by Donna Young
There was a burst of laughter around the table. Ian waited until it died down. “I’ll pay the money to see the next one.” He slid in his two hundred thousand.
Petrov let out a slow whistle. “That puts the pot over five hundred thousand, Mikhail.”
The derision in Petrov’s comment told Ian the Russian would like nothing better than to see Ian lose.
“So let’s see what we have, yes?” Davidenko tapped the cards.
The room grew silent. With a half million at stake, all wanted to see how it played out.
Ian placed the older man with a Jack in his hand. With another Jack on the table, that would give Davidenko top pair over Ian’s eight and six.
Davidenko turned the next card. “Ace of diamonds.”
Shuffle, shuffle, pause.
Satisfaction rose through Ian. Davidenko lagged on the pause a split second longer than usual. It was a subtle tell, one Ian had picked up on earlier in the afternoon.
Davidenko didn’t have the ace.
“All in,” Ian said, his tone void of emotion. “Seven hundred and eighty thousand.”
Davidenko studied Ian’s face. “You have it, don’t you?”
Ian remained quiet, knowing he’d played Davidenko well. It was best to let the older man think about the previous hands and make his decision.
Davidenko swore. “I fold.” Without pretense he flipped his cards over, revealing a Jack and a nine of spades. “I’m not going to give you any more money on a pair of aces.”
Ian reached for the money.
Petrov placed his hand on Ian’s arm, stopping Ian midmotion. “Aren’t you going to show us, Boy?” Petrov said. “It’s the least you can do.”
Ian’s muscles tightened. “Sure, why not.” With his free hand, he reached for his cards.
Deliberately, he flipped them in the middle of the table.
“Eight, six of different suits,” Petrov remarked, amazed. “The boy bluffed you, Mikhail.”
The others said nothing, but all watched.
“Not bad, Ian. But I think you forgot this.” Davidenko tossed a pin-size transmitter onto the pile of money—the same one Ian planted in Davidenko’s window.
“I think I could have liked you, Boy,” Petrov commented, his meaty hand tightening like a vice on Ian’s arm.
The hair on the back of Ian’s neck prickled, but the warning came too late. Shock waves slammed him between the shoulder blades, paralyzed his muscles.
Ian tried to stand, caught another jab of the Taser under his ribs. Like lightning—it arced, splintered, then seared.
Without a sound, Ian slipped into unconsciousness.
Chapter Fourteen
Lara stepped from Father Xavier’s bedroom, determined to get back to the hotel—
A soft ping hit the air moments before the door pane splintered inches from her ear. A silencer pistol. She dropped to her knees. Another ping hit the air and a chunk of the door disappeared.
Lara snagged her gun, squeezed off a few rounds into the shadows.
“I know you don’t have much ammunition with you, Miss Mercer.”
“Hello, Joseph,” she answered, not surprised. She aimed her gun at the voice, fired. Heard a curse.
“You’re at the wrong end of the hall. Which means you didn’t have to come through the window. Who gave you the security code, Joseph? Novak?”
“Does it matter? If you give me the Katts Smeart files, I’ll go.” His voice drifted from a different spot, closer to her position. Close enough for her to catch the thick, sweet scent of his aftershave.
“Yeah, sure you will.” Lara fired, heard a pair of knees hit the hardwood floor. She snickered. “Novak must have promised you a big piece of Davidenko’s business. I could’ve sworn you two didn’t like each other.” Lara scooted army style toward Father Xavier’s window. Two stories above concrete didn’t make a safe jump, even if she was ready to run.
Which she wasn’t. She dropped her clip, checked the rounds. Only a few bullets left. With a sharp tug she brought up the window and punched out the screen.
The adobe left no grooves for climbing but, just above the window she discovered a narrow fire escape ladder that led to the roof.
“Davidenko is old. Set in his ways.” The voice was almost on her now.
With a short prayer, she emptied her clip of bullets into the doorway, then grabbed the sill and hoisted herself out.
She jumped, caught the bottom iron rung. The metal, frying-pan hot from the sun, burned her fingers. Lara ignored the blistered heat against her skin, the painful burn in her shoulders.
As if in an obstacle course, she scrambled up the ladder. Bullets strafed the wall, tiny shards of cement stinging her face. When she reached the top, she threw herself over the edge and onto the graveled tar. Grit scraped her cheek, cut her lip. Annoyed, she wiped the blood away.
Positioned in the far corner was the stairway entrance. In its shadow, a large heating and cooling unit.
Not much cover. “Damn.” She hadn’t come this far to lose now. In a millisecond, Lara took in the situation, planned her strategy.
Her gaze dropped to an old mop and bucket propped by the air-conditioning unit. Within moments, she’d grabbed both and dived behind the unit, happy when the whir of the motor covered the sound of her footsteps.
Lara counted to ten, then threw the bucket behind her. A few moments later, the scent of musk aftershave drifted toward her.
Lara stepped out, caught the giant unaware. She brought the mop handle down hard on his arm. Joseph grunted in pain, his revolver hit the ground and skidded to her feet. She grabbed it and fired.
Click. Click.
Disgusted, Lara threw the gun down. “I guess we do this the hard way.” She hit the mop’s end with her foot, shooting the pole up and into her hands.
“Unless, of course, you hand over the Katts Smeart,” Joseph acknowledged, his body semi-crouched for attack.
His reach was twice hers and his weight more than double. One look at the meaty hands told her if they got to her neck, she was dead. “You’re out of luck. I didn’t find anything in Father Xavier’s room.”
“Then, as you said, we do this the hard way, eh?”
“Bring it on, big guy.” She flexed her wrist, brought the tip of the pole back like a baseball bat.
A high-pitched ring hit the air. Joseph’s cell phone.
“You’re not going to answer that, are you?” she quipped, then rolled to the balls of her feet. Black belt techniques were out. Dirty street fighting—definitely in.
“Come on, sugar.” She waved her fingers, motioning him forward. All coolness and calculation. “I’m ready to kick some Neanderthal ass.”
Without warning, Joseph charged.
Lara met him halfway, then hit the deck, sliding. Gravel scraped, then burned her thigh. She slammed into the enforcer’s legs, knocking them out from under him, like two bowling pins in an alley.
The big man stumbled, but didn’t fall. She rammed the stick into his concrete stomach, heard the hollow thump and his grunt of pain.
Lara didn’t stop. She scrambled to her feet. Using the stick for balance she pole-vaulted toward him, twisted in a reverse spinning roundhouse. Her heel hit his throat. Felt the windpipe give, the man choke.
But he was fast. Faster than she’d imagined.
With one meaty fist he grabbed her leg, twisted it back. Lara cried out. The bones ground against cartilage, white-hot pain skewered her from knee to hip.
Lara shifted, brought the mop handle up. Without the support she crashed to the deck, shoulder first. Gravel flayed her shoulder, shredding the skin.
Lara rammed the mop handle into his crotch. Heard the air hiss from his lungs, the howl when he hit the asphalt.
Slowly, she uncoiled and stood. The wind hit her shoulder, setting the scrape ablaze.
She’d dealt with worse—and uglier. She eyed Joseph. “You should always wear protection, idiot. Don’t know what you might catch.”
Gripping the stick like a club, she brought it down on his head. At the last second, he blocked the hit with his forearm, grabbed the handle and wrenched it from her grasp.
Breathing heavily, he came up on his knees. “You, bitch!” With one twist, he snapped the pole into two jagged spears. “Are we done with the toys?” He threw the wooden pieces on the ground between them.
“Not yet.” Lara gauged the distance to the broken mop handle.
“Did I tell you, Miss Mercer?” Joseph snarled. “I specialize in killing pregnant women.”
“Not anymore, you don’t,” Lara hissed. Temper drove her now. And retribution. For Sophia. For her baby. Lara dived for the nearest stick, snatched it, then rolled.
An instant later, she came up beneath him, her back blocking his chest. His arm came around her neck, then squeezed against her windpipe. But this time she was ready.
He wasn’t Davidenko, but he’d pay all the same.
Lara shifted forward, taking the giant off balance. In one steady motion, she brought the stick full circle, tucked it under her arm and shoved back. The jagged point speared the enforcer’s chest. The wood jerked, punctured skin and muscle, caught against bone.
Joseph wheezed. His arm dropped and he struggled to sit back.
“Remember Sophia?” Lara’s voice dripped venom. With one hand she held him in place. With the other, she jammed the pole deeper, pushed up and through.
Blood gurgled in the back of his throat, his muscles went lax against her shoulder blades.
She let go of the stick and scrambled out from under him. Weakly, his big hands tugged the wood, trying to break free. With one last surge of strength, he pulled it out and held the spear, now crimson with blood. For a moment he tried to speak, but only a soft choking sound reached her.
Then the big man fell forward, dead.
Pain ground into Lara’s hip, and her shoulder throbbed. But damn it, she was alive. And that creep wasn’t.
A series of rings hit the air.
“I’ll get that.” Lara patted Joseph’s pants, found the cell and took it out.
“Mercer.”
There was a long pause. “Miss Mercer, now this is a surprise.”
In the distance Lara heard sirens. “For Joseph, too, I suspect. He’s dead, Novak.” She limped toward the fire escape, glanced up the street. Several police cars raced toward the church, their red and blue strobes flashing.
“I certainly underestimated you, didn’t I?”
“Looks like it.” She swung down the side of the building to the fire escape ladder and started down. “Where’s your boss?”
“With the father of your baby.”
Lara stopped midstep. Smug bastard.
“You don’t really believe those rumors, do you, Novak?” Lara continued down, then forgetting her injury, jumped the final few feet. She winced when the pain lanced through her hips.
“I think you should know MacAlister is currently unconscious and tied to a chair.”
Lara made her way to the Hummer. If Novak tied Ian to a chair, he wouldn’t stay tied for long. Which meant, he might get himself killed before she could get back.
“The plan is to remove chunks of skin and feed them to Davidenko’s pet piranha.” Novak paused. “You see, I’ve grown impatient, Miss Mercer. I want that antidote.”
Lara glanced at her purse on the seat. “I have the antidote.” Without stopping, she jammed the key into the ignition and turned. The engine roared. She threw the gear into drive and punched the gas. The squeal of tires blended with the growing sound of sirens. “I’m going to ram it down your throat.”
“I’m counting on it,” Novak responded.
“Why? Have you been exposed, too?”
There was a long enough pause on the other side for Lara to know she’d guessed right. “Lucky for you, I answered the phone.” Mentally, she crossed her fingers praying she read Father Xavier right.
“If you want to find your man in one piece, I suggest—”
Lara watched the police cars race past. “You touch one hair on his head, Novak, and you’ll never see the antidote. I mean it. We can all die together. And you can kiss your new Russian empire goodbye—especially now that your partner is dead.”
“Joseph told you.”
“He didn’t have to. I had to go through the window. He had the security code.” Lara took a corner sharp, punched the gas and almost slid into a moving van. “Which one of you killed your father, Novak? Which one of you killed Father Xavier?”
“You found much more than the antidote, didn’t you?” After a long pause, he said, “You have a half hour to get back here. And then we’ll start negotiating MacAlister’s life for the formula and antidote. You bring anyone with you, he’s dead.”
Chapter Fifteen
Pain exploded through Ian’s jaw, ricocheting through his skull, forcing his eyes open.
“You’re awake.” Novak sat at the poker table, his pistol pointed at Ian. No Russian friends, no money on the table.
“Seems so,” Ian said, tasting blood. After a quick check with his tongue, he found the split inside his cheek.
Ian tested his arms, found them tied behind his back. Cold steel cut into his wrists. With a grim satisfaction, he shifted. Plastic crunched beneath his feet. Ian glanced down, saw the tarp, and then Davidenko. The Russian’s eyes lay open; his throat was slit and oozing blood.
“Looking for this?” Novak held up the switchblade. “It certainly does come in handy, doesn’t it?” Novak threw the knife at Davidenko, amused when it imbedded in the dead man’s chest.
“We found this, too.” Novak held up the tube of antibacterial cream. “I assume you used it to block the Katts Smeart.”
“That and a few trips to the bathroom,” Ian reasoned, then nodded at Davidenko. “Is this a new form of going postal?”
“Not quite,” Novak responded, his features slanting into cruel lines. “More like a corporate takeover. Mikhail ceased to serve his purpose.”
“And his Russian pals?”
“Gone. They split your winnings and left long before Davidenko died. But you won’t have to worry about them. Not for long anyway.” Novak nodded to Armand’s briefcase in the center of the table. “I kept a portion of the contaminated money.”
“What did you do, tell Davidenko I had the formula?”
“Davidenko had become suspicious of me.” Novak shrugged. “So Joseph told him you’d been asking questions, trying to find out where Sophia had gone.”
Alexei crossed over to the bar and sat, but his gaze never left Ian.
Ian had grown up the middle child of an over-achieving family. A person couldn’t survive that without developing some antagonizing skill. “I killed Yuri, Alexei. I snapped his neck.”
Alexei remained silent, but hatred glittered in his coal-black eyes.
Ian glanced at Novak. “You trained them well. Do they roll over, too?”
“No, but they do bite, so I’d be careful.” Novak’s lips twisted with derision.
“Where’s your other man? Viktor?”
“Waiting in my helicopter.”
“He might have quite a wait ahead of him.” Ian looked at the clock, saw Lara had less than two hours in her incubation period. “You’ve been organizing this takeover for quite some time.”
“Actually, this whole plan was my father’s idea.”
“Your father?” Ian kept his expression blank, but his muscles tensed.
“The good Father Xavier.” Novak smiled. “Your girlfriend figured it out. She’s on her way now to save you.” He paused, his eyes hooded. “Times certainly have changed, haven’t they? The woman coming to the rescue.”
“Beats dying.”
“The ultimate sacrifice—to die for a loved one,” Novak commented. “My father believed that.”
“So it was suicide?”
“Oh no,” Novak acknowledged, regret hollowing his words. “I killed him. He forced me, by deciding that, after all this,
I wasn’t worth the sacrifice. He drew a gun on me in the hotel room. Only he miscalculated his fragility.”
“So you what? Grabbed the gun, shoved it under your father’s chin and pulled the trigger?”
“Pretty much.” Novak stood, then made his way around the bar. “Davidenko’s best vodka.” Novak took a bottle from beneath the counter. “I’d offer you some, except—” Novak shrugged “—why waste good vodka.”
“Where is Joseph? In the fish tank?” Ian pushed the handcuffs up over his wrist, ignoring the scrape against the bone.
“No,” Novak remarked, then poured the vodka. “But he is dead. Seems your girlfriend killed him.”
Ian smiled, shifted back into his chair. “That’s my girl.” He nodded toward Davidenko. “So when do I die?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Novak reasoned and drank some of the vodka. “You won’t be so easy to kill. The fact that you’re a government operative is less complicated than dealing with your family. We both know they won’t rest until they discover the truth behind your disappearance.” Novak paused, considering. Glass in hand, he returned to his seat at the poker table. “I’d have to call in a lot of favors.”
“Favors from Davidenko’s government friends?” Ian stretched his fingers until he felt the seam of his pocket. “The ones in Davidenko’s computer? I have a copy of those files and I can guarantee in less than twenty-four hours, your friends won’t be available. They’ll be dealing with my friends.”
“I underestimated you, MacAlister.” Novak stopped, his gaze lethal. “And your girlfriend.” He leaned back, placed an ankle on his knee and studied Ian. “For your sake I hope she shows up with the Katts Smeart antidote.”
“Don’t you mean the formula and the antidote?”
“No, just the antidote,” Novak said, his mouth twisted maliciously.
Ian understood then. “It was never about the formula, was it?”
“No. Only the antidote.”
Ian strained against the cuffs, ignoring the bite of steel against his wrists, the trickle of blood across his palms. “Once there is an epidemic, people will need to be inoculated. The person with the antidote will stand to make a lot of money.”