Manhattan Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance Book 2)

by Gibson, Mira

  Vishnevsky.

  She bucked and twisted, but couldn’t break free as he dragged her off the bed, the curtains billowing out from a cool breeze.

  The window.

  He had climbed up the fire escape.

  How long had he been out there, watching and waiting for his moment?

  She could barely think and was no match for him physically, as he yanked her towards the apartment door.

  Praying that Kevin would hear, she kept fighting—elbowing him and doing her best to stomp on his feet—but her blows hardly affected him.

  In seconds, he unlocked the door and jerked her into the hallway, naked as she was, and in an instant she felt the sting of a needle prick into the side of her neck.

  And her world went dark.

  Chapter Ten

  Kevin emerged from the bathroom—his hair damp, skin glistening, a towel wrapped around his waist—and immediately sensed something was off.

  As he edged down the short hallway, his gaze locked on the apartment door. Were his eyes playing tricks on him or was it ajar?

  Rushing over, he discovered the door was open a crack and a sting of dread hit his chest. His gaze darted to the bed.

  Empty.

  A breeze blew into the apartment, causing the curtains to rustle.

  Tasha was gone.

  Panicking, his mind was both racing and going blank, and he felt like he was jumping out of his skin, as he began pacing. He plowed his fingers through his damp hair, trying to get a hold of himself enough to think.

  He knew Avandeyev was behind this. Kevin shouldn’t have threatened him. But in all practical terms, what could he do about it?

  Decisively, he traded the towel around his waist for his briefs and dressed quickly, stumbling around the room. He planted his boot on the desk, hiking his pant-leg up, and attached his holster then double-checked that his gun was primed with the safety latch disengaged before securing the weapon against his ankle. If he was about to go head-to-head with a crime organization, there was no sense in extra obstacles. He’d draw and shoot.

  This was insane.

  Pacing to the coffee table, he pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and quickly looked up the telephone number for Internal Affairs using the Google app. As he sent the call through, he tried to calm his pounding heart by breathing deeply, but it did little to alleviate his anxiety.

  When he heard the department’s outgoing voice message, he quickly glanced at his cell’s screen, noting the time.

  “Damn it.”

  He hung up and entered 911 into the keypad. His thumb hovered over the Send icon. If he called the police, the responding precinct would be the 26th. Even if officers arrived within minutes and they weren’t dirty, he would still be advised to wait a number of days before filing a missing persons report. And dealing with police in the meantime could potentially eat up hours since they’d have to take Kevin’s statement and comb through every inch of the apartment.

  He cursed again then his eyes locked on Tasha’s telephoto camera that was resting on the coffee table.

  He grabbed it, yanked the window down and locked it as well as the apartment door, and stepped out into the poorly lit corridor.

  Racing down the stairwell, he went over his options—barge into Vishnevsky’s brownstone or speck out the meat packing facility owned by Avandeyev. Both of those locations were in Coney Island so when he spilled onto the sidewalk, cool air blowing through the avenue, he started jogging south along Amsterdam.

  He had parked his car a block west of his building and couldn’t get there fast enough. He sprinted, slowing only to look both ways at each intersection, and tried not to obsess over the horrors that Tasha might be suffering.

  But how could he not?

  This was his fault.

  In retaliation, Avandeyev had abducted the beautiful black girl who had seen too much, and Kevin was terrified of what the crime boss intended to do with her.

  He couldn’t let himself go there, but it was a damned challenge not to.

  When he reached his beat-up sedan, he wasted no time scraping the key in the lock and jumping in. He used the same haste turning the engine and it wasn’t until he had peeled away from the curb, tires screeching as he flew into the street, that he remembered to flip on the headlights.

  If getting to his car felt like it had taken an eternity, driving to Coney Island was even more excruciating. He drove, pedal-to-metal, weaving between slower moving vehicles, swerving and at times braking to dodge bumpers and avoid an accident, all the while he jerked the steering wheel in a white-knuckle grip.

  When Kevin turned onto Vishnevsky’s street, a line of dilapidated brownstones coming into view, he killed the headlights and proceeded at a crawl. But as he neared the address that he had staked out days prior, there was no sign of anyone inside.

  He slammed his palm against the steering wheel, gritting his teeth, then stepped on the gas, driving off.

  Twelve blocks later, he came to the meat packing facility, having never turned his headlights back on, and pulled along the curb, a solid one hundred yards from the building.

  He grabbed Tasha’s camera, which he had set on the passenger’s seat, popped the lens cap off, and found the On switch. Angling the telephoto lens out of the driver’s side window after rolling it down, he spied four men guarding the front.

  It was enough of a confirmation that Tasha was inside.

  But how would he get to her?

  The weakest part of him wanted to call Reilly, beg for mercy, promise to never again mess with Avandeyev, and take the cowards route in order to free the woman who had whirled into his life—the woman he was almost certain he was falling in love with—but could he indenture his career to a crime family?

  He wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with himself.

  So he called the one person who had known Reilly for years, the only person who might have sway over the corrupt sergeant.

  Kevin’s father.

  With his cell dialing, ringtone blaring through the earpiece, he pressed his phone to his ear and checked the clock on the dashboard. It was a little after two in the morning and he had very little faith that his dad would pick up.

  He jolted forward when he heard his father groan, “Kev?”

  “Dad, yeah I need you to go to your old precinct-”

  “It’s the middle of the night. What the hell is going on?”

  “It’s Reilly,” he cut in. “He’s gone off the deep end with the Avandeyev crime family-”

  “Slow down.”

  “Just listen,” he insisted, finally setting the camera on the passenger’s seat. “I need backup.” He rushed through relaying the Coney Island address then explained, “Avandeyev has kidnapped someone and Reilly’s in cahoots.”

  “You’re talking crazy, Kevin.”

  “I’m about to go in.”

  “The hell you are,” he barked. Kevin could almost see him bolting upright in bed, waking Ma.

  “He tried to sweep a murder under the rug, Dad. I have reason to believe he’s being paid off. Shit, I don’t care about that. I’m just giving you context so you can tell the 12th and get Uni’s down here. The woman he abducted witnessed the murder, that’s all you need to know.”

  “Kev, I don’t want you going off half-cocked.”

  “Just call the 12th!” he yelled, going out of his mind with urgency. “She’s in there right now and I don’t know what they’re doing to her.”

  He popped the driver’s side door and stepped out onto the street, as his father rattled off ideas about what to do and none of them included sneaking around to the back of the warehouse like he was in the throes of doing.

  “You’re the only person I trust,” said Kevin before hanging up and slipping his cell into his back pocket.

  He eyed one of the warehouse’s steel doors, which wasn’t being guarded. As he grabbed his gun, he winced at the thought of Tasha scared and alone—and undressed. God, she hadn’t had a stitch of cl
othing on when Kevin had slipped out of bed for the bathroom. If they’d laid one finger on her, he’d lose his mind.

  Jogging to the rear door and aiming his gun low at the ground, he saw that the steel was set flush against bricks, indicating it was likely shut and locked.

  When he reached it, he yanked hard on the handle, confirming his guess, and cursed under his breath.

  He didn’t want to announce himself, but he had to get inside and get inside fast so he aimed his GLOCK at the lock and fired.

  The door bucked, springing open and slamming into the frame. He widened it and proceeded with quiet, cautious steps.

  It was dark. The sharp smell of raw meat filled the air, choking him, and as his eyes adjusted he soon made out the shapes of animal carcasses hanging on hooks throughout the space.

  He didn’t see movement or figures, no sign that anyone was around. Edging deeper into the room and trailing up an aisle of hanging meat, he heard the muffled and echoing cries of a woman.

  Tasha.

  He pivoted, sweeping his gun towards the cries, which sounded far off, and discovered a stairwell at the far corner of the warehouse.

  He jogged towards it, keeping his eyes peeled and scanning, and his gun poised.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Tasha’s distress came clear as a bell, as she demanded in a weak voice, “Let me go.”

  Her words were slurred and her tone ragged.

  Taking the treads two at a time, Kevin hurled himself up to the landing, but as he rounded the corner, preparing to sprint towards the second floor doorway, two men dressed in dark clothing and smoking cigarettes locked eyes with him.

  Before he could react, aim his gun, fire at will, the taller of the two Russians yelled, “Hey,” and the other whipped a gun out.

  “Where is she?” Kevin seethed, training his GLOCK on the shorter man.

  In a thick accent, the taller man said, “Drop your weapon.”

  Clenching his jaw and glaring at the man, Kevin didn’t budge.

  In an instant, an arm was around his neck, the man behind strangling him with a chokehold. He jerked and twisted, lowering his weapon in favor of fighting, but the man had too strong a grip.

  Before he knew what was happening, he was being shoved through the doorway, his gun having been snatched from his hand.

  “I’m a cop!” he shouted. “You’re making a huge mistake.”

  “Shut up,” the man behind him ordered.

  And when Kevin did, it wasn’t because he felt like obeying. The sight of Tasha strapped to a chair in the middle of the room—her hair hanging over her face, her shoulders slumped, the ratty tee shirt they’d thrown on her bunched and balled around her waist—had sent his mind reeling with sudden panic.

  Vishnevsky was smoking a cigarette a few feet off and Avandeyev, the sick bastard, was stroking Tasha’s hair.

  The crime boss said, “I told you what you would have to do. Fall in line. It’s not difficult.”

  “Let her go,” he yelled and groggily Tasha lifted her head at the familiar voice.

  Her eyes were lolling and glazed over, and she didn’t seem to understand her surroundings, though she began repeating, “You won’t get away with this. You won’t.”

  Kevin grimaced and spat words through his teeth at Avandeyev, saying, “You might think you have Reilly in your pocket, but once he hears about this... You’re going down, all of you!”

  As the men jerked Kevin closer to Avandeyev, Sergeant Reilly stepped out from the shadows. “I gave you an in. It didn’t have to be like this.”

  “You,” he snarled.

  “Why didn’t you take the cash?” Reilly asked him, looking almost pained. “You could’ve looked the other way.”

  “And leave Tasha to fend for herself?”

  “Isn’t that where we are now anyway?” Avandeyev countered, grinning as if the situation almost pleased him.

  The man behind Kevin loosened his grip, shoving him even closer and causing Kevin to stumble, but in an instant he righted his footing and swung around, throwing the hardest right-hook of his life.

  His fist landed squarely against the man’s cheek with a slam and Kevin felt a bone in his hand crack, but he didn’t stop. As the man fell, Kevin yanked the gun from the Russian’s waistband and in a flash, whipped around.

  From out of nowhere a spray of bullets shattered the windows behind Vishnevsky and he plummeted to the floor, Avandeyev falling after him.

  Kevin sprang towards Tasha and leapt, taking her to the ground with him, as gunfire leveled Reilly and the rest of the men.

  Clenching his eyes shut and using his body as a shield to protect her, Kevin felt shattered glass raining over his back and stinging the side of his face, as Tasha whimpered confusedly beneath him.

  “I’ve got you,” he told her, as the pops and bangs gradually died out.

  When it was finally quiet, Kevin didn’t trust it. He lifted his head slowly, glancing around—men on the floor, blood, sirens shrieking outside—as red and blue police lights flared through the dingy warehouse.

  As the sound of boots stomping up the stairwell replaced the quiet, Kevin lifted off of Tasha and helped her to her feet. He cradled her in his arms, as she rested her cheek on his shoulder and groaned, “I think they drugged me.”

  “Help is on the way.”

  Police officers outfitted in helmets and bullet proof vests swarmed into the room, as Tasha lifted her head, glancing up at Kevin.

  “You saved me,” she whispered.

  He feigned a smile, but all he could think was, Not soon enough.

  When he heard a gruff voice say, “I owe you one,” Kevin turned and found his father stalking into the room with the Lieutenant of the 12th Precinct by his side.

  His hard-ass father looked at him and nodded. As he neared them, the older man studied Tasha and the devastation all around them then said, “A hell of a mess. I hope she’s worth it.”

  Kevin glanced at the woman in his arms then met his father’s gaze. “She is, trust me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunlight streaming through the window gently woke Tasha from a long night’s rest. She inhaled deeply and nuzzled into Kevin’s arm, curling up beside him. She had come to crave his scent during their week together after he’d rescued her from Avandeyev’s warehouse. In moments like this when dreams clung and the brand new day hadn’t yet begun, she couldn’t get enough of him—the sight of his bedraggled hair, his face in profile, the rise and fall of his sculpted chest, the feel of him where her arm and leg draped over his body.

  Kevin had fought for her. He could’ve died. But thank God they had both walked away from that terrifying night unscathed.

  Though Sergeant Reilly had been shot twice—between his shoulder blades and lower back—he was alive and as far as the District Attorney had told her, he was still handcuffed to his hospital bed in the Intensive Care Unit at Beth Israel. It was only a matter of time before he would be incarcerated for conspiracy, corruption, and aiding and abetting murder, among other charges that Tasha didn’t trouble herself to remember. Avandeyev didn’t make it out of the warehouse that night and with his death, his entire crime organization would soon crumble, or so the D.A. had assured her. Tasha’s stalker, Alexi Vishnevsky would also do hard time and was currently being held in jail pending sentencing. And most importantly, the 26th Precinct in Harlem was now on track for complete redemption, Kevin having ferreted out all of the dirty cops with the help of Internal Affairs.

  Kevin drew in a deep breath, waking up. His eyes drifted open and he rolled on his side, facing her.

  “Hey,” she said softly, as he stroked her black curls, tucking a lock behind her ear.

  “Are you excited?”

  “It’s practically Christmas morning,” she said with a smile.

  She had spent the week walking around several parks and taking photos. At times Kevin had joined her, but for the most part Tasha had been content to wander alone. And the images she ha
d captured, the stories they told, were the best she’d ever produced.

  She couldn’t wait to find out how the guests at Windsor Fine Art would react later today. She was practically buzzing with anticipation.

  And Kevin could tell. He found her waist beneath the covers and shifted her on top of him, their nude bodies aligning, his warm skin and firm muscles arousing her.

  The air conditioner they had bought whirred in the window. Though they both knew the danger they’d survived had long since passed, neither felt entirely comfortable with leaving the window open while they slept.

  Straddling Kevin, she rocked her hips to turn him on and felt his erection grow where it lay between their stomachs.

  Gently, he ran his fingers through her hair and pulled her in for a kiss.

  When their lips met, Tasha breathed in the scent of him and grew wet, as she began stimulating herself along his shaft.

  She planted her palms against the mattress, lifting up and angling his penis into her. The initial contact made her gasp and as he penetrated her, her skin flared hot in response.

  Straightening her back and gazing down at him, she began riding him, the feel of his hard erection inside of her stirring up heat and friction in the sweetest way.

  He held her hips and squeezed—one of his quirks. He liked to feel her flesh, the meat on her bones, whenever he could.

  She quickened the pace and he groaned, finding her breasts, cupping their shape and feeling them jiggle with her every thrust.

  He breathed, “How did I get so lucky?” as he watched her, feeling himself inside her, the slippery hot sheath of her body.

  That was the irony and she had thought about it many times. She never would’ve met Kevin had the Russian crime organization not killed one of their own on the pier.

  Destiny had a funny way of working itself out...

  Hungry to be in control, Kevin grasped hold of her waist and effortlessly flipped her onto her back, and again pressed into her.