Dangerous Illusions (Code of Honor Book #1)

by Irene Hannon

  “I intend to. That’s why I called you. My days of diving into the fray are long gone.”

  Colin punched the end button.

  “What’s going on?”

  Before he could answer Mac’s question, his phone began to vibrate again.

  Kristin.

  Dread congealed in the pit of his stomach as he put the phone to his ear. “Trish didn’t show for dinner, did she?”

  “Hi to you too. And no, she didn’t. I tried to call her, but there was no answer. I knew this case of hers was heating up, and since I didn’t have a warm and fuzzy feeling about her being AWOL, I wanted to let you know. What’s going on?”

  “We don’t know yet—but we’re getting ready to find out.”

  “Good luck . . . and Godspeed.”

  “Thanks.”

  And as he ended the call, he had a feeling he’d need both God and speed to bring this case to an end without anyone else getting hurt.

  “Your five minutes are up. What is your decision?”

  As the Russian’s words echoed in the room, Trish’s heart stuttered.

  This was it.

  Despite Parker’s attempt to do some fast talking, the Russian had silenced him each time with the same admonition.

  “This is not open to discussion. You have five minutes. Be ready with your answer.”

  And now the moment of truth had come.

  “You’re asking me to play God! I can’t do that.”

  “Then I will—and both of you will die.”

  There was the sound of movement—of weight shifting . . . or rising from a chair.

  Trish tensed.

  “No! Wait! How do I even know that’s her, with the hood covering her face?”

  If Parker’s stall tactic was obvious to her, it had to be transparent to the Russians.

  “Speak to him.” The Russian gave the order, and a gun poked her between the shoulder blades.

  “You know it’s me . . . Matt . . . or Michael . . . or whoever you are.”

  “Ah. The lady herself is not convinced you are who you say you are. You have ten seconds to give me your decision.”

  Cold metal pressed against her temple.

  Trish stopped breathing.

  “Get that gun away from me!” A touch of hysteria hiked up the pitch of Parker’s voice. Apparently he was feeling the pressure of a gun barrel too. “Okay. Fine. It doesn’t make sense for both of us to die.”

  “You are choosing her?” The Russian again.

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Take her in the next room. I want no blood on my clothing.” The Russian’s tone was nonchalant. As if he was discussing the weather.

  Bile rose in Trish’s throat as she was pulled to her feet and propelled away from the scum that had invaded her home.

  She stumbled down the hall, legs wobbling as the guy held her arm with a viselike grip and pulled her along beside him.

  As suffocating panic locked her lungs, she tried to jerk free—but his grip was like iron.

  Struggle was useless.

  When the man stopped and pushed her to her knees on the floor, she knew she had no more than a few heartbeats to live.

  God, please hold me close!

  She braced . . . but all at once the drawstring was loosened and the bag was pulled off.

  It took her a moment to orient herself in the sudden brightness. She was in the study that had become her bedroom after she’d returned home two years ago. A practical choice, allowing her to be close at night in case her mother needed anything. A small haven of privacy in the home where she had spent her childhood feeling loved and secure and safe.

  Now it was the place where she was going to die.

  The man masquerading as a satellite company employee leaned down, a strip of cloth in his hand.

  Was he going to strangle her instead of using the gun?

  But no. He whipped the strip around her head, forced it between her teeth, and secured it in the back.

  He wanted her mute.

  There would be no chance to plead for her life.

  Or scream.

  Tears pricked her eyes as she gazed up at him, but his black irises were as cold and merciless as a frigid winter night.

  He shoved her back to sit on her heels . . . pulled the bag down over her head . . . tugged the drawstring tight . . . and barked out a loud word in Russian.

  Muffled voices spoke. There was the sound of bodies shifting around.

  “Say your good-byes, Parker.” Spoken by the Russian who had pronounced her death sentence. “Unless you are having second thoughts?”

  “No. It’s . . . there’s no other way. I’m sorry, Trish.”

  The Russian issued a command in his native language. There were more shuffling sounds, as if people were changing position. Hard metal pressed against her temple, the cold seeping through the fabric and into her skin.

  It was over.

  She squeezed her eyelids shut.

  Held her breath.

  And prepared to meet God.

  They’d killed Trish.

  Despite the silencer, Michael flinched when the shot ripped through the air behind him as he retraced his steps down the hall to the kitchen.

  This was a nightmare.

  Oleg and his men cared nothing for innocent life. Retribution and vengeance were their priority. The Mafia’s odd brand of honor and justice demanded that someone pay for traitorous acts, and it didn’t matter who got hurt along the way.

  But at least it hadn’t been him.

  And now that Dmitri had his pound of flesh, there was a chance he could still walk away in one piece. Claim the money that had to be in the accounts by now and disappear.

  Maybe . . . just maybe . . . he’d survive this.

  “We are finished here.” As they entered the kitchen, Oleg’s words boosted his hopes.

  The man’s bodyguard retreated to the back door, stepped out to look around, and gave a silent nod.

  Oleg slipped outside and disappeared.

  Trish’s executioner came back in, gun drawn. “Get back in the van. One word, I pull the trigger.”

  His hopes of deliverance dimmed.

  This wasn’t over yet, after all.

  He could balk at the order—but three against one didn’t offer favorable odds . . . especially when all three were armed. Oleg might not have displayed a weapon, but he had one.

  And the Russian lieutenant would be even less hesitant about using it than the guy who’d put the bullet in Trish’s brain.

  Michael did as the man instructed.

  Once back inside the stuffy van, he retook his place against the wall, knees drawn up. The real driver was still there, emitting muffled groans through the gag.

  “Shut up.” The bodyguard kicked him.

  He fell silent.

  “I thought you said you were going to let me go?” Michael directed the question to Oleg.

  The man ignored him as he scrolled through messages on his cell.

  No sense asking again. His captor would answer when—or if—he chose.

  Two silent minutes later, the front door opened. The guy who’d killed Trish slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and rolled down the driveway.

  No one spoke again as they left the high-end subdivision behind and zoomed onto the highway entrance ramp.

  Heading away from the city.

  And as the miles rolled by, Michael had a sinking feeling that whatever Oleg’s plans were for this day, the climax hadn’t yet played out.

  27

  As Colin sped through the Monday rush-hour traffic, the Taurus’s lights flashing, the siren screaming, his cell began to vibrate.

  One hand locked on the wheel, he maneuvered around a car that had pulled off the highway barely enough to accommodate an emergency vehicle, yanked the phone from his belt, and held it out to Mac. “Answer this.”

  It wasn’t much of a conversation on Mac’s end, but Colin heard enough to get the gist.

  “I
take it the casual patrol drive-by we asked for was a bust.”

  “Yeah.” Mac tapped the end button. “No utility van was visible from the front, like the neighbor said . . . but he’s circling around to the street behind Trish’s. He thinks he might be able to see the back of her place better from there.”

  “Her neighbor would have called if the van left.”

  “Unless he got distracted . . . or nature called.”

  That was possible. Patrol officers were watching the exit of the subdivision—now. But the van could have left before they arrived.

  “Let’s get a BOLO alert issued to cover all the bases.”

  While Mac took care of that piece of business, Colin moved over to the exit lane. In less than five minutes, he’d be able to scout out the situation himself.

  But the drive into town from Matt’s place had eaten up valuable time. Should he have had County street cops knock on the door?

  No.

  If this setup involved the Russian Mafia, as he suspected, they’d be way out of their league and might ramp up an already volatile situation.

  The best option to avoid bloodshed was to go in quietly and take whoever was there by surprise. If that didn’t seem feasible once they got on site, he’d bring in the SWAT team and let them storm the door.

  The latter was a very real option.

  That’s why Sarge had the team on standby.

  As Mac completed his call, Colin roared down the exit ramp and barreled toward Clayton Road. “Let’s drive past the house first, see if we can spot any activity.”

  “Sounds reasonable. If everything seems . . .” He picked up the phone again and put it to his ear. “Okay . . . No, but stick close. Our ETA is less than five minutes.” He ended the call. “The officer was able to get a clear view of Trish’s garage and driveway from the backyard of the house behind. No van.”

  Colin squeezed the wheel.

  Either they’d taken Trish with them, or their business here was finished.

  He didn’t like either option.

  “If they’re gone, there’s not as much need for caution.”

  “The officer did say there’s excellent access to the house from behind.”

  “That helps. I’ll still do the drive-by, but if everything appears to be normal, I’ll park on the other street and we’ll go in from the back. Let’s not assume Trish’s house is empty.”

  “Trust me, I’m not.”

  Half a mile from the entrance to her subdivision, Colin cut the lights and siren, eased back on the accelerator, and entered the development like any normal visitor.

  A slow drive past her house confirmed all was quiet. There was no sign of activity.

  He looped around the maze of streets and parked behind the patrol car. The officer was standing by his door, shifting from foot to foot as he waited for them.

  Colin beat Mac out of the Taurus and flashed his creds at the young, antsy cop who had rookie stamped across his forehead. “Any new activity since you talked to us?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone home here?” He motioned toward the two-story Georgian house that backed up to Trish’s.

  “I don’t think so. No one answered the doorbell.”

  “Okay. We’re gonna take a look. If you see anything suspicious while we’re in there, call us—and call for backup. Don’t wait. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s do this.” Colin tossed the comment to Mac over his shoulder and jogged across the manicured front lawn of the house behind Trish’s.

  At the end of the backyard, screened from Trish’s house by bushy shrubs, he parted the boughs and peeked through. Mac did the same a few feet down.

  After thirty quiet seconds ticked by, he glanced at his colleague. “I say we go in.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’ll take the lead.” He pulled out his Sig.

  Mac did the same.

  They stayed in the shadows as long as they could, then sprinted to the house and flattened themselves against the brick walls.

  Colin had no qualms about breaking down a door to get in. Trish wasn’t likely to complain even if this was a false alarm.

  But it wasn’t.

  He knew that deep in his gut.

  Fortunately, he tested the back door before applying heel to wood—because the door opened with a quiet twist of the knob.

  Bad news.

  After all the warnings he’d given Trish about being cautious and keeping the house secure while she was inside, an open door was a major red flag.

  Coupled with a visit from the same van Phoenix had spotted at Parker’s place, this spelled trouble.

  He motioned Mac to follow him inside.

  Once in the kitchen, he paused. Listened.

  Deathlike quiet seeped into his pores.

  Whoever had been here was gone. He was 99 percent certain of that.

  But much as he trusted his instincts, it was better to proceed with caution.

  After bypassing the two chairs pulled out from the kitchen table, he motioned Mac toward the living room and dining room on the left of the foyer and crept down the hall on the right.

  The sunroom was empty.

  So was the bathroom—though the can of soda on the vanity seemed out of place. From what he’d observed, Trish didn’t leave messes in her wake.

  He edged around the door of her mother’s room.

  Empty.

  That left Trish’s room.

  The only one with a closed door.

  A tingle of apprehension skittered along his nerve endings, and he gripped his Sig tighter.

  Bad vibes were wafting his way.

  For an infinitesimal second he hesitated . . . but then he forced himself to walk forward. Putting off bad stuff didn’t make it go away. He’d tried that after Neal died—and it had done nothing but delay the inevitable. In the end, he’d had to face the truth that his brother was dead and he was at least partly to blame.

  He wouldn’t stick his head in the sand this time—even if his faulty assumption that the Mafia would have no interest in Trish had led to dire consequences. Even if guilt would gnaw at his soul forever.

  But please, God, don’t put me through that kind of pain again.

  The prayer came unbidden . . . and from deep within the recesses of his heart.

  Sucking air into his balking lungs, he grasped the knob.

  Swallowed.

  Just do it, Flynn.

  Gritting his teeth, he twisted the handle and pushed the door open.

  They’d left the highway fifteen minutes ago. Now the van made a wide turn, throwing Michael against the utilitarian metal walls. As it bumped over uneven pavement, every jounce ricocheted through him.

  From his position on the floor, the windowless sides of the vehicle rising up around him like the walls of a high-security prison, he didn’t have a clue where they were.

  But as the vehicle slowed . . . then stopped . . . it was clear they’d arrived at their destination.

  The driver shut off the engine, and a few moments later the doors at the back swung open.

  Once again, the man pointed his gun at him.

  The same one he’d used to kill Trish.

  “Get out.”

  Michael unkinked his stiff legs and scooted to the back of the van. Stood.

  “Move a few feet that direction.” The man motioned toward a small, abandoned warehouse.

  As he complied, he assessed the location. Several similar structures in various stages of decay lined the pothole-littered road. It was clearly an area that had seen better days.

  He had no idea where they were.

  But the isolated location spooked him.

  Big time.

  As did the soot-gray Dodge Dart with dark-tinted windows parked nearby.

  Oleg and his bodyguard got out of the van, and muscleman shut the door behind them.

  “After you, Mr. Parker.” Oleg swept a hand toward the closest structure and peeled off the latex gloves
he’d been wearing since the first trip in the van. The other two guys did the same, tucking them in their pockets.

  “If you want to talk, let’s do it here.” The notion of going into that dilapidated structure sent a chill through him—as did the black skies and ominous growl of distant thunder.

  “You know . . . you are beginning to try my patience. We will talk inside. Either you will come on your own, or my associates will help you.”

  The two thugs edged in closer.

  “Fine.”

  He walked past Oleg, fear congealing in his belly. Dmitri’s deputy hadn’t brought him here to have a casual chat. But they had their sacrificial lamb. This private tête-à-tête had to be about a different matter—and he’d do everything he could to use it to his advantage.

  The inside of the building was dim, but the holes in the roof provided sufficient illumination to see the place was empty save for some piles of trash and a rodent that scurried for cover at the human intrusion.

  “Move about twenty feet in . . . Michael. Or should I say Craig?”

  His lungs froze, and his step faltered.

  Oleg had figured out his identity.

  But . . . that was impossible. There was no proof.

  Keep up the pretense, Parker.

  He rotated slowly. The Russian and the two sentinels flanking him were backlit in the open doorway, their faces in shadows.

  “I told you I’m Matt.”

  “Yes, you did. And it was a lie—as was everything else.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Still playing games, Michael?” Oleg shook his head. “You have become tiresome. It is time to end this matter.” He pulled out a compact pistol.

  “Wait! I’m not Michael! Why do you think I am?” Panic choked his words.

  “You did not pass the test.”

  The man’s words were clear; his meaning wasn’t.

  “What are you talking about? What test?”

  “We studied Matthew Parker. He was a good man. A selfless man. A man who believed in protecting and helping the innocent, no matter the cost to himself. Even if he was not guilty, given a choice between saving his own life or the life of someone he cared about, he would have chosen to sacrifice himself. That is how we knew you were not him . . . Michael.”

  They had him.

  He could argue to his last breath, but Oleg wasn’t going to budge. The Russian had the proof he needed.