by C. J. Miller
“Why do we get the case?” Death threats usually stayed at the level of the local police, so there must be something more to the story.
“This particular threat came from Russia. Dr. Fleming’s contact, Ivan Novikoff, was killed yesterday, and she received a picture of his body with the threat.” Harper pressed a few keys, then flipped the monitor around so Thomas could see the gruesome photo.
“Has this been verified?” Ivan Novikoff lay sprawled in a puddle of blood, his open mouth an echo of the gaping wound in his neck. “You’re next” was written on the man’s white shirt, the reddish-brown of the letters a stark contrast to his pale skin.
“Yes. It’s legitimate.”
Thomas frowned. “Is State involved?”
Harper pressed his lips together, a sure sign of agitation. “They are...facilitating discussions with the Russians,” he said delicately, leaving no doubt as to his opinion of their involvement. “We’re hoping to hear more from our counterparts regarding the circumstances surrounding Dr. Novikoff’s death.”
“Well, it wasn’t accidental, that much is clear.”
“Quite.”
Thomas set the paper back on Harper’s desk and stretched out his legs. “What are we doing?”
The older man regarded him with a level gaze. “There is no ‘we’ at this point. There is ‘you.’ And you will act as our contact with Dr. Fleming. I want you to stick by her side and keep her safe until we figure out what is really going on here.”
“You want me to act as her bodyguard?” Disbelief made the words come out a bit sharper than he intended, but Thomas didn’t bother to apologize. No way was he going to take a babysitting job when he had other cases to work, other responsibilities that needed his attention.
“Is there a problem?”
“Yeah, there kind of is. I’ve got other cases—I can’t just drop everything to hang out with this woman on the off chance someone tries to pull something.”
Harper narrowed his gray eyes, the atmosphere in the office growing decidedly chilly. “Agent Kincannon,” he began icily, “lest you forget, you are in a precarious position. After the debacle that was the Collins investigation, the suits upstairs want nothing more than to fire this entire unit. I am all that stands between you and the brass. You will go where I tell you, do what I tell you and take the assignments I give you without question, or you will find yourself without a job. Are we clear?”
Thomas felt his face heat but kept his mouth shut. Now was not the time to protest that they had all done the best they could with the limited information they’d had at the time. It wasn’t their fault a crazy man had blown up part of the Smithsonian. Besides, the injuries had been minor and the group had brought in not one but two suspects. It really should have counted as a win, but the guys upstairs had no tolerance for deviations from the plan. In the end, Carmichael had fallen on his sword to protect the rest of the team, but it sounded like the big boys wanted more blood.
“Yes, sir,” he bit out, trying to keep his voice level.
Harper leaned back with a nod. “Very good. Dr. Fleming is still at her office, along with the local police and someone from computer crimes. I suggest you meet her there and introduce yourself. You’ll be spending a lot of time together in the coming days, so do try to be nice.”
Recognizing a dismissal when he heard it, Thomas stood and turned to leave. His fingers itched to fire off a mocking salute, but he resisted the impulse, knowing it would likely send Harper over the edge.
He paused at the threshold. “You’ll let me know as soon as you hear from the Russians?”
Harper nodded, already turning back to his computer. “Of course.”
Thomas frowned. He knew in his gut that something else was going on but had no idea what. He left the office, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck to massage away the tingling sensation dancing across his skin. Was it any wonder his alarm bells were ringing? Russians, nuclear scientists and death threats. All the makings of a disaster.
Pausing to grab a notebook from his desk, he headed back out to the car, softly whistling the James Bond theme music as he went.
* * *
“So it’s done?”
Victor rubbed the blade of his knife with a soft cloth, buffing the metal to a gleaming shine. “He’s dead.”
“Did you have any trouble?”
He held back the snort of laughter. Trouble? Of course not. Ivan Novikoff had been an easy mark, a soft, careless man. He hadn’t known he was being followed, hadn’t suspected a thing when Victor had appeared in his office. The man had even offered him coffee, for God’s sake. He shook his head. A stupid mistake, and the last one Novikoff had made.
“No trouble. It was quick and easy.”
“Not too quick, I hope.” The man’s voice took on a slight edge. Victor’s lip curled up in disgust. He didn’t torture people without reason. He prided himself on making a clean kill—to do anything else was a waste of time and talent. The only reason he’d written on the scientist’s shirt was because his employer had demanded it, and he was being paid very well for his efforts.
“The message was delivered as you requested,” he said, hoping to change the subject. The man on the other end of the line could be a bit stubborn, grabbing on to topics like a dog with a bone, and Victor wasn’t in the mood to relate the precise details of the job. He was paid to kill, not to give a play-by-play after the work was done.
“Good. And the papers?”
He hesitated a beat, knowing his employer wouldn’t react well to the news. “There were no papers.”
There was a pause, and Victor could practically feel the man’s anger build in the charged silence. Victor wasn’t happy about the missing documents either, but there was nothing to be done at the moment.
“Look, the job isn’t over yet,” he pointed out, hoping to stave off an explosion.
“You’re right, it is not.” His voice was lethally quiet, the cultured accent making his words seem even more dangerous. “You still have to take out Fleming. I hope, for your sake, she knows where the papers are. Otherwise, I will take it out on you.”
Victor sucked in a breath. He had known the threat was coming, but it still hit him like a fist to the gut.
“That won’t be necessary. I think she has them.”
“What makes you say that?”
He set the knife aside, smoothing out the cloth as he spoke. “I found a package receipt in Novikoff’s office. He’d sent a collection of documents to her the day before I got there, if the customs form is to be believed.”
“You should hope it is. I don’t have to remind you what happens to associates who disappoint, do I?”
The images flashed through his mind, a horrific movie reel of pain and blood and a final, merciful death. The Russian mafia wasted no time in meting out retribution in creatively gruesome ways, and Victor had no intention of experiencing it firsthand.
“No. I remember,” he said, suppressing a shudder.
“You have three days.”
Victor flipped the phone closed, carefully placed it next to the knife and smoothed his hands over his face. He was walking a tightrope, to be sure. Killing Novikoff had been easy enough, and while he didn’t relish the thought of killing a woman, it had to be done. The papers were the real target—Novikoff and Fleming were just collateral damage. There was no guarantee Fleming would have the papers he needed, though, and he knew that if he didn’t get them, his mission would be considered a failure.
Failure was not tolerated by the Bratva. Failure was punished. The greater the failure, the greater the punishment. It was that simple. And since he would not tolerate failure, would not give his employer the satisfaction of punishing him, he had only one option.
Kill the woman. Find the papers.
Survive.
> Copyright © 2014 by Lara Kingeter
ISBN-13: 9781460337240
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Copyright © 2014 by C.J. Miller
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