A mere business arrangement that ended with him committing suicide and costing me my job at the FBI. Can’t say I’ll ever forgive you for that.”

  “I would be troubled if you did.”

  “Okay, now that we’ve established all that,” Alex said, cutting in, “Really, why are we here?”

  Buryshkin wiped his lips with a napkin. “I wished to ask about my nephew, Grigori. I am concerned about him.”

  “He looked well when I left prison.”

  “Since then, there have been rumors that his life is in danger. I am trying to learn who would dare do such a thing.”

  Alex saw Morgan tense, and he feared she was about to tell Buryshkin exactly who might be doing such a thing. His mind scrambled for a safe way through this minefield.

  “I have some thoughts on that. Perhaps we could institute a . . . trade?”

  “It could be said that you already owe me your life.”

  “Possibly, except you were the reason I ended up in prison in the first place.”

  “Ah, yes. Your partner, Mr. Simms. He did only as I asked.”

  So it was Dennis. Somehow his gut had always known that.

  “Did you tell him to sleep with my wife?”

  “No, that was of his own volition,” Buryshkin replied, pushing away his empty plate. “What is this trade you propose?”

  “You have a new load of cocaine in the city, some of which is poisoned. It’s killing people, and that makes the DEA go ballistic. You don’t need that kind of heat.”

  Buryshkin leaned back in his chair, frowning. “You are saying the load is poisoned. How?”

  He doesn’t know.

  “Strychnine. We’ve got bodies stacking up in the morgue, and a near miss with a judge’s daughter. This is only going to escalate, and you’ll find the feds on your doorstep, taking your operation apart brick by brick. It’d be best if you ditched the shipment before that happens.”

  Buryshkin’s right eyelid twitched. He was gripping one of the knives tightly in his hand. As if realizing what he was doing, he set it down. After a quick look at Ruslan, he eyed Alex.

  “I am not pleased to hear about the strychnine, but sometimes that happens. Yet you are suggesting that I should give up a product worth many millions of dollars, in trade for information?” he asked, his tone less social now.

  “Yes.”

  “Not possible.”

  “How about some middle ground: You test the coke and get rid of the stuff that is cut with strychnine. The rest, well . . . you use as you see fit,” Alex said.

  “No!” Morgan snapped. “That stuff can’t get to the streets.”

  “It’s already there, and it’ll keep being sold if we don’t come to an arrangement,” Alex said. “At least this way we can keep more people from being poisoned.”

  “I can’t agree to this,” she said.

  “You don’t have to. This is my deal, not yours.”

  “If I agree to do this, what will you give me in return?” Buryshkin asked.

  “I’ll bring you whoever plans to kill your nephew and is trying to destroy your operation,” Alex said.

  Morgan’s mouth dropped open.

  “You think you know who this is?” Buryshkin asked.

  He really doesn’t see it. He’s totally blind when it comes to his daughter. Grigori had said as much.

  “I believe I do. I need to verify some things first. I don’t want to accuse an innocent person.”

  “If you are not able to find this person?” the mobster asked.

  “No harm, no foul, as we say here in the States,” Alex replied. “You still have the coke.”

  From his position nearby, Ruslan appeared shell-shocked. Had he not known about the threat to Grigori’s life? Or if he had, maybe he’d been wise enough not to suggest that this man’s daughter was trying to destroy them all.

  Buryshkin thought about Alex’s offer while he drank another cup of coffee. To Alex’s
left, Morgan sat ramrod straight in her chair.

  “You’re insane,” she whispered.

  “Maybe.”

  The Russian roused from his thoughts. “We have a deal,” he said. “You give me a name, I will ensure the product that reaches the streets is not poisoned. At least, no more than usual. But I want absolute proof of the traitor’s actions.”

  “Alex,” Morgan said, “Crispin will never go for this.”

  “Then we won’t tell him, will we?”

  “You know it doesn’t work that way.”

  He ignored her, turning back to Buryshkin. “I’ll make sure you have proof. You promise the person I give you will never hurt anyone again?”

  “Da.” He extended his broad hand across the table. “We have a deal?”

  Somewhere in hell, the devil was smiling.

  “Yes, we have a deal.” Alex shook the man’s hand.

  “God,” Morgan moaned. “This won’t work.”

  “Yes, it will.” Because we have no other choice now.

  Right before they left, Alex had a private conversation with Buryshkin, out of Morgan’s hearing, conducted with their backs to her.

  Ruslan kept looking at them, then at her, his brow furrowed. “Is your Mr. Parkin usually so reckless?”

  “Yeah, he can be that way. This is a crazy deal,” she said.

  “Yes, however, Mr. Buryshkin loves his nephew very much.”

  But does he love his daughter more?

  After Alex executed another handshake with the Russian crime boss, they were escorted to the car.

  “What the hell was that all about?” she demanded.

  “Just firming up the details of our agreement.”

  How could he even think about allowing that much dope to hit the market, even if it was just cocaine? It made her wonder where Alex’s loyalties lay. Had this all been a clever ruse? Had he been playing both her and Veritas all along? No way in hell was Buryshkin going to buy that his sweet, demented little daughter was gutting his empire, one operative at a time.

  It fell to Vasily and the driver to escort them away from the house, except this time they didn’t warrant a second escort car.

  When they reached the highway, Morgan leaned closer to Alex. “Do you have a freakin’ death wish?”