On Best Behavior (C3)

by Jennifer Lane

  “We’re not sure what Mullens has told them. Uh, there’s some blood…the car’s rented to a…” He paused, and she heard the rustle of paper. “Hans Koch Fucher…oh Lord, I just realized what that sounds like when you say his name out loud…”

  “Bounter!” she barked. “You said there’s blood?”

  “Sorry. We’re testing the blood for a match, but it might take a while.”

  To her embarrassment, a sob erupted from her throat. They’re gonna kill Grant.

  “I’m so sorry,” he continued. “We were setting up the hotel job for tonight and couldn’t get to him fast enough…”

  She swallowed, unable to find any words of forgiveness.

  “We’ll find him,” he promised. “We’re getting warrants for all the Russians’ properties. We’ll do everything we can, okay?”

  She looked at Ben as she asked, “Have you talked to Enzo Barberi?”

  “No.” Bounter paused. “Why would we?”

  How stupid was the FBI? “Because he’s the one who set this all up!”

  “Wait a minute. Based on what Ben told us, we believe Enzo is behind Mullens kidnapping Grant. But Mullens didn’t count on Grant’s apartment being bugged by the Russians, or the Russians scooping him up. For all we know, Mullens is dead, and Grant will make up some story about him. Hell, Grant could still show up tonight ready to rob the hotel with the Russians.”

  “Or maybe Enzo’s working with the Russians,” Sophie said. Ben fidgeted next to her.

  “Do you have any evidence of that?”

  “Do I have any evidence of Enzo trying to ruin Grant’s life? I have plenty!”

  “Calm down, Sophie,” Bounter admonished. “We have to stay cool-headed here.”

  “Like hell we do!” she roared. “Spare me your sexist rhetoric, Agent Bounter. Emotions are just as important as reason. Nobody knows Grant better than I do, and nobody knows what hell Enzo has put Grant through better than me.”

  “What’re you talking about? I am not sexist—”

  “I want agents interrogating Enzo Barberi. Now. He’s still involved…I can feel it.” When he didn’t respond, she asked, “Did your mother ever sniff out your misbehavior when you were a kid? Even when you hid it well?”

  After a moment, he admitted, “Every time.”

  “Call it female intuition then. I know you’re worried about wasting manpower, but please find out how Grant’s father is involved. Please.”

  She held her breath until finally he said, “Okay. I’ll send two of my best to Gurnee. Meanwhile, you stay put, got it? I don’t have anyone to spare to go out looking for you too.”

  “Got it.” She exhaled. “Thank you.”

  She handed the phone to Agent Thompson, but Marilyn intercepted it.

  “Hey!” he protested.

  “Bounter,” she said. “I want to go to Gurnee.”

  Ben studied Sophie with tired eyes as Marilyn walked down the hallway, phone in hand, with Thompson trailing her. “Is Uncle Grant gonna die?”

  Sophie tossed her hair back and squared her shoulders, attempting a sense of optimism she certainly didn’t feel. “No, Ben. Grant’s going to make it.” She forced a faint smile. Grant had to make it.

  22. Confess

  BLINDING BRIGHTNESS.

  Icy cold.

  Grant returned to consciousness gasping for air, with pricks of freezing water dripping down his face. His eyes couldn’t blink fast enough to adjust to the light shining down on him. But after a moment he could see that beyond the circle of light was darkness. He heard the scuff of a shoe on the floor but could see nothing beyond the brilliant glow. He smelled earthy mildew and urine.

  His thundering heart told him he was alive. So Mullens hadn’t given him poison—just some sort of sedative. A sound drew his attention, and Andrei stepped into the light. He set down an empty metal bucket. Any hint of warmth that had once shown in his eyes was gone, replaced by ironclad resolve.

  “Take three buckets of water to wake you,” he said, his voice flat and low.

  Grant peered down at the rivulets of said water on his naked chest. When he moved to wipe them he found his arms trapped behind him. Andrei had bound his wrists together. The burning sensation seemed to indicate rope, and his wrists were secured to the wooden chair beneath him. He looked back up to find Andrei prowling around the circle, pinning him with a hostile stare. Was this what it felt like to be in the ring with the former boxing champ?

  “He give you strong drug, yes?”

  Now that his eyes had adjusted, he could see the shadowy outline of another man off to the right, also tied to a chair. Andrei scooted the man’s chair toward him—a scrape of wood against concrete. This man slumped forward, revealing a crown of short blond hair. His green shirt hugged his muscles, and Grant knew who he was before Andrei seized a clump of the man’s hair and yanked his head back.

  When Ricker Mullens moaned, Grant’s airway constricted. Perhaps he would’ve been better off if Mullens had poisoned him.

  “Who is he?” Andrei asked.

  Another moan from the German and now Grant could see two oozing stains on his shirt, shiny black against the green. Gunshot wounds. No wonder he was groaning, looking half-dead. He prayed Mullens would be all-dead before revealing he worked for the FBI.

  Andrei let Mullens’s head bob back down and took a step toward Grant. “Who is this man?” he repeated, more menace underlining his words this time.

  Grant knew he’d better answer soon, but he had no idea what to say, and his fuzzy brain wasn’t helping. Did Andrei already know he worked for the FBI? If so, he’d have killed him already, right? Was he testing his honesty? He tensed at the sounds of a scuffle behind him. He felt something brush by as the bodyguard came around his chair and scowled down at him. He clasped the chair’s back and he leaned in with a leer. Grant braced himself to get hit.

  “Vasily!” Andrei barked.

  Grant had never heard the bodyguard’s name before. At Andrei’s harsh Russian words, Vasily straightened, muttered something in retort, and skulked off the direction he’d come from. Grant wondered if Vladimir was back there too.

  In a flash, Andrei delivered a searing uppercut to Grant’s chest. With his breath whooshed out of him, he slumped over, straining his shoulders. His body position likely mirrored Mullens’s as he fought for air.

  Apparently Andrei wanted to conduct the interrogation himself.

  His shoes stopped right under his line of vision. Suddenly he looked into Andrei’s blazing eyes, his head ripped back by the Russian’s forceful grip. “Provide answer, Mick.”

  Grant attempted to swallow, but his throat was too dry. “Yes, sir,” he rasped.

  “Good.” The pressure on his forehead abated as Andrei stepped back, gestured toward Mullens, and nodded. “This idiot say you work for Barberi.”

  Grant liked how his family name sounded with a Russian accent. He wondered if the name’s origin had any connection to Russia.

  Andrei snapped him out of his reverie. “Is true?”

  Grant tried to remember the question. Something about Barberi? His eyelids drooped. “Is what true?”

  Andrei’s fist slammed into his jaw, sending him reeling to his right, nearly toppling him. The crunch of contact and blast of pain made him wonder if his jaw had broken. As the rope chafed at his wrists, he realized blood pooled in his mouth. Something hard floated in the blood coating his tongue…Oh, God, it was a tooth. His gag reflex kicked in, and he spit a spray of blood onto the dirty concrete floor. The tooth rattled as it skipped into the darkness.

  Once he righted himself, Andrei got in his face. “Is true you work for Barberi?”

  Christ. Should he confess his lineage? That had to be better than admitting he worked for the feds, right? Sorting through his thoughts, he watched Andrei’s fist cock back and braced himself for more blood.

  “The drug make him slow,” said a deep voice in the darkness.

  Andrei dropped his arm and looke
d to where his boss emerged from the shadows. Vladimir glared at Grant. “He not, as you say, fire on all cylinders.”

  He bent down and gripped the armrests of Grant’s chair. Grant pressed back against the wooden slats but couldn’t escape the stink of stale cigars as the don’s unshaven face filled his world. “Focus, Mick,” he ordered, adding to the olfactory onslaught.

  Grant blinked several times in an attempt to follow the order. Apparently he didn’t look coherent enough because Vladimir walloped a stinging slap across his cheek. He barely had time to catch his breath before the Russian backhanded his other cheek. His face on fire and his vision blurred, he panted for air. Interesting refocusing strategy.

  As his head lolled, he noticed blood on the back of Vladimir’s hand. He couldn’t see a cut anywhere, and he realized the blood had come from his face. He felt a bead of wetness sliding down his chin. The tip of his tongue found the hole in his lower jaw left by his wayward tooth. Another warm puddle of blood in his mouth made him cringe.

  “Look at me, Mick,” Vladimir growled.

  With effort, he lifted his head.

  “Why this man call you Barberi?”

  “I…I don’t know, sir.”

  A fist seared into his side with a thud and a crack. “Ooogh,” he grunted. Waves of pain pulsed through him.

  Wrong answer.

  “I want truth,” Vladimir said. “No lies. Talk.”

  Every breath felt like shards of glass. He fought the urge to beg for mercy, and wondered what would happen if he refused to speak. Whatever the Russians planned, it would certainly escalate the situation. FBI training had taught him the Russians meant business. His upbringing had taught him that mobsters never gave up.

  When Vladimir kicked his shin with a steel-plated boot, Grant screamed. The intense sting radiated up his leg to his gut, where his stomach threatened to heave. Vladimir’s attack had gone straight to the bone.

  “Talk!” Vladimir seethed.

  Afraid to open his mouth lest the pooling blood and potential vomit make an appearance, Grant stayed silent.

  Andrei approached and nudged Vladimir, who stood back. Grant’s eyes widened when he handed his don a rusted pistol. “Is time to play roulette, no?”

  Spinning the pistol’s chamber, Vladimir grinned.

  Grant didn’t like that grin at all. Russians plus roulette equaled death. Aware of his dwindling time on this earth, he slumped in the chair and tried to keep his breaths shallow. Sophie…I’m sorry.

  Vladimir lifted the gun and pressed the muzzle against Grant’s temple. “Talk, Mick.”

  His heartbeat exploded. “I…I won’t. You’ll kill me anyway.” He felt blood dribble down his chin.

  “Not true,” said Vladimir. “Tell him, Andrei.”

  “We need Navy man for sub, like I say before. But we need trust you first.”

  What about my trust in you? he wondered. He knew they’d kill him in the end, no matter what he said. And if he admitted his lineage, the Russians might tie him back to Sophie. He couldn’t let that happen.

  Vladimir shoved the muzzle into his mouth, and Grant closed his eyes. I love you, Sophie.

  He wasn’t sure how much time passed before Vladimir cursed, withdrew the gun, and turned to mutter a few Russian words to Andrei. Grant tasted rust mixed with the metallic flavor of his own blood. Vladimir spun back around and studied him for a long moment as he caressed the bloody gun. Then he looked at Andrei. “Get her.”

  Grant’s stomach dropped. His breaths accelerated, bringing spots before his eyes. If he was again responsible for harm coming to Sophie…

  Andrei’s brief hesitation was too long for Vladimir, who gestured emphatically and shouted for him to get moving. Andrei crossed behind him and hollow footsteps ensued—it sounded like he ascended stairs.

  Vladimir smiled. “She make you talk,” he said, nodding.

  Grant closed his eyes. Please, don’t have Sophie. Please.

  When the click of heels accompanied Andrei’s footfalls down the stairs, his eyes flew open. Please not Sophie. He heard a feminine yelp and saw a flash of blond hair as Andrei shoved a thin woman into Vladimir’s arms…

  He exhaled as he saw Innochka before him. His relief was short-lived, though, when Vladimir seized her arm and held her tight against his chest. He raised the bloody gun to her temple. Grant wasn’t sure whose eyes were wider—hers or his own.

  “We play roulette now, da?” Vladimir said.

  Grant looked to Andrei, who seemed about as pleased by this turn of events as he was. Had Andrei developed real feelings for this girl?

  “One bullet in chamber?” Vladimir asked Andrei, who nodded.

  Innochka squirmed in his arms, her face a mask of terror. “Please, Mr. Federov.” Vladimir clenched her tighter to him.

  “Please,” Grant echoed. “Don’t hurt her.”

  “Up to you, Mick,” he said calmly.

  Damn! He had to say something…what? Innochka struggled, and tears spilled onto her cheeks.

  “Talk!” Vladimir demanded.

  Grant opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He heard a soft click as Vladimir fired the pistol against Innochka’s head. A soft click but no loud boom: empty chamber. Grant’s shoulders collapsed, and he heard a huge sigh. Andrei had breathed out with relief.

  Vladimir’s eyebrow arched. “Play again, Mick?” He shook the gun for emphasis, and Innochka whimpered. “Or talk?”

  “Okay!” he said. His shout rattled and echoed in his aching head—everything hurt. Now three pairs of eyes locked on him, and he knew Vasily the bodyguard was nearby as well. “I am a Barberi.” Disgust settled in his belly, admitting that. “Vicenzo Barberi is my father.”

  Innochka gasped, and Vladimir lowered the gun and let go of her. In Russian, he ordered her to stand by the wall, saying something about needing her again. Then he took a step toward Grant, with Andrei joining him.

  Time to spin a credible story. He spit out more blood and took a slow breath, shallower than he needed to avoid searing pain. If there was ever a time one of Hunter’s deep breaths would help, this was it. “My father ordered me to join you, to work with you.”

  “Why to work with us?” Vladimir asked.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you this…but my family isn’t as strong as it used to be. We need more manpower to keep the business running. My father wants to explore a takeover.”

  Andrei blanched. “We far too strong for takeover.”

  “No, no,” Grant countered, making shit up on the fly. “Not taking over you. He wants you to take over us. He wants to sell our business to you.”

  Vladimir stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Why you not say this before?”

  “Because it takes time to build trust, both ways.” He swallowed saliva mixed with blood and ignored his throbbing jaw. “If I approached you with this sale right off the bat, you’d never go for it. You’d smell a trap. If I told my father you were trustworthy and then you screwed us over, he’d have me killed. I had to check you out first.”

  “You do not like your father,” Andrei said. “Why you do job for him?”

  As Grant hung his head, he noticed deep, purple bruises blooming on his torso. No wonder every breath hurt. “I had no choice. He said he’d pay off my debts if I came to you and forged an alliance. If I didn’t, he’d let the men I owed money to kill me.”

  Andrei’s laugh rumbled in his throat. “You suck at gambling, Mick.”

  “Wait,” Vladimir said, holding up his beefy hand. “We come to you—to Capone’s Spirits. You no come to us.”

  Crap. Grant nodded, his mind whirring. He felt the fog begin to lift from his brain, replaced by a pounding ache. “My father had people watching me at Capone’s. I tried to hide by using a fake name, but they still found me. When they saw us talking, I got my orders to get to know you.”

  “You not Navy then?” Andrei asked.

  “I am. I was.” Grant’s voice filled with genuine emotion. “I wanted to get away
from my family. I joined the Navy, but…” He looked down. “I got kicked out for gambling.”

  Mullens moaned, drawing their attention.

  “Who is he?” Vladimir demanded.

  Grant’s fingers twitched behind him. Don’t you dare wake up, Mullens. “He works for my father.” True. “I hadn’t obeyed my father, so he showed up to teach me a lesson.” Also true. “I fought him, and he drugged me.” True again.

  Vladimir stroked his chin. “Your father in prison.”

  “Yes, sir.” Grant nodded. He watched Vladimir look at Andrei then tilt his head to the area behind Grant.

  “We talk.” They trudged up the stairs.

  Now what? His headache wasn’t so dull anymore, and he felt a shiver crawl up his spine from the cold. His spike of adrenaline had flattened. He looked over at Mullens, who still appeared unconscious.

  “Mick,” Innochka whispered. He jumped in his chair. He swallowed a moan and looked up at her scowl. “You let him shoot me.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered back. “You could’ve died—please believe me I didn’t want that. I just couldn’t get the words out.”

  Her knowing smile unnerved him. She traced his stinging jaw with one finger. “Because your story is bullsheet,” she purred. His attempt at a poker face must’ve failed because she laughed and said, “Don’t worry, Mick. Your secret is safe with me—whoever you are, whoever you work for. I hate Vladimir more than you do.”

  “Then untie me from this chair.” The words were out of his mouth before he had time to think.

  Her smile was sad as she shook her head. “How stupid do you think I am? They would kill me in an instant. I like you, but not enough to die for you.”

  “You’re right,” he rasped. “I’m sorry I asked that.”

  A door opened somewhere behind him, and Innochka flitted back to the darkness. Boots clamored down the stairs, and Andrei rounded in front of Grant.

  “You talk to him, ’Nochka?”

  “Nyet.” She scoffed. “Barberi scum.”

  “He is scum.”

  Grant bristled. Something had changed—a rising tension in the air sparked against his skin. Andrei disappeared into the darkness and returned with a cushioned chair, which he placed between Grant and Mullens. At first he thought Andrei had gotten the chair for himself, but then Vladimir lumbered over.