No Law (Law #3)

by Camille Taylor

  Way to file, Brian.

  If he wasn’t dead, she would’ve prayed for him to be audited by the IRS.

  She found what she was looking for an hour later, stuck together with another sheet of paper with what she hoped was gum. Wrinkling up her nose in disgust, she typed the relevant information into her iPhone, such as the manifest number, shipping number, and customs I.D. number. That would help her find the box once she got to Customs.

  She still couldn’t figure out what was in the box, unless of course Brian had done a deal on the side without consulting her. Which was highly unlikely, because not only was Brian uninterested in acquiring new exhibits or artifacts, but she seriously doubted if he knew where to start in doing so. What had possessed Brian to become an art major, let alone a curator of all things? It certainly wasn’t a ruse to get the ladies, since most people believed that the world of art and antiquities were something akin to watching paint dry. Yet, on that note, Brian had never lacked for the company of the fairer sex, always having a gorgeous woman on his arm to all the major events. She assumed it was having the Doctor at the beginning of his name. While he didn’t have what it took to become an MD, a PhD was probably his only choice.

  She moved her mind away from Brian and back to the matter at hand. There was no address on the consignment or a contents description, although the insurance box was ticked and beside it was marked eleven million. She would have to wait until she opened it and got all of Brian’s files back before she could learn its origins or at least destination, her mind drawing a blank.

  She heard the sound of voices floating up from beneath the open window of Brian’s office and footsteps crunching on the white pebbles that made up the path surrounding the mansion. The mansion that housed Hamilton Museum was built on a raised hill, the curator’s office along with the director’s office and large conference room all overlooking the eastern side of Rock Creek Park. In the afternoon, each room was blessed with the sun as it set. It was quite beautiful and one of her favorite times of the day, often watching the sun go down over the park from her own office.

  Peering out the window, she was shocked to find Thug Number One standing there talking to Number Two. He’d obviously called for back-up. They didn’t seem to be aware that they were standing right under the curator’s office. Would she never be free of them? Her body slowly began to shake as fear once more overtook her senses. They were here for her and they didn’t plan on leaving without her.

  The image of Alan’s last moments played inside her mind. She could hear his screams, and she bit down on her lip to avoid crying out. Tears blurred her vision as she made her frozen feet move. Whatever they planned to do to her, she wasn’t about to make it easy on them. She’d learned a lot in the past few years and backing down was not an option. Fighting for survival had been her top priority for so long it had become second nature.

  Carey whirled around, pushed all the papers back into Brian’s desk and relocked it, placing the key in her small purse. She found her car keys and slowly opened the door to the corridor outside the outer office and prayed no one caught sight of her or wished to speak with her. She checked to see if anyone was coming before gingerly moving down the corridor. She took the back set of stairs that the cleaners and most staff used during the day when the museum was full of tourists. She stopped breathing for a second when she heard the two men talking in Russian as they ascended the main staircase. She strained to listen, trying to pick up each individual word. She hugged the wall as their voices neared.

  She chewed on her lower lip as they muttered on about what a waste of their time it was to apprehend her, and that Mikhail should have sent a lackey. She frowned, not liking her odds of survival should they capture her. What were their plans for her? Would they merely murder her once they got their hands on her, or did they think they could threaten or perhaps turn her to do their bidding, to bring them whatever it was that Brian helped them with?

  Opening the nearest door to avoid being seen, she found herself in what was once the mansion’s drawing room but now housed antique furniture from France. She saw the much loved Louis the sixteenth chair on the other side of the room. The walls were adorned with French portraits and tapestries. Some of the finer well-preserved porcelain dinnerware were contained in locked glass cabinets. While French antiquities weren’t her forte, she could still appreciate the fine lines and craftsmanship of the French. The room looked like something a traveler might expect to see at Versailles.

  Darting across the room, she went through the connecting door to the pavilion. Just through the other door was the gift shop which led to the garden and ultimately freedom for her, should she make it. She tried to look casual but feared it didn’t show. Her heart was pumping so fast she was surprised no one else could hear it. She moved quickly across the room, not wanting to linger. Her heart almost failed when heard the loud slamming of a door on the office level and knew the two men had discovered she was no longer in her office.

  She wondered at how they’d managed to once more enter the establishment. There was no way they were coming through the entrance like the rest of the tourists and staff but she had little time to reflect on possible entry points as she weaved her way through the throng of museum goers and tried to keep her eyes open for attack. She figured she must look guilty as hell and if someone was watching the security cameras, had she not been who she was, she would have been accosted by security by now.

  She squeezed between two men who were so deep in discussion on Greek statues that they hadn’t heard her say excuse me three times, and clear her throat twice. She had finally given up being nice and courteous and had barreled her way past them. She surveyed the gift shop. Thankfully, the Russians hadn’t believed she warranted more than a two man recovery team, so the two were alone but that didn’t mean back-up wasn’t far away. She put her head down and rushed for the exit.

  Shouting burst from behind her. She’d been spotted. Her only hope would be getting to her car and getting the hell out of there. She would have stopped one of the museum’s guards and told him to detain the two men if she hadn’t feared for the guards’ safety.

  Running as fast as her feet could take her, she was glad she’d dressed in dark blue jeans and a black V-neck shirt that morning rather than her usual skirt and blouse with heels. She had also worn practical slip-on ballet shoes. Not entirely appropriate for running, but at least they were flat. She jumped over the trimmed hedge with little effort and could see her car in the distance.

  She hoped they hadn’t meddled with her car. If they had, she had no idea what her next move would be.

  No flat tires that she could see, and the hood was still down, her fuel cover closed. So far so good—no discernible damage. She didn’t dare look back, fearful at how close they were. If she tripped or lost her way, they’d catch her for certain.

  She was closer to the car now, but she didn’t dare slow her pace. Her side burned since she was not used to such vigorous exercise. She was running out of breath and her legs were getting wobbly. She had to come up with a plan, a good plan.

  She was screwed. She had no idea what to do, drawing a blank. Detective Harrington didn’t believe her and would probably think she was after attention if she went to him, or worse, that she was trying to throw suspicion off her. Not that he’d listen to her anyway. He had already made up his mind about her and nothing would change it.

  Thank you very much, Brian. The only selfless thing he’d ever done was get her out of that room last night. Not that it was helping her much today, but at least she was alive—for now. She certainly wouldn’t have been had she stayed in that room.

  Carey concentrated on breathing in through her nose and out her mouth, already breathless. She wasn’t the fittest person in the world, her work schedule not allowing any time for the gym, and the only exercise she got was lugging crates around for the museum. The building was a large enough structure that she had to run all the way around it to get to her car. Stumbli
ng on the loose pebbles of the driveway, she almost lost her footing. Her hand flailed about in front of her as she regained her balance.

  Heart in her throat, she made her body move faster. Perspiration slid down her back, her messy ponytail bouncing up and down against back. She pressed down on the central locking release button on her keychain and her indicator lights flashed. She vaulted into the car and slammed the door, hitting the locks again.

  Mikhail’s men were a few feet away, their expressions murderous. She started the car, not about to hang around, and hit the accelerator, kicking up the white pebbles as she navigated the fountain turn-around.

  She let out a shaky breath, her nerves shot. Her legs, like jelly, barely managed to stay on the accelerator. She blinked back tears. There’d been few times in her life that she’d truly been terrified, and now was definitely one of them.

  She moved her SUV into the mainstream of traffic. She sped up, pushing well past the limit, and hoped that no cops were about. The last thing she wanted was to be pulled over or arrested for speeding or dangerous driving.

  What was she going to do?

  Come on, Carey, think. You’re smart, so do something.

  Her mind flashed to Alan, her husband, and she swore she could hear him scream. She blinked rapidly to clear the vivid vision from her mind. Thinking about Alan only brought back the memories of Russia. It hadn’t all been bad. She had loved the architecture and the culture, acclimatizing herself into their way of life. It had been hard to leave the museums and history she had found there. She had met some really nice people too, some of whom she was still in contact with today. Not all of them close friends, most of them contacts she used and the others she’d ignored after Alan’s death—like Elena Ivanova.

  It hadn’t been her fault, but she just couldn’t see Elena without thinking of Alan. Even to this day, thinking of Alan was remembering him in his last minutes. She still hadn’t been able to move past that terrifying moment. Someday she hoped to think of Alan and smile, to remember all the good times she’d had with him.

  Elena.

  She had tried to help her so much but couldn’t.

  Elena.

  The name repeated itself in her head.

  Elena.

  She was in America now—the CIA of all places, practically down the road. If anyone could understand her predicament right now it was Elena. Years ago, in Moscow, Elena had listened patiently when no one else had, and even then she knew her story was outrageous. Just like now. She seemed to be a magnet for all things out of the norm.

  Weaving precariously through the throng of motorists on Nebraska Avenue, she narrowly avoided cutting off a station wagon. Using her rearview mirror, she scanned for anyone who might be following her. Luck appeared on her side, the coast clear—at least to her untrained eyes. No one sped up without a valid reason for doing so. No one followed her erratic path and pulled in behind her. Her heart pounded in her throat. She’d probably just lost ten years of her life. She gripped her steering wheel hard, as if the very thing was her life force.

  I’m safe. For now.

  Chapter 11

  Ten minutes later Carey was pulling onto Dolley Madison Boulevard, headed for the nondescript grey building housing the CIA Virginia Headquarters.

  After explaining it was personal business twice, first with the receptionist then with her supervisor, and after having her identity verified, she found herself in Elena’s office. She examined the room. The desk was neat and tidy and situated in front of the large window overlooking the lush green lawn. On top of the dark wood desk was a photo of a man with blond hair. Two plants stood behind the desk beside the filing cabinets adding life to the somewhat drab government office.

  Elena had done well for herself. Carey shifted on her feet, feeling a blister developing and longed to remove the ballet flat. Her fingers picked at the hem of her shirt where a thread had come undone. She nervously tucked her hair behind her ears and two seconds later repeated the action, never once seeing the futility of the exercise since her hair was already pulled back behind her ear and secured.

  Her stomach growled, reminding her it had been some time since she had last eaten. As she stood there, she thought of Moscow. The office had been the same, but a different photo sat on the desk, the temperature low and chilly. She’d been a wreck then, just as she was now. Innocent, determined to do the right thing, a young woman of twenty-four, alone in a foreign country. Her husband had been unreachable in another part of Russia at the time she’d made the discovery.

  The artifacts inside the Kremlin Armory had been forgeries. She had never been surer of anything in her entire life. She may have only been fresh out of college but she’d always had a good eye. At the time, she hadn’t understood the implications of what she doing when she walked out of the Yasenevo office of SVR. She had never realized how it would affect her life and the lives of those around her. But it had and she had learned a life lesson the hard way and at a great cost.

  Being American hadn’t helped, because no one wanted to listen to her. She had mentioned such to a confidant at the Kremlin and he had pointed her to Elena, whose last name had been Nagregor at the time. The door to Elena’s office had opened and a woman with light brown hair and grey eyes had introduced herself. She had been genuinely interested in what she’d had to say and Carey had left feeling better about the whole thing. Until a week later when she assumed a leak within SVR had informed the Russian Mafiya of her report.

  She’d had no idea that Alan had been threatened into passing off the forgeries as real and he had been tortured and murdered before her eyes. The two goons sent by Iosif Simonov—Moscow’s Solntsevskaya neighborhood Bratva’s highest mob leader—had never known she was there. The Bratva—the brotherhood—had a notorious reputation, dabbling in almost every illegal act from arms trafficking and child pornography to larceny, murder, prostitution, and everything in between.

  Alan had been mad at her when she’d told him she’d met with Elena. He had explained briefly that his and her lives had been threatened if he didn’t comply. She had felt horrible the moment he’d told her that. They didn’t have much time before the Bratva came knocking. She nearly wept as she recalled how Alan had pushed her into a nearby storage cupboard just seconds before the two bulky enforcers entered their apartment.

  Alan had to endure hours of torture, crying out in pain while she could do nothing but watch through the slits in the vents of the storage cupboard as the men carried out unspeakable acts. She’d had to bite her hand from making any sounds.

  She had grown up a lot that night. She knew just as well as Alan did what they might do to her should they find her. That was the first time in her life that she had truly been afraid. Never before had she ever thought that her life would be prematurely ended and the reality had hit her hard.

  Finally the two men had tired of torturing Alan and ended his life. Tears had silently rolled down her face as they’d left and she’d found herself still sitting in the cupboard unable to move for hours. She was found later when a colleague showed up and discovered the body and called the police.

  Shuddering at the memory, she focused on her current predicament. Once she spoke with Elena she could get things straightened out in her head.

  The door to Elena’s office opened and a tall good-looking man with dark hair, grey eyes and Slavic cheekbones stood in the doorway, dressed in a grey suit and red tie. While neither were particularly expensive, she could see the careful cut of the fabric by a tailor, accentuating the man’s narrow hips and hard, well-toned body. While she hadn’t thought about men much over the past few years, she could still appreciate the deliciousness of the opposite sex. Even through the panic muddling her brain, she could feel her body reacting to him. Her gaze assessed the attraction she felt before her brain had even caught up.

  The man gave her a once over, taking in her jeans and rumpled shirt in what she thought for a second was approvingly. While Mikhail’s gaze had sickened her,
this man’s expression warmed her body until she almost felt on fire. She shifted on her feet, uncomfortable being the bug under the microscope. She’d never been comfortable with male attention. Marrying Alan at a young age had tamed her quickly. After Alan, she had been in her own bubble and wouldn’t have known if a race of aliens had landed, but being under this man’s gaze was wreaking havoc on her already out of control body. Desire was curling low in her belly leaving her slightly breathless.

  “You’re looking for Elena Gates?” he asked, his voice thick with a Russian accent. His eyes narrowed slightly as her body stiffened. The motion was minuscule, but he’d noticed the change in her demeanor immediately.

  She nibbled on her bottom lip.

  Another Russian.

  Just how many immigrants were there in Virginia?

  Her heart rate and blood pressure shot up into the stratosphere and this time not from sexual attraction. She felt at odds with herself, strongly attracted and fearful at the same time. She watched him like she expected him to pounce on her at any moment. Would the Bratva dare show their hand like that? To kill or extract her from CIA Headquarters? She doubted if much fazed the brotherhood and certainly wouldn’t put it past them. Of the members she had met, none seemed particularly interested in political agendas or having the cops show up at their door. In fact, it was more of an inconvenience to them than anything else. They preferred to fly beneath the radar. But that didn’t mean all that couldn’t change with the right set of circumstances.

  Surveying the room, she desperately looked for an escape route. There was no other exit. She wasn’t about to go quietly if he decided to take her. How had they found her? Did they have people on the inside so that when she’d signed in they could immediately send in their man? Of course they had men inside the CIA. He was standing right before her. What if Mikhail had done a background search on her and discovered her link to Elena Gates? Had she put Elena into danger?