The Alex Shanahan Series

by Lynne Heitman

  Drazen stared at the bag for a few seconds before telling Anton to open it. Anton did so and offered it to Drazen. Maintaining his bead on Harvey, Drazen pulled out the gold chain I had taken from around Vladi’s neck…spine, actually. He looked down at Harvey. “Where did you get these?”

  “Leave now, do not hurt anyone, and I will take you to him.”

  I was starting to feel sick at the thought of where this was going. “Harvey, don’t—”

  “Quiet. ” He turned his head just slightly to deal with me in case I didn’t follow directions. Then he rubbed his eyes. He didn’t have his glasses on. That was probably a good thing. “Please, do not interfere.”

  Drazen took a step toward him, which put the barrel of his gun about six inches closer to Harvey’s heart. “How did you get Vladi’s possessions?”

  “I told you, I killed him.”

  “Vladi was strong. You cannot even stand.”

  “Strong, yes, but not bulletproof, and I have not always been in this chair.”

  “Why would you kill him?”

  “Because he attacked my wife.”

  Drazen had to think about that, but then he seemed to know he was talking about Rachel. “She is not your wife. She is no one’s wife.”

  “She was once my wife, and to me, she always will be.” Harvey leaned in toward the barrel of the weapon. His voice was getting stronger. “Your brother tried to rape her. I shot him three times in the chest to stop him. I put him in the trunk of his gold Lexus. I drove him out of town. I dug his grave and rolled him into it. I covered him over with dirt, and that is where he lay until I learned about the token. My colleague discovered that he had been carrying the key to a fortune when he died. I went to the place where I buried him, I dug him up, and I found the token you hold in your hand.” He nodded toward Anton. “And those items.”

  Drazen looked as if he were struggling with the idea but at the same time wanting to believe it. “No. You are too weak to do this thing.” He looked at me. “She did it.”

  Harvey gave me no opening to respond. “For one billion dollars, a man can find the strength he needs. I did not want to share the money. I told no one. If it is vengeance you came for, take me.”

  Drazen seemed unsure. “Who are these men?”

  “It is not important who they are. Their business is with each other. Your business is with me.”

  “He’s lying,” Cyrus said. “It wasn’t—”

  “Shut up, Cy.” Hoffmeyer had produced a second piece, which he now held flush against Thorne’s skull.

  “Again,” Harvey said, “leave now, and I will take you to Vladi’s grave.”

  Drazen stepped back to have another quiet chat with Anton. They both nodded, seemingly in agreement.

  “I accept your offer,” Drazen said. “I will take you and my money.”

  “No.” I stepped in next to Harvey. “That is not the deal. Here’s the deal. This man”—I nodded to Hoffmeyer—“has the money on that flash drive. If he wanted to walk out of here with it and leave you in a pool of blood, he could, and I would have no problem with him doing it.” I tried to keep my breathing level and to make the words slide out and not tumble. “But I promised you a copy of your files. He has two. Here’s what I propose. Hoffmeyer, you give him one copy and keep one, and whoever gets to the money first wins. More than likely, you’ll each get some, and there’s plenty to go around.”

  “No.” Thorne tried to get up, but Hoffmeyer stepped on his thigh. “You can’t give money to that terrorist. You can’t do it. Kill him now. He’s a cancer. He’s evil. He will sell weapons to our enemies. It’s treason if you don’t kill him or at least take him prisoner. It’s aiding and abetting, it’s—”

  “Shut up,” I said. “You don’t have a weapon, which makes you not part of this discussion.” I looked at Drazen. “Honor and commitment. I made you a promise, and I’m keeping it. In return, you must forgive all debts. No matter who killed your brother, no one in this room owes you anything, and we will never see you again. That’s the best deal you’re getting today, and if you kill Harvey, you’ll have to kill all of us. Bloodshed means police. Much bloodshed means more police, more coverage in the news, more pressure to find the killers. Others know of our dealings with you. An FBI agent, for one.”

  Drazen chewed at the corner of his bottom lip. When he looked at Hoffmeyer, he seemed to be sizing him up. Hoffmeyer looked right back, and when he spoke to me, his eyes never left Drazen. “Whatever I get to first, I keep? That’s the deal?”

  “That’s the deal.”

  He shrugged. “Okay.”

  It was Drazen’s move. “I want one more thing.” He twisted his brother’s chain around his fist and held it up. “Tell me where to find Vladislav.”

  “And then you’re in?”

  “Yes.”

  Harvey still had the pad and pen he had used to write down Hoffmeyer’s accounts. He was already writing.

  “All right. I’m not walking into anyone’s line of fire, so everyone lower your weapons.” No one moved. “Me first.”

  I set the Glock down on the coffee table next to the laptop. Then I waited. I happened to catch Kraft out of the corner of my eye. Even he had a small revolver. He must have picked it up from Tatiana or Red. “Kraft, put that down.”

  He hesitated, and it pissed me off. We didn’t have trouble enough? “Now.” He set it next to mine. Hoffmeyer set down the weapon he’d had on Thorne, but he kept a bead on Drazen, who was still aiming at Harvey. Hoffmeyer said something again in Russian. It must have been about Anton, because Drazen nodded, and Anton holstered his cannon. Then Hoffmeyer and Drazen watched each other lower his, and we had a room with no weapons pointed at anyone. Amazing.

  Very slowly, I stepped around Harvey and went to Hoffmeyer. “I’m sorry,” I said to him, “but I need the files.”

  He looked at the flash drive. “Grass huts on the beach don’t cost that much.” He put the drive in my hand. I looped around Harvey again and offered it to Drazen.

  He looked at it. “I have your word these are my brother’s files.”

  I looked back at Hoffmeyer. He could have handed me a decoy drive, and I wouldn’t have known, but he nodded, and I believed him. “You have my word.”

  I carefully made my way around to stand next to Harvey. It was so quiet I could almost hear his pen gliding across the page. When he was finished, he tore the page out and handed it to me. It was filled with his careful script, a little more shaky than normal. I handed it to Drazen. He looked it over, then passed it back to Anton.

  “We’re finished now,” I said. “Leave.”

  He did. No goodbye. No thanks a billion. No nothing.

  “You’ll regret that,” Thorne said. “It was a big mistake.”

  Kraft collapsed onto the couch. Hoffmeyer put down his bag and pulled out his own laptop, no doubt looking to get a head start in the race for the billion dollars. I followed the exit of our most recent guests to make sure they’d left. I was reaching to lock the front door when it popped opened and almost cracked me in the head. I stepped back, drew the Glock once again, and took aim. I was so fried and so close to the edge, I almost fired. If I had, I would have killed Rachel.

  The door opened wide, and Rachel backed in, dragging one of her many bags with both hands. “Can someone help me here? Can someone—hey!” She’d turned, spotted me, and nearly tumbled over backward. “What the hell are you doing pointing that thing at me?”

  “Sorry. I—”

  “Rachel?” It was Harvey, calling from the other room. “Is that you?”

  “I’m here, baby. I came back.” She looked at me over her shoulder. “Would you get my bags?”

  I closed the door, pushing her bag outside to do it, and locked it. I followed her into the front room, where she was on her way into Harvey’s arms. She took two steps toward him and pitched forward, tripped up by Cyrus’s outstretched legs. Almost before she was down, he had her. His arms were free. He scooped her
up with them, pulled her in close to his body, and held a knife to her throat.

  “Now I have a weapon.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  Thorne struggled to his feet, never letting Rachel move enough to expose him. Hoffmeyer’s gun was back out. He was to the left of Thorne. I was to his right. Kraft was still on the couch. Harvey had the desperately disappointed look of someone who had made it to within two feet of the finish line and fallen down.

  “What do you want, Cy?”

  “What I came for. The reporter and his files and you, Tony. I can’t let you leave here. Not now.”

  “I knew I should have killed you.” Hoffmeyer looked at me. “What did I tell you?”

  Harvey was still in his chair almost directly in front of Thorne, eight or ten feet away. “Let her go.”

  “Not a chance. Roll back, Piss-Boy.”

  “Take me instead of her. She has nothing to do with this.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  Harvey kept moving forward. “Once you kill her, you are dead. Do you want to die, or do you want to keep up your good works? Who will fight the war if you die here today? Take the money and go. But do not take any more lives.”

  “I don’t plan to die here today.”

  Thorne was talking to Harvey but keeping his eye on the other dangerous man in the room. Hoffmeyer was inching around to Thorne’s right.

  “Don’t try it, Tony. You’re out of practice.”

  “She’s a citizen, Cy. Let her go. Let all of them go. We’ll settle this between us.”

  Thorne’s gaze tracked across the room in a very calculated fashion. He looked from Hoffmeyer on his left to Kraft and Harvey right in front of him. When he got to me, standing to his left, my heart was going so fast I thought it would pull me down face-first, because I knew he was about to try something, and I didn’t know what to do.

  “Why don’t you come and join us?” he said to me.

  “What?” I could see Hoffmeyer in the background, inching closer to him, but I made myself not look at him.

  “I’ve been impressed,” he said. “I think you would be a good addition to the group. We can always use more women, especially since I’m down one. With the proper training, you could be good. Virginia’s not a bad place. You’d be traveling a lot, of course, but—”

  In an instant, he pushed Rachel at Harvey and turned and flung the knife at Hoffmeyer. Hoffmeyer fired as he fell back. I squeezed off a round, but Thorne was already on me. He grabbed my wrist and pushed it straight up. He twisted until I lost the grip and the Glock fell to the floor. Still holding my arm, he turned and tried to flip me over his back, but I kept my center of gravity and hooked my other hand around his face. I dug in my nails, hoping for eye, but caught mostly nose. When he turned his head, I yanked him back and kneed him in the kidneys. He was bigger than I was and much better trained, so I had to make up for it with imagination and sheer, wild-eyed force of will. I kicked and twisted and bit and slashed and ducked and made myself generally hard to grab hold of. He did manage to throw me over onto my back. It hurt a lot, but when he reached down for the gun, I shoved the heel of my hand into his throat. When he pulled away, I got up and drove my shoulder into his balls. At least, I tried to, but he moved, and I went headfirst into a side table and fell. When I staggered to my feet, he had my Glock. He was going to kill me with my own gun.

  “Maybe,” he said, breathing hard, “you’re not so good after all.”

  As he raised the weapon, someone shot him in the back. I looked over for Hoffmeyer, but it wasn’t him. It was Harvey, holding Hoffmeyer’s gun. Harvey fired again. Thorne spun around but stayed on his feet. I got up, staggered forward, and threw myself into the backs of his knees. Thorne fired two shots on his way down. Rachel screamed. I landed a few feet away. The Glock landed between Thorne and me. He reached for it. I was faster. I picked it up and pointed it at his chest.

  “Stop. Stop moving. Put your hands on top of your head. Put them up. Put them on your head. Get them up.” I couldn’t stop yelling. If I was breathing, I was yelling, adrenaline pushing the words out. “Don’t move. Don’t you move. Don’t…”

  “Shoot me,” he said. “Can you do that? Go ahead. Put one in my chest. Right here.” His left arm hung limp at his side. Blood ran down his arm and dribbled off his fingertips to the floor. But his other arm still worked. He used it to point to his chest, to show me where to shoot him.

  The three shots were fast and quiet, right into his chest, right where he had pointed. Cyrus Thorne fell back and died with his eyes wide open.

  I swung around, looking for Harvey. I wanted to tell him I hadn’t thought he could shoot that well. I found Hoffmeyer, holding the wound in his side.

  “He needed to die,” he said. “It shouldn’t have been you that had to kill him.” He started to wobble, but Kraft was right there to help him.

  “Harvey? Harvey?” I turned around. Rachel was kneeling with Harvey. She had blood on her hands as she looked up at me. “What should I do?”

  I crawled over to her. “Are you hit?”

  “No. It’s Harvey. He’s bleeding. What should I do?”

  “Hey…” I put my hand on his back to roll him toward me and felt something warm and wet. I pulled my hand away. There was a burgeoning stain on the back of his new shirt. It was a shoulder wound, an in-and-out. Painful but definitely survivable. I turned him as gently as I could in case the bullet had broken his shoulder blade. That was when I saw that the entire front of his shirt, one of his brand-new shirts, was also turning red, stained with the blood from a different wound. He’d been hit in the side, just beneath his rib cage. This one didn’t look survivable.

  “Call an ambulance.” I said it to anyone who was still around and still alive. “Call 911.”

  I turned his face toward me. “Harvey. Don’t go to sleep. Harvey, stay awake.” His lids were fluttering, but there was life in his eyes. I could see it. I laid him flat on his back and kneeled next to him so I could put pressure on the wound. I covered it with the heel of my hand and pressed hard. I could make the bleeding stop. I knew I could. If I pressed hard enough, the bleeding would stop, and the ambulance would come, and the EMTs would stabilize him, and he could beat it. He could live.

  “Harvey. Don’t close your eyes.” He was drifting off. “Harvey.” His head lolled back, and he opened his eyes. “You have to stay awake. You have to fight. Rachel, make him stay awake.”

  She took his face in her hands as I pressed harder on his side, but the blood oozed up between my fingers and ran over my hand. I couldn’t make it stop. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t…I looked around for something to press over the wound, and I couldn’t find anything, and when I looked down again, he was looking up at me, and his lips were quivering. I leaned down, put my ear to his lips, and felt the words as much as heard them, because I knew in my heart what he wanted to say.

  “Let…me…go.”

  With one hand supporting his head and the other on his chest, I couldn’t wipe my tears. They ran in a furious stream down my face and dripped from the tip of my chin onto his collar.

  I took my hand from his side. Rachel was crying, too, trying to get her arms around him. I lifted him enough that she could put his head and his shoulders in her lap and hold him. “I came back,” she said. “I didn’t want to leave you. I came back for you, baby.” She held him tight. “I love you, baby. I love you.”

  Somehow, he found the strength to lift his hand and reach for mine. I took it and held on. I held on to him as tightly as I’d ever held on to anything, and I regretted every moment I had shut him out or held him distant and not let him close to me. I looked into his face, his soft, sweet face that had so often been etched with fear and doubt and pain and bleak acceptance, and I wondered if the meaning of a man’s life could be found in one moment, if his whole life could be lived for the purpose of getting to that single moment—a moment without fear.

  He closed his eyes, and I reached down
and touched his cheek with the back of my finger. I smiled, because he had shaved, which meant it had been a good day.

  Chapter Forty-two

  We drove down the Cape one morning in early April to spread Harvey’s ashes. We’d had a hard time picking the spot. The only times I had ever seen him completely at peace were when he’d been reading, so I suggested Widener Library in Harvard Yard or Copley Square across from the Boston Public Library.

  Too boring, Rachel had said. Harvey was a lot more fun than that.

  “What’s your idea?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where did you get married?”

  “In a synagogue in Brooklyn, but that was because my mother insisted. He would have been fine with a justice of the peace.”

  “First date?”

  “That jazz club I told you about. It’s been gone for years.”

  “Favorite date?”

  She had to think about it, but then I could see in her face that we had our place.

  We took the Truro exit and drove down toward Wellfleet. She couldn’t remember the address, but she remembered the street and thought she could recognize the house. After driving around for ten minutes, winding in and out among the expensive homes, she spotted it.

  “There. That’s it. I remember that rooster wind thing on top.”

  I parked on the next block. We walked back to the house, the scene of Harvey and Rachel’s favorite date years before. They’d come to a wedding of a friend of Rachel’s at this house on a warm Saturday night in August, toward the end of the season. They had danced under a tent on the beach, and that’s where she wanted Harvey’s final resting place to be, the only problem being that it was a private beach. It said so on the sign hanging on the big gate with the chain and the heavy padlock.

  I looked back at the house. No lights on. No one stirring. There had been no cars in the driveway. I checked the fence for wires. No visible signs of an alarm.