Billionaire Bad Boys

by Holly Hart

“Sir! Everything all right?”

  I hop out onto the fire escape and swing onto the descending ladder. We’re on the third floor, so I have to hop from the end of the ladder onto the balcony below, then down its ladder and onto the alley below that.

  A goon’s head appears in the window just as I look up. I see the flash of the muzzle an instant before I hear the cough of the silencer. A slug kicks up chunks of pavement less than a dozen inches from my foot.

  I sprint from the alley into the street, melding into the Times Square crowd. It amazes me how someone who had the brains to become the seventeenth richest person in America could be stupid enough to pick a hotel right next to the most congested spot in North America.

  I emerge into the Square and get my bearings. Avoiding the goons in here shouldn’t be difficult. The question is, where do I go next? The goons took my phone, so I can’t call Carson.

  Thank God it’s Times Square, one of the few places left in the country that still has payphones. This is going to be easier than I thought.

  As I rummage in my pocket for a quarter, I scan the area. And suddenly, all my bravado dries up and flies away like a feather in the wind.

  Across the street, Tricia is sitting at a table on the sidewalk outside a coffee shop. Next to her is a swarthy man I’ve never seen.

  He’s pointing a gun at her under the table.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  53. CARSON

  The big man is much faster than he has any right to be.

  He’s easily six-nine and probably four hundred pounds, but he’s on me in a flash, wrapping his tree trunk arms around me in a bear hug from behind. He straightens to his full height, lifting me a good three inches off the ground.

  It presents an interesting challenge from a physics perspective: my arms are locked in place and I have no leverage since my feet are off the ground.

  Luckily, I don’t need leverage to use my trapezius muscles to whip my head backwards.

  The back of my skull connects squarely with the bridge of the big man’s nose and I hear cartilage snap. He reflexively drops me and reaches up to touch his shattered face, allowing me time to land, drop to my back and piston my right foot upwards into his balls.

  Again, thanks to physics, I have the upper hand because I have the stability of the ground under me. Combine that with the hours I spend in the gym with Matthias every day and my odds in this confrontation are actually pretty good.

  Now might be a good time to mention that Matthias is a retired four-time world mixed martial arts champion. When I say he kicks my ass, I mean he literally kicks my ass.

  The big man is reeling backwards, consumed with pain I’ve inflicted to two of his most vulnerable areas, giving the perfect opportunity to finish this with a couple of shots to his kidneys and a shin kick to the base of his thigh where it meets the knee.

  Pain explodes in my temple and the world goes wobbly for a moment. When my vision finally clears, I see him still stumbling but flailing wildly. It’s my own damn fault for underestimating him – his arms are almost as big as my legs. If there’s one thing that physics can’t compensate for, it’s mass. And the big man has that in spades.

  I reach down and throw a handful of dirt into his face, sending him staggering backward, following it up with a stomp kick downward to his knee. That does the trick; his leg collapses inward and twists at an unnatural angle.

  He’s not getting up from that. Now to finish with Red Dress.

  I scan the area: she’s gone.

  Shit. I underestimated her ability to recover from that punch. If Matthias finds out I couldn’t knock out a woman, I’m really in trouble.

  Then again, I get the sense she’s no ordinary woman.

  A crowd has started to gather – typical New Yorkers, only show up when the fight is over – so I head back down the way I came as fast as I can go. I pull out my phone and call Cassie.

  No answer. Shit.

  All right, don’t panic. Clear, rational thinking. You’ve always been able to do it before.

  Yeah, but you’ve never been in love with a woman in danger before.

  I thumb Maksim’s picture in my contacts. He picks up on the third ring.

  “Tovarishch! What is up, dog?”

  “Maks, listen carefully,” I pant as I emerge from the park onto Madison Avenue. “I need you to meet me at my apartment immediately with everything you have on your uncle. Photos, records, anything tangible.”

  The line is silent for several moments.

  “I don’t have time to fuck around, Maks! Really bad things are going to happen if you don’t!”

  “Ennh, Carson, I’m not really wanting to do that…”

  “Listen!” I bellow. “Cassie is in danger, and if anything happens to her, I swear to God I’ll spend my last dime making sure every member of your family ends up deported back to Russia and thrown into prison to rot for the rest of their miserable lives!”

  I know I’m not serious. I think I’m not serious. But right now, I’m being pushed. And there’s no limit to what I’ll do to the person who threatens the woman I love.

  “Bozhe moi! Cassie is in danger?”

  “If you only take one thing seriously in your entire life, Maks, this has to be it! Get what I need and get to my place! Now!”

  I end the call and sprint harder toward home. A cab blares its horn at me as I cut across the avenue and into its back seat. I gasp out my address and throw a hundred dollar bill at him. He takes off like Dale Earnhardt, Jr.

  Long minutes tick by as my heart hammers in my chest. I can’t have found Cassie again, only to turn around and lose her like this. I can’t!

  After what seems like an eternity, I see my building. I jump out on the fly in the middle of the street and sprint to the front door.

  Chuck’s eyes widen as he sees me coming, and he throws open the door.

  “Everything okay, Mr. D?”

  “No,” I say. “Buzz me when Maks gets here, will you?”

  “Will do, sir.”

  I stab the button for my elevator and, thank heaven for small favors, it’s already on the ground floor. It takes me up the eighty stories at a painfully slow rate, allowing me time to think about every possible horrible scenario that could happen to Cassie.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  54. CASSANDRA

  Assess the threat. Analyze the options. Choose the outcome with the best chance of survival.

  These concepts are all ingrained in me to the point of being second nature. But I’ve never been in a situation where someone I love is in the line of fire. Literally.

  I scan the area on either side of the table, but I already know that there won’t be any heroic measures. The potential for catastrophe in such a crowded place is unacceptable. If there’s one reason I went into the CIA, it was to stop Americans getting hurt. I won’t have it happen on my watch.

  There’s only one way out of this that I can see.

  Tricia looks like she can’t decide between panic and fury. Her eyes are like a caged animal’s, but the snarl on her lips says she’d castrate this guy as soon as look at him if she could. My gut is in knots knowing that something I did put her in danger.

  I approach the table head-on, giving the gunman plenty of time to see my red hair and recognize me. The last thing I want is to get close and startle him, for fear that he reflexively pulls the trigger.

  Tricia sees me first, her eyes widening.

  “Cassie, get out of here!” she calls. “It’s a set-up!”

  The gunman looks up and sees me. My hands are raised to show him I’m not armed.

  “It’s all right, Trish,” I say calmly. “This is all just a misunderstanding. We’ll get it sorted out.”

  “Thank you for being so reasonable,” the guy says. His accent tags him as Albanian. “Your friend here was only meant to be a failsafe. Looks like my employers were right not to underestimate you.”

  “Let her go,” I say. “It’s me you want.”

&n
bsp; “Where is the winning contestant?”

  “On the way to the emergency room, if he’s lucky.”

  He frowns.

  “That is unexpected.”

  He pulls out a phone and hits a speed-dial number. Then a conversation in Russian. I’m not an expert, but I have a working familiarity. I make out references to compensation and a cleanup crew, as well as the Hotel James. All in all, it doesn’t sound promising.

  “Da,” he says, then ends the call.

  “You piece of shit,” Tricia spits. “My friend Maks is connected with some powerful Russians. When he finds out what you’re doing –”

  “The people behind this are those powerful Russians,” I say. “Sorry, sweetie, I didn’t know this would happen.”

  Tricia’s eyes are wild, looking from me to the gunman and back again.

  “What the hell is going on here, Cass?”

  “I’ll explain later. Right now I have to go with this gentleman here. As soon as he lets you go.”

  He stands up, and I see that he’s draped a nylon running jacket over his clasped hands, hiding the gun.

  “Actually, you are both coming with me,” he says.

  I shake my head.

  “Uh-uh. Me only.”

  A black Lincoln pulls up beside us and the gunman opens the back door.

  “Both of you get in,” he says. “Or both of you die right here and I jump in this car and speed away.”

  Shit.

  “I’m so sorry, Trish,” I say, taking her by the shoulder and pulling her into the car.

  “What do you mean about Maks? He’s not involved in this, is he? Cassie, what is going on?”

  “It’s a long story,” I sigh as the Albanian closes the door and gets in the front with the driver.

  55. CARSON

  The elevator doors open and I drag Maks out by the collar.

  “Come with me,” I say, leading him down the hall to the computer room.

  “I’m not getting what is happening,” he yelps as I toss him onto the sofa. “What is going on with Cassie? Why are you being so angry?”

  I take a deep breath and sit down opposite him, fixing him with a glare that I hope conveys just how serious the situation is.

  “Long story short,” I say. “Your uncle and whoever else in involved in running the Chase have Cassie. They’re going to hurt her.”

  “Bozhe moi,” he breathes. “But why?”

  “Cassie was the quarry in the Chase. I caught her. But your uncle thinks we cheated and that we’re somehow conspiring against him.”

  He blinks rapidly, staring at nothing.

  “I looked up your family while you were on your way here,” I say, calling up the screen on the window. It fills with a grainy shot of a man in his sixties, with a brush cut and deep pouches under his eyes.

  “I know your uncle is Alexei Ivchenko. Except that’s an alias – I can’t find any record of him before 2004. You would have been seventeen at the time, so you obviously know his real name. What is it?”

  Maksim looks at the floor in silence for a moment, and I have to combat the urge to reach out and throttle him.

  “Bogdan,” he says finally. “His name was Bogdan Nabatov.”

  My fingers fly over the keyboard as I boot up my own personal hacking software. Code runs by on the window as I kick down back doors in the NKVD, Russia’s security and law enforcement division.

  The program doesn’t work quickly enough for my brain, and I feel the kind of frustration I used to experience as a toddler, when my language skills weren’t yet up to expressing what was going on in my head.

  “I am sorry, tovarishch,” Maks says, still staring at the floor. “For everything. I should never have been telling you about the Chase.”

  “Your uncle should never have been doing the Chase,” I mumble as I scan the data on the screen.

  Who am I trying to bullshit? I should never have been doing the Chase!

  I fight off a wave of shame that threatens to take my attention away from the matter at hand. Names and faces begin to run across the screen as I access the NKVD’s watchlist files.

  “I knew why we left Russia,” Maks says. “I was old enough. I listened to the talking at family dinners. But I try to ignore it all. Party all the time. That way I don’t think about it.”

  “I’m not your therapist, Maks,” I say, eyes on the screen.

  Finally, a file: Bogdan Nabatov, brother of Maksim’s mother, Ilyanna. Indicted in the early days of Putin’s first term for trafficking in sex slaves, importing heroin from Albania and several counts of murder.

  And he’s got Cassie.

  “My father bought us out of Russia after Uncle Bogdan was arrested,” says Maks. “We all got new names in America, and Papa hid all of his money. He is a good man, not like Bogdan.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” I mutter as I try to find anything new on Alexei Ivchenko. Nothing. He’s learned how to hide very well in his new homeland.

  Wait a minute…

  “Maks, you said all of your father’s money,” I say. “Does that mean Alexei doesn’t have any of his own?”

  “I think Bogdan had to leave all his own money in Russia,” he says. “Papa runs the business and pays him salary.”

  “So his money is all underground…”

  Maks looks confused. “He does not bury his money, Carson.”

  “Forget it,” I say. “I need you to call him and set up a meeting. Right now.”

  He seems conflicted for a moment, but before I can say anything, he pulls his phone from his pocket and dials a number. There’s a brief conversation in Russian. Maks looks on the verge of throwing up the whole time.

  Finally he ends the call.

  “One hour,” he says. “At gentleman’s club in Brighton Beach. I am to take you there.”

  That’s good. We’re making progress.

  “What about Cassie?” I ask. “Is she all right?”

  “For now. He is waiting to see what you will be saying.”

  I breathe deeply, let it out slowly. There’s still hope, if my plan works.

  My eyes meet Maksim’s and I see tears there.

  “I am so sorry, my friend,” he whispers. “I never would be wanting anyone to be hurt, especially Cassie.”

  My heart sinks. He’s a victim in this too, and I’ve been treating him like a criminal for the last hour. I wrap an arm around his neck and squeeze.

  “I know that, buddy. And thanks to what you just did, I think we’ll be able to get her out of this.”

  Even if it costs me everything I have.

  I take a last glance at the screen, only to see another pop up from behind that one.

  Match found, it reads.

  Holy shit! I totally forgot I left the facial recognition program working in the background when I went for my run.

  Up comes a photo of Red Dress, but no name. She’s wearing a black dress this time, but it’s definitely her. It’s from a dark web site that features photos of satanic rituals. What kind of sick person would be into this kind of shit?

  The text posting alludes to an annual sacrifice at the height of summer. Reference to it being a female, and recently defiled…

  Oh God, no.

  “Maks!” I snap. “The Chase – is it always at this time of year?”

  “I am not being sure exactly…”

  “Is it always in summer?!”

  “Yes! Always summertime. Why?”

  My heart gallops in my chest as my stomach turns to ice.

  “She’s going to kill Cassie,” I breathe. “That bitch is going to kill the woman I love.”

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  55. CASSANDRA

  The ride to Brighton Beach was awkward, to say the least.

  “So all this was going on and you never told me any of it?” Tricia barks. “Great, now I feel like the dumb sidekick in a romantic comedy!”

  We’re sitting in the parlor of a vast Victorian mansion. It appears to be a gentle
man’s club of sorts, judging by the photos of old men sitting around the place smoking cigars and drinking. None of those gentlemen is here right now, though.

  The room is beautiful. In any other circumstances, I’m sure it would be enchanting.

  As it is, it makes me want to vomit.

  “How many times can I say I’m sorry, Trish?”

  “I don’t know. How about you keep going and I tell you when to stop?”

  “Be quiet,” our Albanian friend says from the corner of the room.

  If it was just him guarding us, I might try to make a move. But he’s been joined by a couple of others, both of whom have hairy chests and unibrows. And guns, of course.

  “You three are thoroughly unattractive,” Tricia snipes. “I just want you to know that before you kill us. I’m talking not a hope in hell.”

  The Albanian rolls his eyes.

  “What are we waiting for, exactly?” I ask.

  It’s common practice to keep people isolated and bored when you’re trying to break them. That’s not going to work on me, so I’d like to speed the process along, whatever the endgame might be.

  “I think it’s me,” says a voice from behind me.

  I turn, and my heart sinks as I see Carson and Maksim walking into the room. They can’t be here! It’s bad enough I couldn’t keep Tricia from being involved in this. If anything happens to Carson, my heart will crumble and disappear.

  “Are you all right?” Carson asks, eyes wide.

  I look directly at the Albanian, using all my training to keep my emotions from showing on my face or in my voice.

  “Get them out of here,” I say coldly. “This doesn’t involve them.”

  Tricia glares at Maks.

  “What are you doing here with them?” she asks. “Are you involved in this too?”

  He doesn’t meet her eyes, just looks at the floor.

  “Cassie,” Carson says. “I’m here to negotiate for you.”

  I want to yell at him to get out now, to run. But I won’t give these Russian slugs the satisfaction of seeing me weak.

  “I don’t negotiate with people like this,” I say.

  Tricia turns her glare to me.