by Shirl Henke
“Hey, you’re good. You lost ’em,” he said, looking behind them for the Town Car, which had disappeared about a half-dozen blocks ago.
“Not for long if there’s a bug on this car. We gotta get inside someplace they can’t get at us and check it out.”
Just as they turned another corner the iron gate to one of the big estates swung open about a half block ahead and a plumbing repair truck glided inside the high stone walls. Sam did another wheelie and followed it.
“We’ll never make that!” Matt yelled.
“Piece of cake,” she said, pulling on the wheel, then gunning the engine while the gate started to close. The Econoline made it inside an inch from impalement. They followed the plumbers along the circular drive until the Econoline couldn’t be seen from the road. The truck in front of them kept on going around the house to the rear entrance.
“The owners will call the cops on us,” he said.
“We’ll be out of here before any security company bozos come around. Trust me, it’s unlikely anyone’s even home to notice us. These gates are automated to let vehicles in at set times and anyone can get out by just driving up and waiting.” At least, that was a common practice in upscale burbs with homeowners who both had to work to make the exorbitant payments on these kinds of digs.
“What if you’re wrong and we’re trapped in here?” he asked.
“Would you rather keep playing Coyote and Road Runner with Yuri and Vassily on our tail from here to Miami?” she asked reasonably, as she jumped out of the van and crawled beneath it.
Matt followed suit. “Okay, what are we looking for?”
“You’re a reporter and you never used a bug or tracing device of any kind?” she asked, incredulously. “A small metal or plastic housing, about so.” She used her hand to give him some idea of its size. “Magnetized on the bottom. Stuck on some flat surface where it obviously doesn’t belong.”
Matt had no idea what “belonged” on the underside of an automobile, but grunted and started crawling around, peering at greasy machinery and pipes, pretending he did. Rizzo had taught him to change his oil and that was about all. The only reason he could shift a standard transmission was because he’d been given a Corvette by his great-uncle as a high school graduation present. After he went on his own, spurning the family money, he bought practical, used cars and paid a cut-rate mechanic to repair them.
He crawled toward the back, reasoning that the two thugs weren’t all that bright and would probably have placed the magnetized device somewhere easy and quick to reach—like inside the rear bumper. Sure enough, he felt a small lump and pulled on it. When it popped off in his hand, he held it out to her under the car, asking, “This it?”
“Matthew, you’re a genius!” She framed his face with two greasy hands and planted a big, wet kiss squarely on his mouth. He raised up and bumped his head on the gas tank. He saw stars, but it didn’t matter—she tasted so damn good.
If not for the two goons cruising around the neighborhood, probably with backup hardware now loaded and ready to use on them, Matt and Sam might have considered prolonging the kiss. But they broke apart reluctantly and scooted from under the van. She took the device and dashed around the house to where the plumbing truck sat parked, its occupants now inside. The plumbers apparently never even noticed the van behind them slipping in. Probably too in awe of the fountains and gabled wings of the garish house. It looked like a combination of old-time movie theatre and mausoleum to her.
She quickly slid the device under the side panel of the van, then sprinted back to where Matt stood waiting. “Now, we take off.”
“How the hell are we going to get away? Our friends are probably sitting somewhere down the street, waiting for us to come out.”
“Count on it. But that little baby isn’t exactly high-tech. They don’t know exactly which drive we’ll come out of. When we shoot out, they’ll follow. Then I double back and lose them close to here.”
“And while we take off down the highway, they keep driving in circles until they figure out the van’s parked somewhere nearby. Then they park and wait.” He grinned at her. Damned devious woman. She could definitely be dangerous for his peace of mind…not to mention his health. But, what the hell? He was already onto a story that put him crosswise of the Russian Mafia and he’d never let that go. Sam just might be a big help—if she didn’t drive him crazy first.
Sam peered over the wall, standing on Matt’s shoulders, and located the Lincoln down a block to their left. Luckily, the gate opened when the van approached, just as she’d hoped. She gunned the engine and headed directly toward the Town Car, passing it before Yuri and Vassily could do more than blink.
“I think you caught them by surprise,” Matt said dryly.
She shot around the corner on the curving street, then slowed just enough so the Lincoln caught sight of them after it made a U-turn and took off in pursuit. They played cat and mouse for some of the longest minutes of Matt’s life. “You said you have an uncle who’s a trucker. Any of your family into stock car racing?”
Sam was concentrating on her driving, but she could see his white knuckles on the door handle and his legs braced stiffly. “Never tried it. Too risky,” she replied.
“Too risky! You snatch nutcases out of cults and drive like a Mexico City cabbie!”
He probably rolled his eyes, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the road long enough to see. “Now, they’re falling behind…after…this next…curve…” She chewed her lip in concentration, remembering the open drive on this street. A private park for the complex, and just close enough to where they’d left the bug, so that when the goons lost them, they’d think to check the tracking device and return to wait—for the plumbing truck. By the time they figured out they’d been had, she and Matt would be miles down I-15 nearing I-40 heading east to Miami.
“I don’t see why we couldn’t go with Mr. Granger,” Mellie whined.
“Your aunt explained it to you all,” Jenny replied.
“But he was so much fun to tickle,” Mellie said in a sulky voice, slurping a Sno-Kone Jenny had bought her at a beach-side stand.
“He was kinda neat,” Tiff admitted wistfully.
“You got a crush on him?” Steve teased his younger cousin. It was one of the few smiles Jenny had seen on his face in weeks. She felt vindicated for bending the rules just a little bit.
In spite of Matt’s warnings and Tess’s promise to keep them inside, Jenny found it impossible to endure the girls’ complaints and pouting. She also wanted to cheer up her nephew. This seemed harmless enough. They walked along the deserted beach until they ran into a stretch of smooth white sand—and lots of tourists baking themselves in the sun. Cabanas sold T-shirts, sunblock, souvenirs and cold treats. The kids had spotted it en route to their rental several days ago and her girls had never stopped talking about how neat it would be to visit.
While her sister was taking a nap, Jenny took them out for fresh air and a little fun. Hopefully, they’d be back before Tess awakened. Once she saw how much happier Steve was, Tess would forgive her. Jenny thought of swearing the kids to secrecy, but knew Mellie was too young to keep quiet. Besides, she’d already dripped cherry ice on her blouse. Oh well.
“Mom, that man’s staring at us,” Tiffany said, tugging on her mother’s shirt. She knew some bad guys were after them and they were hiding. Even the police didn’t know about the trouble they were in, and for some reason having to do with Steve’s grandpa, couldn’t be told.
“Where?” Jenny asked, suddenly afraid. “Don’t point—” she quickly added.
“I see him, too,” Steve whispered. “By the Sno-Kone stand. He’s talking on a cell phone or something.”
“We’re going back, right now,” Jenny said, ushering her brood toward the curving beach. “We’ll take the shortcut across the highway.” It was a far more public place, safer if that man decided to follow them with ill intentions. All he’d done was look at them for a moment, then talk
on a cell phone. They were probably all being paranoid, but the way everything had gone the past weeks, who wouldn’t be?
Chapter 13
Sam and Matt were about fifty miles east of Kingman, Arizona, heading east on I-40 when his cell beeped. His eyes still watching the side-view mirror for a black sedan, Matt opened the phone. “Granger.”
Sam saw him sit up straight, reading the tension in his body language. It was Tess and the news didn’t sound good. She listened as he questioned her. When he signed off, her gut tightened. Why did children always have to get caught in the middle when adults screwed up their lives? Pat was right. Teresa Albertson Renkov had married a rich golden boy and paid the price. Sam only hoped Steve and his little cousins didn’t have to pay for her mistake, too.
“Renkov got the kids, didn’t he?” she asked.
Grimly, he said, “That’s the best we can hope for. At least I don’t think he’ll hurt Steve’s aunt and her daughters. That damn Jenny has the brains of a starfish!” He cursed and pounded the dash. “Looks like she took them to a public beach while Tess was sleeping. Poor woman’s trying her best to hold it together.”
“How long have they been missing?” Sam asked.
“Tess laid down just after lunch. When she woke up and they were gone, she figured out what must’ve happened. Jenny’s girls had been nagging her to take them to a place where they sold Sno-Kones that they’d seen, but she’d said no.”
“But with Jenny Baxter no never means no for long,” Sam replied, remembering how ineffectual the woman had been in dealing with her spoiled daughters.
“Yeah. Tess waited for a half hour, figuring since she’d napped for forty-five minutes or so that they’d be back shortly. When they didn’t show, she took their old clunker and went searching at the beach. Several people had seen them leave…and a guy following them.”
Now it was Sam’s turn to curse. She pounded the wheel. “She can’t call the local cops.”
“I convinced her of that, thank God. But she insists on meeting us in Miami. She’s sure Mikhail has them and she intends to confront him.”
“She’ll be arrested and he’s home free,” Sam said.
“Tried to tell her that, but the best I could do was to get her to agree to wait until we can meet her there and work on this together. Cut down I-93 to Phoenix. We can catch a flight from there.”
“Does she have cash to buy a ticket so Renkov won’t have advance warning she’s coming?”
“Yeah. At least that’s something. I told her we’d meet her at a bar I know in the Gables.”
“I don’t like this, Matt.”
“I’m not crazy about it myself, but if we don’t meet Tess in Miami tonight, she’ll tackle Renkov on her own.”
Sam sighed in capitulation. She knew what her own mother would do if she or any of their family were in danger. There would be no stopping Tess, either. Sam didn’t like rushing into a dangerous situation like this without a plan. Hating the thought of it, she knew she’d have to place a call to Patowski when they reached Phoenix. The bills were skyrocketing for Aunt Claudia…if she was ever able to collect from Matt’s moneybags aunt. Right now, unbelievably, that was the least of Sam’s worries.
Nancy Renkov walked across the ankle-deep snow-white carpet in her bedroom, too upset to enjoy the excellent job her decorator had done. The walls were ice-blue and the elaborately carved Louis IV furniture inlaid with gold and mother of pearl gave just the right touch of class. That’s what she always dreamed of being—a class act. Even if it meant marrying a pig like Mikhail to have the money and fast life she craved.
God, how she hated him! He was big and brutish, but possessed considerable cunning. She knew how dangerous it was to cross him. He’d gone off the deep end ever since Alexi and the car bomb. She and her darling “stepson” had become lovers last year. They had been bored and Mikhail had been in London. It was fun because both of them got off as much on the thrill of the forbidden as they did on each other—not that he was a bad lover…
She sneered, thinking of that wild man in bed with his up-tight suburban wife. But she scarcely mourned Alexi. It was his son Steve who concerned her now. Mikhail had kidnapped his grandson and was having the brat hidden until he could locate Tess, whom he planned to kill so he could groom the boy to take his father’s place in the family business. But Nancy was determined that Steve would die with his mother. If Mikhail found out what the boy, and most probably Tess, now knew, her husband would kill her.
They’d been careless. No, that wasn’t entirely true, she admitted to herself. She had been too eager and insisted on the dangerous tryst. Who could know that nosy brat would follow her to the yacht? They’d sent men to dispose of Mikhail’s daughter-in-law and Steve, but so far they’d botched the job. Now her husband was eagerly awaiting the arrival of his grandson. He’d never believe Tess, but he would believe Steve if the nasty little nerd accused her.
She had to find out where Mikhail had hidden the boy so her lover could get rid of him before he destroyed them both. Then Mikhail could kill Tess and the rest of her stupid little family. She paused at the full-length Girandole mirror filling half the wall and stopped to admire her face and body, reassuring herself of her power over the vile, deadly man she’d married.
Her nerves were badly jangled. She really needed a boost, but that would have to wait. She headed directly for her phone on the escritoire. Right now, she needed to find out if those men of Benko’s had finally taken care of that reporter and the woman with him. If so, it might take the edge off of Mikhail’s wrath when he found out his grandson was dead, too. She always tried to avoid him when he received bad news, be it about business or family.
When she reached the voice mail auto-response, she slammed down the phone in frustration. Where the hell are you! She dared not leave a message. Frustrated, she took consolation by gazing into the mirror. “Not bad for thirty-six,” she murmured, running her fingers over her surgically enhanced curves, clearly revealed through the diaphanous beach wrap she wore over a string bikini. Her hair was a pale white-blond, cut in a fashionable shoulder-length style. Her deep tan and dark green eyes contrasted dramatically with the pale mane. Of course, the color was also enhanced.
When the phone rang, she picked it up immediately. A gravelly voice said crisply, “I thought we agreed you’d never call me from your house.” Nancy could detect some kind of device that distorted voices so no one could recognize them. If anyone would be in danger, it would be her, not her partner, who added, “Is he home?”
“Yes, but I have to tell you—”
“Let’s say the usual this afternoon…” There was a pause as the party on the other end of the line consulted an itinerary for the day. “Around three. I’m making final arrangements. Everything should be in place by then. Be prompt and be certain you aren’t followed.”
As they hung up, Nancy huffed angrily. She knew her lover had her surveilled whenever they met. If she was followed, she’d receive a call on her cell and their meeting would be aborted. It had worked every time until their impulsive tumble aboard the yacht, right in Mikhail’s own backyard.
The vile old gangster thought his money bought her body and soul. Well, it gave him the right to paw over her when he wanted, but not for much longer. All they had to do was collect the payoff. Then she’d never have to look at Mikhail Renkov’s big, ugly face looming over her again.
And to think those fools in Hollywood had told her she couldn’t act!
Downstairs at the opposite end of the vast palatial mansion overlooking Dumfounding Bay, Mikhail Renkov paced, ignoring the stunning view of sunshine reflecting on the water and sailboats skimming over light waves. Extending to the top of the cathedral ceiling twenty feet above his head, the whole wall fronting on the bay was made of glass. Bulletproof glass.
Outside, carefully concealed in the lush subtropical landscaping on the rolling lawn, armed guards patrolled unobtrusively. None of his neighbors in the exclusive Aventura
neighborhood had any idea that he conducted illicit international deals, drug trafficking with Colombians, running strip clubs and prostitution rings up and down the Florida coast, or that his most profitable venture of all was smuggling Russian billionaire industrialists out of their homeland—for a sizable cut of their wealth.
To casual acquaintances, the tall, stocky man with thick graying blond hair and heavy Slavic features was just another foreigner who ran a successful import-export business. The CIA helped with that cover and turned a blind eye to his unsavory past and present dealings in return for his assistance in stopping nuclear proliferation.
If the Italians knew where all the bodies were buried, Mikhail Renkov knew where all the “misplaced” nukes inside the former Soviet Union were buried. He had a network of contacts spread around the globe who informed him of weapons shipments. Renkov in turn supplied this invaluable information to highly placed people in the American government.
For the past decade, life had been good. But in recent months, things had started to shift seismically, all for the worse. Valentin Pribluda had reached his long arm south from Brighton Beach to muscle in on Renkov’s turf. Somehow Pribluda had found out that the Renkov organization was behind many interdictions in their weapons trade. Mikhail had ordered Nikolai Benko captured and tortured to find out who had betrayed them to Pribluda, but the man had died before revealing anything.
Someone in his own inner circle had to be involved, but who? Alexi had caught Tess eavesdropping here and told him that she might cause trouble. At the time, he’d thought it farfetched. Now he wondered if his American daughter-in-law had sold out the family to Little Odessa in New York.