by Lana Sky
But none of them look half as haunted as she does.
Chapter 9
Chloe
I should have run when I had the chance. Back to Montana, or farther. Anywhere but here. Vlad’s money is a tempting distraction, but maybe that’s all it ever was. An excuse to stay a little longer. Search longer. Hope longer.
But if Anna was here, then I’ve already screwed up my slim chances of finding her.
My failure encircles my neck like a noose as I enter the precinct with the hood of Espisido’s jacket drawn low over my face and no semblance of a logical plan. A receptionist guards the desk situated behind bulletproof glass at the center of the lobby, but she doesn’t look my way.
I don’t find Grey in his office. So I keep moving, slipping through a side entrance and into the alley where some of the senior officers park for a smoke. Sure enough, I spot his patrol car—his official one this time. He’s sitting back in the driver’s seat, a cigarette in one hand and a bottle in the other. Something tells me that’s not coffee.
He has to see me coming from a mile away, but it’s almost a full minute before he disengages the locks.
“Well, you’re alive after all.” He tilts the bottle in a mock salute as I scramble into the cruiser.
“You might as well let it all out,” I tell him, bracing for the inevitable lecture.
Some unknown country song plays on the radio, and he’s already adjusted my usual seat. The masculine vibe is a blunt reminder that Grey never wanted to take me on as his partner in the first place. He didn’t “babysit,” in his exact words.
“You look like shit, kid,” he tells me, the likely start of a massive tirade. In the end, he just shakes his head. “I was prepared to cover my own ass. I had it all written up that you never showed. That job wasn’t on the books…”
“But?” I sense a big one coming.
“But.” He scoffs and takes a drag on his cigarette. “That didn’t exactly sit too well—the thought of you being dead because you couldn’t keep your fucking head on straight. I spent all night looking for you. Only ten minutes ago did I finally rationalize that you were ashes in that fucking club.”
Dark circles line his eyes. One good inhale, and I realize he hasn’t showered.
“I called out,” he tells me. “But I had to come here, just in case your scrawny ass would show. I’m still not convinced you aren’t a figment of the rum though.” He starts to take another sip, but I grab the bottle before he can.
“You shouldn’t drink and drive—”
“You want to tell me what the hell happened, Parker? They found bodies in that place, you know. They think one of them is Vladimir Olshenkov.”
Do I want to tell him what happened? No. Yes. Maybe.
“I will. But not right now. I…” I suck in air and swallow my pride. “I need a favor.”
“Of course you do.” Laughing, Grey takes another drag on his cigarette.
The acrid smell floods my nostrils, and I can’t silence a cough. It reminds me of him, the “angel” who followed me to spy from the mouth of the alley. I can’t see him—he’s good, but nothing can erase his smell, and it haunted me during the entire walk here.
“First, you help me,” Grey tells me, commanding my attention again. “When I go in there and tell the brass that you never showed, what the fuck should I say, huh? I’m guessing you aren’t going in yourself, dressed like you crawled out of a dumpster.”
“Nice one.”
He has a point. As far as today is concerned, Chloe Parker is as good as dead. I could always go back to Montana, but not any time soon. If Piotr found my home, he found my accounts. Ironically, Vlad’s money is my only option. The moment I get it, I’m on the next train out. Then the next boat. Plane. No route will outrun Piotr for long.
But I’ll follow any path leading to Anna.
“Just tell them…”
“We’ll say you’re undercover,” Grey says over me. “We knew that it would be breaking the rules, but the lead was just too damn big to lose. I need a name. A good one. You had to rub shoulders with someone before you got out of that death trap. I need a rat to pin this on. You owe me this.”
A good name. Espisido is a terrible one. I don’t recognize it from any of the databases, but I do recognize one.
“Arno,” I say, recalling the man I heard speaking to Espisido the night he saved my life. “That’s a dealer’s name, isn’t it? The one he goes by.”
Grey sits straighter, the gears in his head already turning.
“Runs guns too,” I continue. “Has a gang. What is his name? Mackenzie—”
“Arnold Mackenzie,” Grey corrects, rubbing his chin. “That’s a good fucking name. Very good. I guess he was working with Petrov after all, huh?”
I nod. “My turn. They picked up a girl last night—”
“A girl?” Grey rolls his eyes. “Fucking hell. I told you—Women like that bring nothing but trouble.”
“She’s young,” I insist. “Brunette. Thick accent. Probably didn’t give you her name. They think if they hold her long enough she’ll spill something on the Russians, but she won’t.” I wouldn’t. “Get them to let her go—”
“And you get me something on Mackenzie,” he counters before snatching his bottle back. “Something solid that I can use to get us both out of this mess without a fucking scratch. You got that, Parker? Even if you do, I can only buy us a few days.”
Days I don’t have. The clock is ticking, and in the end, Grey will be left holding the short end of the stick.
“Look, I know I screwed up—”
“You think I don’t know the risk I was taking, letting you go into that place alone? And I’m not just talking about the fucking danger of Vladimir Olshenkov and his buddy Petrov.” Grey sizes me up and sighs. “You lost someone to violence. I knew the look in your eye the moment I saw you. Who was it, huh? Your mom? Dad?” He shakes his head. “That kind of evil… It leaves a mark on you—”
“I’m just a rookie from Podunk, Montana, remember?” I can’t stop picking at the gauze on my injured hand. “Don’t get soft on me.”
“Whatever. I just need something.” His neglected cigarette’s grown quite the tail of ash. If he doesn’t flick it soon, it’ll fall off on its own, possibly splattering the leg of his dark-brown pants. “Something to nail even one of those bastards to the wall. A Russian. Mackenzie. I don’t fucking care. Just something to prove that this all fucking means something.” He gestures to the decrepit city landscape around us. He wants it all to matter. He did spend most of his life fighting for it, after all.
“Let the girl go, and I’ll do my best.” It could be a lie—the part of me itching to run wants it to be—but deep down…
Who knows?
“Give me an hour,” Grey says while switching the car’s engine off. “I’ll see what I can do. But I’ll say this again, Parker—This will only buy us time. And after this…maybe it’s better for everyone if you go back to Montana.”
If only he knew.
“Thank you. I mean it,” I say.
Judging from the wary tilt to his mouth, he might believe me. “Just get out of here,” he says. “Before one of those overachieving rookies sees you.”
I reach for the door on my end. My fingers brush the handle, but I don’t pull it just yet. “Were there any other girls who came in the other night?” I ask. “Young. Red hair?”
Grey shrugs. “Not anyone sober.”
I swallow hard and accept the information with a nod. Averting my face from his, I leave the cruiser and face the street, ignoring the burning sting creeping behind my eyes.
Then I start walking, and I don’t look back.
My shadow turns out to be quick. I find him where I left him last, leaning against the wall as if he never moved. Maybe he’d already caught on that I sensed him in my wake. It could be that he let me sense him all along.
“So?” he asks.
“Your birdy should be free within the hour.”<
br />
“Then I guess we’re done here.” He withdraws a wad of cash from his pocket. “Here. It’s yours, as promised.”
It’s enough money to outlast Piotr for a little while…
But it’s nowhere near enough. My excuse has run out, but some deep-seated itch in my skin won’t let me leave. Maybe it’s Anna, calling to me. If I leave now, I might not find her again.
“Not comfortable with receiving payment upfront?” Espisido returns the money to his pocket. “Professionalism. I can respect that.”
“Was your friend a plant?” I ask, changing the subject. “That’s a stupid risk to take if she was—playing around with the Syndicate’s toys. Though it would be even more foolish if she weren’t.”
“That’s me. Foolish.” He confirms the worst by shaking his head. “No… She’s in deep. I’ve been trying for months to get her out. This is the only shot she has. If I’m lucky, those friends of hers aren’t already watching the station.”
“I see.” There’s a reason why he’s willing to pay so much for my help now.
As he said, it’s her only chance.
And, of course, he’ll fail.
“How did you meet her?”
Evasive, for once, he stares beyond my head. “In an alley. Vlad made her sleep near the dumpsters as punishment one night. I gave her some food. She gave me a hell of a lot more. After that, she made a habit of pissing them off in order to sleep on the street. I did what I could to help her out.”
“For information,” I clarify. Someone risking their life to help another for their own gain is a lot easier to stomach than the alternative.
“Yep.” He breaks the tension by fishing a cell phone from his pocket to check the time. “An hour, you said? The pigs always seem to be overachievers. Let’s go now.”
I wind up following him out of simple, burning curiosity. A lone man plans to grab a girl from Piotr Petrov’s watch. I hope he isn’t that stupid. I’m amused enough to ask.
“Do you have a plan?”
He shakes his head, but when he glances back at me, he’s smiling. The slight quirk to his mouth ignites burning sparks beneath my skin. Once again, the only adjective I can use to describe one of his expressions is beautiful. It’s not a compliment. I know firsthand what beauty means against a man like Piotr.
It’s weakness.
“Think if I ask nicely they’ll let her walk away?” He poses the question to the sky as he tucks his hands into his pockets, his stroll leisurely.
I’m almost fooled. Almost. But he’s scanning the road, hunting the face of every pedestrian who rushes past.
“I think you’re going to get yourself killed,” I tell him truthfully. What a waste. That angelic face will be mutilated by the blow from some thug’s fist—if he’s not lucky enough to get a bullet to the head.
“Oh, I already know that.” He stares me down head on, and a slight tilt renders his pretty smile a little less innocent. “That doesn’t mean it has to happen today though.”
“W-wait—”
I’m left reeling as he picks up speed before slowing down as we near the precinct. He decides to cross the street toward a bodega. Then he cuts through an alley, and we linger near the mouth of it, assaulted by the stench of rotting garbage wafting from a row of trash cans a few yards down.
He surveys the front of the police station, and I copy him. Vagrants and detectives alike go in and out. I recognize some of them, though distantly. It’s like I’m viewing a slideshow of someone else’s life. Maybe I read the summary somewhere, but I forgot the context. Wholesome rookie cop transfers from a Podunk town in Montana—only she’s not so wholesome, and Newtown was never her home.
“There she is,” Espisido whispers.
A woman exits the front of the station, her dark hair a ratty mess, her blue eyes bloodshot. The man beside me tenses up, but he doesn’t start forward. He merely whistles.
I don’t know how the sharp sound manages to cut over the bustle of early morning traffic, but the woman flinches, her gaze flitting in our direction. Another whistle and she takes off, descending the curb and cutting through traffic. She’s fast, but when a man climbs out of a dark van parked a block away, my heart lurches ominously.
“Shit.” Espisido hisses through his teeth. This must have been his plan after all—hope that he could beat them to her. “Get back.”
We move deeper into the alley, but he doesn’t take his gaze off the girl once. The brute on her tail is all muscle. He cracks his knuckles with every step he takes, his eyes narrowed over his prey.
A terrifying realization hits me like a punch to the stomach—She won’t be fast enough. Maybe Espisido knows that too, because he’s inching backward until we’re out of sight, tucked around where the alley turns.
The girl falters just beyond the bodega. Another low whistle draws her closer. By then, it’s already too fucking late.
“No.” A hand descends over my shoulder before I even register moving. Espisido. “It’s okay,” he says.
But all he does is whistle again.
The sound lures the girl a few steps closer. She’s nearly halfway into the alley by the time the thug catches up. His size alone blocks the entrance, rendering our direction as her only exit—not that she makes it that far. With the ease of a hand swatting a fly, the man snatches her wrist and hauls her backward. I’m close enough to make out the words he snarls to her in Russian.
“Where the hell were you going? Get to the van!”
“No!” She tries in vain to push him off, but the bastard’s already forming a fist, aiming it at her chest.
“Wait here,” Espisido speaks directly into my ear this time.
The next moment, I’m staring at the back of his head. He’s drawn his hood low, his gait unsteady. One of his hands pulls something from his pocket. It’s small, cylindrical. A syringe? If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume he was a druggie, too damn high to even notice the scene unfolding in front of him.
The bastard has Domi by the waist now. She’s flailing, struggling to keep her feet on the ground.
“Excuse me.” An almost comical scene interrupts the horror—a stoned druggie stumbling into the thug’s side. He draws away with an apology, continuing his listless walk toward the mouth of the alley. He’s only a few feet away when the Russian starts with a grunt. One of his meaty hands loses its grip on Domi and swipes at his neck.
“What the hell?”
The lanky figure turns, blue eyes gleaming through shadow. “Domi, run!”
It all happens too fast. The girl takes off in my direction while the thug whirls on Espisido. He found a rock from somewhere. Like a ballerina on lithe feet, he dodges the punch the man throws at him and aims a blow of his own. One sickening thud and the bastard staggers into the wall, groaning out curses. The blow alone won’t down him, but something tells me that whatever Espisido injected into his veins will.
But the brief advantage won’t last in the long run. It could take minutes before the drug takes effect—and Piotr’s men never go out alone.
Espisido meets my gaze as Domi races between us. “Go!”
He nods to where the alley extends, and my hand flies out, seizing a bony wrist. I use it like a leash to tug her after me, around the corner. Grunts echo behind us. Another thud. A groan…
Not his. I feed myself that lie even though it’s stupid to care. Luckily, Domi doesn’t need much persuasion to run.
We cut through alleys, sidestepping curious shop owners taking the trash out and yawning workers starting their commutes. My heart won’t stop pounding. Few people are wandering the streets, but I scan their faces one by one. Hunting. Searching. The lanky man a block down isn’t wearing a hoodie. Neither is the figure exiting a building up ahead.
But their eyes follow us. Every road for at least a mile, runs straight through the heart of the Syndicate. We’re walking targets for any snitch looking to win favor with Piotr—at this rate, we won’t make it another block, let alone to s
afety.
Unless…
I don’t think. Instead, I steer Domi down a side street and grit my teeth at the sight appearing up ahead—an auto mechanic shop notorious even to the police. Some days, the man who runs it restores vintage cars for wealthy clients. Others, he smuggles cocaine into trucks that are towed across state lines. It’s all in a day’s work for the main distribution branch of the Syndicate.
A shudder racks my spine as I cross the road and approach the building from the front with Domi in tow. Near the side entrance, hidden from the street, I turn her face me. “Wait here.”
“What about him?” Wide-eyed, she gazes back the way we came. “We need to—”
“Trust me.” I don’t give her the chance to argue, and I slip around the front of the building just as a familiar van turns the corner. Shit.
I enter the building without thinking through the consequences. A raised garage door reveals the car being restored here now—a vintage Volvo. With no worker in sight, it looks like an unexpected windfall for any thief worth their salt, but none of them venture here for a reason—only a fool would steal from Ivan Ivanov.
I find him in the main shop when I finally gather the nerve to tug the glass door open and step inside. It’s like walking back in time. The small, square room even smells the same, though some of the furniture is new—a black leather couch in the lobby and a flat-screen television mounted on the wall. Living under the protection of the Petrovs, he’s done well for himself, it seems. When I spot him, his back is to me as he swipes at the counter with a wet rag.
An infamous tattoo spans the back of his neck as a warning to anyone who isn’t aware of his identity—a hawk in midflight, the symbol of the Syndicate. His plain, black shirt and pants are less expensive than Vlad’s tailored suits but just as impressive. It’s a fitting ensemble for a lieutenant of the Volki.
“What is it?” He snaps, glancing over his shoulder. The moment he spots me, his stern frown goes slack. “Ksei…Ksenia?”