Capitalism was a wondrous thing. He rubbed a hand through his shoulder-length hair.
He leaned back in the chair and looked at the man beside him. Yuri Statchjastike was as Slavic as vodka. His wide, flat face, titled eyes and stilted English proclaimed to any of his ancestry.
Yuri blew a stream of cigar smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Are you happy to be here, my friend?”
“Of course. I’ve always wanted to see the United States. I didn’t think I’d be living here.” He looked around the room. “Inferno will be a hit, I imagine.”
Dimotrov, or as he used to be known, Jezek, hadn’t ever thought he’d be living in America. But the powers that be wanted him to operate on the import end of the business rather than the export. They wanted their claim on the New World. Or rather in this part of the New World. So he would make certain shipments were met and smoothly handled so that little or no trouble arose while Yuri played the point man.
The only problem Mikhail had with his new location was the weather. It was warm here. Too damn warm to be late fall. This city was all too shiny and new for what he was used to. Modern. There were no narrow streets here, no age. The air smelled different here, but then perhaps it was the smog. Mikhail missed the narrow medieval streets of Prague, the cool weather promising snow, the chilled fogged mornings, the smell of kolachis baking, or the heady taste of Becherovka after a hearty meal.
Yuri stood, slapped Mikhail on the back and said, “I’ll be back later. My massage therapist is here.”
Mikhail glanced over his shoulder to see a small woman smile slyly at Yuri. Poor bitch. “Enjoy your time, Yuri.”
He watched the man stride from the room. Over fifty, Yuri should take better care of himself. The man was starting to get fat. Mikhail took care of himself religiously. He sniffed and ran a hand over his shirtfront, smoothing his silk tie.
He shrugged and looked at his Rolex. “When is the informant to be here?” he asked his own man, standing just to side of him.
Vescilly said, “Should be soon. Any minute.”
An energy hummed through Mikhail. For whatever reason this person had contacted him, he was thankful. He’d found more in the last few months than he had in years searching. And what fun it was proving to be.
Apparently the informant was a bit on the greedy side, but then greed could have its uses. Greed allowed him to find his lost.
Through the darkened club, they heard the door open, and another of his guards escorted their informant in.
“You are late,” Mikhail said.
“Traffic.”
“Well, did you get what I needed?” he asked, his heart beating a bit faster.
For a moment the other said nothing, flat eyes staring down at him. The informant turned the chair and straddled it. “I have plenty of information. The question is what price you will pay for it.”
Mikhail pulled a Havana cigar from his breast pocket and lit it, drawing deep. He blew the smoke across the table into the informant’s face. Not a flicker, didn’t even blink. Brave or stupid that, Mikhail thought.
The informant pulled a folded paper from a jacket pocket and slid the paper across the black tabletop, keeping a hand on the sheet.
“There are only two here. I changed my mind.”
Mikhail took another drag, felt the punch of nicotine and whatever else these pretties were laced with. “You’ve changed your mind?” No one changed their mind. The excitement backhanded into anger.
“I want the amount we discussed for each.”
And he’d thought capitalism was wonderful. Greed could destroy. “Ten grand should be more than enough.”
The eyes held his. “Ten for today. After that, ten for each.”
Mikhail pulled on the paper until the informant’s hand released it. All he said was, “Vescilly, ten thousand please.” He opened the letter, read the names and addresses, saw the smiling pictures underneath and his heart picked up.
One he’d forgotten. She now resided in Orlando. Not all that far from where he was, all things considered.
The other he remembered, as she’d escaped all too damn easily. He knew the photo of the second woman. Oh, she’d changed her hair and something about her eyes. But he remembered her. Not that he’d ever had the pleasure of fucking her. Perhaps he remembered her because she’d escaped around the time Dusk had. He traced the woman’s nose—rather beautiful actually—and wondered if she remembered him and what he stood for. Not that it mattered; by the time he was done with her, she would remember him.
Without looking up, he told the other man, Ivan, “See our friend out and make an appointment at the same time next week.”
Already thoughts of a reunion danced in his brain and blood rushed to his groin.
No one left Mikhail no matter what last name he went by—or what name they went by. One by one he’d find them all. He’d already located three by sheer luck, another by the informant, to show him the lost were actually who the informant claimed they were, that the informant wasn’t stringing him along.
After the first, out in Arizona, he was to obtain the entire list. He still would. One way or another.
For now, he would plan for tomorrow and a trip to Taos, New Mexico.
Chapter 22
Dallas, Texas; Gaelord’s; November 6, 9:42 p.m.
Morgan sat down at her computer and moved the mouse, her wave screen saver fading to the desktop. The office was quiet. Gideon had a meeting with some of the tech guys—she called them the nerd squad. Jack was in Canada, still disappointed he hadn’t talked her into going. Darkness closed in and she sighed, rolling her head, trying to get the muscles to loosen.
She’d hoped to already be at home, but she’d run a bit behind thanks to traffic, talking with her instructor and then the president of the local women’s coalition calling. Now she needed to finish an assignment and figured doing it here was as good as at home since she was still going on energy.
Signing in, she noted she had email. Busy with clients, meetings, and school, she hadn’t bothered to check it yesterday. Clicking the icon, the inbox opened. Yesterday there had been several from Amy. Then again, Amy was always sending her mail, or forwarding jokes. She saw to the side that bladediamonds sent her an email. Smiling, she opened it, her heart settling as it did every blasted time the man contacted her. Stupid, she knew, but he was a friend and she rather enjoyed hearing from him. Sometimes he sent her little quotes or motivational sayings. She saved every one for some reason she didn’t care to analyze.
His note was short, as they usually were.
Dear Morg,
I hope all is well with you and if it’s not, you better bloody well tell me or there’ll be hell to pay. Things have been hectic on this side of the pond. How’s Texas? How’s school? Still angry at the history professor over his lack of knowledge in the field of antiques of the Edwardian era? Do be well and keep in touch. Send me some cowboy jokes, they’re a bit of a hit over here. Take care, luv.
Linc
Shaking her head, she closed his email, wondering if he’d sent it to simply say hello or if there was more.
Frowning, she opened one from Amy.
Where the hell are you? Did you get my other emails? I tried calling you earlier today, but you didn’t answer. I got something weird today in the mail. An email. No big deal, and it was in my spam folder, but still. The subject line read: I know your secret. So I clicked on it and inside was one word. Dobrý den. Nothing to the normal person, but you know . . .
Thank God I have the next two days off. I don’t think I could act normal with Jasso. He has a way of seeing things, ya know? Well, it freaked me out. Call me. Please.
~Amy
Morgan reread the note. Dobrý den. Czech for hello. And as simple as that, she could hear him, his guttural voice, slithering through her memories.
“Dobrý den, Dusk.”
A shiver danced down her spine.
Dobrý den.
Morgan took a deep breath an
d opened another email from Amy.
Where the hell are you? You haven’t called. I’ve tried you twice again. I need to talk to you. I think someone is following me. I told my partner, Jasso, but he just blew me off. Or I guess he did. Dammit. Morgan, I need you. CALL ME! ~ A
And she hadn’t. These had been sent yesterday. The last was the same as the other two.
Reaching over, Morgan picked up the phone and dialed. Please let her answer. Please let her answer. She has to freaking answer.
* * *
Miami, Florida; November 6, 11:28 p.m.
Mikhail looked at his man. “Excuse me?”
“Dusk, boss. I think I found her.”
Mikhail breathed deep, the Havana cigar all but burning his lungs. Excitement coursed through him. He reached over and tapped his fingers on the digital camera Vescilly used yesterday to finish the job. A job he himself had been denied, thanks to Yuri wanting another damned meeting. So he’d sent Vescilly, and when the man called, Mikhail was pissed enough, he’d told Vescilly to simply finish the job. As an afterthought he’d asked him to record the session.
Mikhail shook his head and wished again he’d seen to this matter personally, instead of handing it off to someone else. The double-edged sword of success. Sometimes one simply had to delegate.
“What do you mean, you think?” he asked around the cigar in his mouth.
“Well, I don’t know for certain. I found a photograph in the last girl’s room. I think it was Dusk.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. Mikhail stilled his fingers, piercing Vescilly to the spot. “Did you ask her?”
Vescilly, blond, square-headed, square-jawed, eyes as cold as the North Sea, did as he was told, never varying from orders. A wonderful trait until a bit of initiative was needed.
Vescilly blinked, shifted, his hands still clasped in front of him. “I—I couldn’t, boss.”
“Why?”
Vescilly took a deep breath. “She was already dead.” He motioned to the tape. “I recorded it, just like you said. Everything. But I decided to get a picture of her photograph with the friend who looked like your old Dusk.” The blond head tilted, the full lips twisted. “Perhaps it turns out to be her, no? I bumped her desk, and the screen saver clicked off. She’d been writing an email.”
Perhaps there was a bit of initiative in the man after all. “And?”
“I wrote the email address down, printed out the email she’d started, looked at those she’d sent.” Again the shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Most emails to and from are either in regards to a Jasso Martinez, the woman’s partner, or an M. Gaelord.”
M. Gaelord. M. Gaelord.
“Who is the Jasso Martinez?” he asked, tapping against the silver side of the digital.
“Amy’s partner.”
Amy. The woman had never been Amy to him. She’d been Sparkle. Or had it been Sprinkles? No, Sprinkles died of an overdose. Sparkle was the one from Romanovsky’s club that escaped two weeks before Dusk. Sparkle.
He opened the LCD screen, turning the camera on. The screen started dark, then lightened. “Her partner?” he asked.
“She was a policewoman.”
Mikhail frowned, then shrugged. A policewoman. Without sound, the screen flashed to life, the woman on it bound, gagged, and already bloody. She was tied to a chair.
“Serve and protect, isn’t that the motto, Vescilly?” he asked as he watched the silent show.
Vescilly’s form came into view, a hand, a knife. Fabric split, blood trickled and the woman strained against her bounds, eyes wide with terror, and rage.
Blood pumped quickly through him, rushing down his veins, swirling along the base of his spine, wrapping tightly in his groin.
Ah, that look. Pain, terror and still the rage and hatred . . .
He smiled, glanced up and said, “Good work, Vescilly. See what you can learn of one M. Gaelord, whoever she is. Dusk or not, one wonders why our little copper only emailed two people.”
Vescilly’s shoes were silent as he strode across the floor to the door. Mikhail waited until it was shut. In the privacy of his condo, he stood, clicked the camera shut, breathed deep and closed his eyes.
Had they really found her? Had they found Dusk?
Excitement raced through him and he realized he’d hold off on having the woman waiting in the other room for him until after he’d seen the tape.
Mikhail hooked the camera up to the widescreen TV and dropped down into the oversized black leather chair. Picking up the remote, he pressed the play button with his thumb. The dark screen flickered, then cleared as Vescilly must have moved.
Behind him was Sparkle, bound and gagged to the chair. The lights were dimmed, the blinds drawn. From what he could see, Miss Amy Rodriguez kept a very meticulous house. He rather liked that. Messes complicated things. Everything should have its place and everything should remain in that place.
This was not her place.
Her place had been back in Cheb on Hell’s Alley. And now she knew she might get out of the whorehouse, but she’d always be a whore to many.
To him. To Vescilly.
He watched as her eyes widened, as she strained against her bindings. Tape from the looks of things. Hopefully, Vescilly remembered to completely cover himself. Crime experts these days could find anything it seemed. He’d watched enough on the Discovery Channel to know. The knife flashed in the dim light.
Vescilly was a knife man. He’d been in Milosevic’s army in the special forces. Not an officer like Luther had been, but just as deadly. The things Vescilly could do with a blade made a surgeon look like a butcher.
Poor bitch.
He sighed, leaned back and enjoyed the show as Vescilly made her suck him off, or tried to. When she bit him, Vescilly hit her hard enough the chair tipped over, crashing to the floor. The woman didn’t beg, didn’t scream. Just looked up at her attacker. She spit in Vescilly’s face and cursed in a stream of Spanish before Vescilly slapped the tape back across her mouth.
Mikhail took a deep breath. Why these things turned him on, he had no idea. Probably the power. A shrink would have a wonderful time with him, but he’d never trust anyone with the type of information he knew.
Vescilly kicked the woman and she moaned. And still she strained against her restraints. Did she know what was coming? Courageous people fascinated him. Why did some fight so hard up to the very end, almost shocked they hadn’t won, while others seemed to wither and weaken?
Vescilly’s knife flashed again and clothing ripped, blood streamed in the wake of the knife.
Not very smart. If Vescilly wanted to have her, he should have restrained the kurva on the bed, not a damn chair.
Mikhail would have. Why waste a lay, and one so succulently sweet.
He watched the rest, the fun Vescilly had with her, toying with her as his knife worked and slashed. Until she was too weak from blood loss, her eyes drifting closed.
Then the finale. A quick, sharp stab to the heart.
The screen was quiet, save for Vescilly’s panting.
Something was wrong with that man. Knives held their purpose, but a firearm was so much quicker and more efficient. Less of a mess. He grimaced.
Sparkle had learned her lesson. If what Vescilly suspected was true, this tape would be a wonderful gift to a certain woman he needed to find.
He waited as Vescilly stepped over the body and grabbed the camera, quickly filming the apartment. Then he scanned the living room, landing on a photograph, taken at Christmas, a decorated tree and ribbons in the background. Sparkle was laughing at someone off camera and there . . .
His breath hissed out. He leaned up, hit the pause button.
There she was.
Dusk.
As always, those icy eyes did something to him. In the photo her hair was short. She’d looked better with longer tresses. Tresses his hands could get lost in, tresses he could smell, wrap around him, caress him . . . He shook off the image and studied the photo. He could fantasize later.
She was laughing along with her friend and both looked happy. Damn woman. What right did she have to be happy? Had he told her, allowed her to be happy?
He fisted his hand. He’d offered her everything . . . everything! And she’d turned from him, scorned him. He’d tried to teach her, and she’d sworn she wouldn’t escape. Never. She’d said.
But she had. Escaped to cut her hair, to laugh, to live . . . without him.
Anger beat hot and fast in him, thickening his blood, tempting him.
Dusk . . .
Dusk . . .
His . . .
He closed his eyes and took a deep cleansing breath, tried to cut the rage off, only managing to block the fact he’d cared for her once. But now, neither mattered. He needed to get rid of her before Calsonone found her. If Mikhail didn’t, his life was over.
Just because he had to kill her quickly didn’t mean he couldn’t have a bit of fun with her first.
What to do. He clicked another button on the remote and part of the wall slid away to reveal another screen. The screen came to life with an old video . . .
One of her, tied to his bed as he fucked her.
A collar was on her neck, the jeweled collar. One that had disappeared with her and that damned diamond dealer. He’d had another made. Perhaps he’d send it to her, to remind her . . .
No, he’d save it. Just for her. For when he had her.
Damn woman.
First . . . he’d send her a gift. But what?
He watched on the screen as she opened her eyes and looked at the camera as he moved over her, caressing her cheek, the olive skin that felt like silk to him. Those eyes stared wide and the camera zoomed close. He hit pause on this video as well and compared the eyes from one screen, the close-up, to the woman laughing in the photo of the other film.
Yes, it was her. It had to be. What were the chances that these two escaped and one had a friend that just happened to look like another escapee. Slim to none.
Dusk.
He grinned, rubbed a hand on his hardened groin. A gift first—maybe. Mikhail looked back to the still frame of the photo in the apartment of one now deceased Amy Rodriguez.
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