Dangerous Illusions (Code of Honor Book #1)

by Irene Hannon

  “Get in.” Another jab in the back.

  Before he could respond, Oleg’s guard grasped his arm, hauled him through the door, and shoved him down against the inside panel.

  The guy without the accent kept his pistol trained on him during that maneuver while Oleg watched the proceedings in silence, then slammed the back door closed. A few seconds later he took his place behind the wheel, put the van in gear, and retraced his route down the gravel drive.

  What was going on?

  Hard as Michael tried to fathom Oleg’s plan, he could make no sense of it.

  If Dmitri’s people were sure enough of his identity to resort to abduction at gunpoint, why not just kill him and be done with it?

  “Does anyone want to tell me what this is about?”

  No one responded.

  “This is kidnapping, you know.” The words sounded hollow even to his ears.

  Oleg, dressed again in jeans, folded his arms and watched him in silence.

  Was his casual attire an indication of more dirty work to come?

  Pulse pounding, Michael wrapped his arms around his bent knees and gripped his wrist. He had no idea what Oleg had planned for him in the hours to come, but as the van swung onto the road and began to accelerate, he did know one thing.

  This trip was not going to end well.

  Tote bag slung over one shoulder and juggling an armful of art supplies, Trish pushed through the back door of the house, deactivated the security system, and dumped everything on the kitchen table.

  Whew.

  Busy didn’t begin to describe this day. It might be only four forty-five, but after dealing with back-to-back sessions of boisterous fourth and fifth graders, she was ready for a nap. And the half-hour delay in her departure while she waited with one of her students for his ride had lengthened an already long day.

  But the messages she’d found waiting for her from Colin, plus the anticipation of a pleasant get-acquainted dinner with Kristin, perked her up. According to Colin’s second message, the warrant had gone through. They should already be at Parker’s place, wrapping this up.

  It couldn’t happen too soon for her.

  After detouring to the fridge for a soda, she dashed down the hall. As late as she was running, she should have gone straight to the restaurant where she was meeting Kristin—but a swing by the house to freshen up had been too tempting to resist. If she hurried, she could be out of here in ten minutes and . . .

  Ding dong.

  Drat.

  Trish set her soda on the bathroom vanity and blew out a breath. She didn’t have time to deal with whoever was on her doorstep.

  Except . . . it might be Stan Hawkins. He’d promised her some homemade ice cream from his next batch, and the way he kept tabs on the comings and goings in the neighborhood, he might have been watching for her.

  Exiting into the hall, she picked up her pace. Stan would understand if she told him she was running late for a dinner date and couldn’t chat.

  But when she peeked through the peephole, it wasn’t her friendly neighbor on the other side of the door. It was some guy with a clipboard, wearing what looked like a repairman uniform.

  Edging to the sidelight, she peeked at the driveway. A satellite-service utility van was parked there.

  Odd.

  Everyone she knew in the neighborhood had cable.

  Maybe the guy was lost . . . or had been given some incorrect information by his dispatcher.

  She ought to be able to dispense with this fast.

  Grasping the handle, she pulled the door open. “May I help you?”

  “Yes.” After transferring the clipboard to his left hand, he reached into his pants pocket, angled toward the door . . . and pulled out a gun. “Say one word, I pull the trigger. Move back inside.”

  Trish gaped at the deadly weapon aimed at her chest.

  Was this for real?

  “Move!”

  Yeah.

  It was for real.

  She stumbled back, gaze locked on the gun.

  He followed her in, shut the door, and motioned toward the rear of the house with the weapon. “Go to the back door.”

  Despite the sudden rubber in her legs, she managed to walk down the hall.

  This wasn’t some random robbery. Too coincidental. It had to be related to everything else that had been happening,

  But how?

  “Unlock the door. Then sit there.” The man waved the gun toward one of the kitchen chairs.

  She did as he instructed.

  Keeping the gun trained on her, he set the clipboard on the kitchen table and pulled out a cell. “I’m in.” He returned the phone to his pocket, withdrew a piece of black cloth with strings attached to it, and tossed it to her. “Put that over your head.”

  She fumbled to catch the . . . what was it?

  Panic choked her as she realized it was a drawstring bag.

  “I . . . I won’t be able to breathe.”

  “It’s porous. Do it now.”

  She wadded the fabric in her fingers. If she put this over her head, she’d be blind—and helpless.

  A wave of nausea rolled through her, and the room tilted.

  Hard fingers gripped her shoulder. “Do as I say. Now.”

  She stared at the gun hovering inches away from her face.

  Should she lunge for it?

  Maybe.

  This guy was a lot stronger than she was, but the self-defense moves she’d learned had worked on that mugger.

  The man’s grip tightened. “Don’t try anything foolish.”

  She tensed, muscles coiling in preparation. Her plan might be foolish—but this could be her only chance to—

  All at once, the gun veered away . . . then swung back and connected with her temple.

  Hard.

  Pain ricocheted through her skull, and she groaned as black spots muddied her vision.

  Before she could recover, the bag was jerked from her grasp. The man yanked it down over her head and pulled the drawstring tight around her neck.

  She tried to claw at it, but he grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back.

  Moaning again, she doubled over, trying to relieve the pressure.

  It didn’t help.

  Somewhere in the distance, beyond the haze of pain and fear, she heard the back door open . . . and a voice spoke in a language that sounded like Russian.

  Seconds later, the pressure on her arm eased and she was able to straighten up—but instantly rough hands slapped her wrists together and secured them with a tight cord in front of her.

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  Matt’s voice.

  No.

  It wasn’t Matt.

  It was Michael.

  The man who’d killed her mother, his brother, and probably that unfortunate manicurist who’d crossed his path.

  But why was he here instead of at his house, where Colin and his men expected him to be? Hadn’t Phoenix alerted them that Parker had left?

  Or . . . perhaps they had. Colin might at this very minute be approaching her house, charging to the rescue.

  Yet even as that hopeful thought flitted through her mind, she dismissed it.

  Stuff like that only happened in fairy tales—and her life had been no fairy tale of late.

  The truth was, these guys had somehow managed to spirit Parker away from the house undetected—for purposes known to them alone.

  “It is much easier to come here than risk a kidnapping.” The same Russian voice spoke again, this time in accented English.

  “But what does Trish have to do with any of this?”

  No one answered Parker’s question, but a scuffling noise suggested someone was sitting down.

  “I passed on the story you told me yesterday to the person who sent me here.” The Russian’s tone was conversational. “He agreed it was quite inventive.”

  “It was the truth.” A slight tremor underscored Parker’s words.

  “We would lik
e to believe you—but it is difficult. You are friends with this woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Close friends?”

  “We’ve known each other a while.”

  “You socialize?”

  A slight hesitation, as if he didn’t know where these questions were leading.

  That made two of them.

  “Mr. Parker?”

  “We’ve had a couple of dates.”

  “That is what we determined. And that is why she is important to us this afternoon. Now, here is the deal we will make you, Mr. Parker. You may live . . . or she may live. It is your choice.”

  Dear God!

  She’d become a bargaining chip for the Russian Mafia!

  Trish began to shake.

  “What do you mean?” Parker’s tone was wary.

  “It is very simple. A life must be sacrificed for the treachery and disloyalty of Michael Parker. It has been decided one of you must die to satisfy this debt of honor. You may choose who lives.”

  “But that’s . . . this is crazy!”

  “Nevertheless, that is your choice.”

  “What if I refuse to decide?”

  “Then you will both die. I will give you five minutes to choose.”

  A tomblike silence settled over the room.

  Inside the blackness of the hood, Trish squeezed her eyes shut.

  Five minutes.

  That was all the time she had left to live.

  Because a man who had killed three people in cold blood wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice someone else to save his own skin.

  As the desperateness of her situation sank in, Trish choked back a sob and turned to the only source of comfort—and help—available to her.

  Please, God, stay with me through this ordeal. Give me strength and courage and hope . . . because I know that bleak as this situation seems, nothing is impossible with you.

  Yet as she finished the prayer, a wave of despair swept over her. She believed in miracles. She did.

  But miracles had been in short supply during the past two years.

  And it would take nothing less than divine intervention to save her life today.

  26

  Now that was peculiar.

  As thunder rumbled in the distance, Stan Hawkins snipped off a Double Delight rose from the bush near his front porch and watched the white service van roll around to the back of Trish’s house.

  The blossom’s sweet scent wafted up to his nose, and he inhaled. The missus was right. This one smelled like heaven.

  But whatever was going on across the street didn’t.

  First of all, nobody around here had a satellite, as far as he knew.

  Second, service vehicles usually parked on the street or by the walk that led from the driveway to the front door. They didn’t go around back.

  Third, why had the truck sat there for a few minutes before it disappeared to the rear? And who had moved it, anyway? The guy who’d gone to the front door had never come back out.

  No sir.

  This didn’t smell good.

  And that little lady didn’t deserve one more speck of trouble.

  But what to do?

  He repositioned the flower in his hand to avoid the prickly thorns as he considered the matter. Back in the day, he’d have hustled over there, knocked on the door, and scoped out the situation himself.

  That, however, was a long time ago.

  Sad to say, he wasn’t a strong, strapping weightlifter anymore. If things got rough, he’d be no match for the big guy inside Trish’s house. That bruiser would squash him like a pesky mosquito.

  This was a job for a younger man.

  And he knew just the man—that fine young detective Trish had taken a fancy to. The one with the Irish name. Colin . . . Colin . . . Flynn. Yes, that was it.

  Why not give the County police a call and ask them to patch him through to the detective? And if they wouldn’t do that, he could tell his story to whoever answered the phone and ask them to send a patrol car by.

  Another ornery thorn stabbed him, and a drop of blood beaded on his fingertip. Some kind of warning, perhaps? A reminder that sticking his nose into other people’s business could be as thorny as the rose in his hand?

  Possible.

  Hadn’t the missus accused him only yesterday of becoming an old busybody?

  But there was a difference between being nosy and being concerned—and he’d rather live with egg on his face than let fear of embarrassment stop him from assisting a neighbor who might need help.

  Holding the rose gingerly to avoid any more damage, he turned around and marched into his house.

  “I don’t get this.” Colin leaned forward and gave Parker’s doorbell a third jab. “If his car’s in the garage, why isn’t he answering the door?”

  “He has to be here. The Phoenix guys didn’t say he’d left when you called to alert them we were on the way and tell them Trish had authorized you to cancel surveillance.” A bark sounded, and Mac glanced toward the volunteers with their cadaver dogs, waiting in the driveway with two police officers. “He could be in the woods out back.”

  “Possible. Why don’t you get the dogs started while I walk the perimeter of the house?”

  “You got it.”

  As Mac headed toward the dogs and their handlers, Colin began checking windows and doors. They’d break in if they had to . . . but he’d prefer easier access—and despite daily stories in the news about robberies, it was amazing how many people were lax about home security.

  It didn’t take him long to discover that the sliding door in the back was open.

  Too bad other parts of the case hadn’t been this simple to crack.

  As he slid the door open, Mac ascended the deck stairs two at a time and joined him. “Dogs are dispatched.”

  “Let’s see what we can find inside.” Colin snapped on a pair of latex gloves and entered the kitchen. A quick sweep didn’t reveal anything out of the ordinary—but he homed in on the plugged-in laptop sitting on the table. “I bet that will yield some incriminating evidence once our people get past whatever encryption he’s rigged.”

  “Yeah.” Mac pulled on some gloves too. “I’ve got the officers walking the woods to see if they can locate Parker while the dogs nose around. In the meantime, let’s see what else we can find that might be useful. Why don’t you go right and I’ll go left.” He indicated the hall off the kitchen.

  “Works for me.” As Colin moved forward, Mac pulled his phone off his belt.

  “Hang on a sec. It’s one of the handlers.” His colleague put the device to his ear. “McGregor . . . Okay . . . got it. We’re on our way.” He slid the phone back into its holster. “Our bodies-buried-on-the-property theory just got legs. One of the dogs already has a hit.”

  “Seriously?” He’d expected the search to take hours.

  “Yep. One of the officers spotted some disturbed ground, and the dog instantly alerted. The area around it has also been trampled—by multiple types of footwear, based on a few prints they found.”

  “I have a feeling the Mafia found the spot first.”

  “That doesn’t bode well for Parker.”

  “Not if they decided he’s Michael.”

  “Why don’t you touch base with the officers scouting around for him, find out if they’ve seen any evidence he might be out there? I’m going to give Cal at Phoenix a call. I’m getting some unsettling vibes.”

  “Me too.”

  While Mac went out to the deck to call both officers, Colin punched in the number for his former County colleague.

  Cal answered on the first ring. “What’s up?”

  “We haven’t located Parker yet. Officers are searching the woods, but so far nothing. You certain he’s on site?”

  “He drove in yesterday after church and hasn’t left since.”

  “Any other activity?”

  “One visitor today in a satellite-service van. I ran the plates. The vehicle was legit.”

&n
bsp; “What time?”

  A rustle came over the line. “According to the surveillance log, it pulled in at 12:52 and pulled out at 1:10.”

  “Give me what you have on the vehicle in case we need it.” Colin pulled out a notebook and jotted down the information as the other man spoke. “Got it. We’ll keep looking around the property. Thanks.”

  As he ended the call, Mac returned. “I talked to both officers. They’re covering ground fast and haven’t seen any sign of Parker. He’s also not responding to shout-outs. What did your guy at Phoenix say?”

  Colin filled him in. “If we don’t find Parker somewhere on the property, I want to track down that van.”

  “Agreed. I also called the ME’s office. They’re sending someone out to excavate.”

  “Let’s get some additional backup out here now that we’re pretty certain we have at least one body. We also need more eyes in the woods. It’s possible Parker got scared and took off, but without the money in hand, I don’t think he . . .” His phone began to vibrate and he pulled it out again. Frowned. Dispatch never called him directly.

  He pressed the talk button. “Flynn.”

  “Detective Flynn, I have a caller on hold who insists on speaking with you. A Stan Hawkins. He says it’s urgent. Do you want me to put him through or send him to your voicemail?”

  If Trish’s neighbor had made the effort to track him down, there had to be a good reason.

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Sir, Detective Flynn is on the line.” The dispatcher exited the call.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Hawkins?” Colin fisted his free hand on his hip.

  “Well . . . I don’t mean to bother you, young man, but it seems to me there might be a problem over at Trish Bailey’s house.”

  Colin’s pulse picked up. “Tell me.”

  He listened as the man passed on his observations.

  As soon as he mentioned the utility van, Colin’s gut twisted.

  Hard as he’d tried to keep Trish out of this, it appeared she was smack dab in the middle of whatever was going down between Parker and the Mafia.

  “Okay. We’re on it. Stay in the house and let us handle this.”