No Law (Law #3)

by Camille Taylor

  Her body had been through the wringer in the past five minutes and all because of this man. The look he had given her was certainly appreciative, and she had experienced something like a hot-flash only to be replaced with frost bite, her core temperature moving alternatively from hot to cold, and back to hot. He had seemed polite enough but maybe he was hoping to gain her trust before he made his move. Whatever his intentions, she had no desire to share her troubles with him.

  The Russian community was close knit, even if this man didn’t work for the Bratva, someone he knew probably did and she couldn’t risk Mikhail knowing she knew Russian and had heard every word he’d said and understood it.

  “Y-yes,” she said. “Where is she?”

  Please don’t tell me she’s dead, she thought as she fought to keep her sob contained.

  ***

  Dmitry watched as the woman’s hands trembled before she shoved them in her jeans pockets, her gaze darting around the room before settling back on him. Her blue-green eyes were wide, watching him so closely that, had she not reminded him of a cornered animal, he would’ve been flattered. But at that moment, one good hiccup would probably cause her heart failure.

  He moved forward into the room. She stepped back, away from him. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she was clearly tired and under a great deal of strain.

  Her creamy skin was pale and while she looked like she came from Irish stock, the paleness worried him and imagined it was from whatever stress she was under. She was wearing flats so he could see she wasn’t overly tall but wasn’t short either. Her shirt was molded to her body like a second skin, detailing every curve and dip, the hem reaching past the band of her jeans, covering the zipper and button from view, and while he couldn’t see her ass from where he was standing he imagined it was well cradled within the deep blue denim.

  Her red hair was a mass of riotous curls and hung haphazardly from her ponytail to fall gently over her shoulders ending at the top of her high, firm breasts. He made himself look back at her face before he made a fool of himself. He could already feel the effects of the woman’s presence on his body and chided himself. Now wasn’t the time or place for such imaginings. Besides, he shouldn’t be thinking of a woman especially one whom he didn’t even know. It just seemed wrong somehow. He made himself think about the matter at hand and answered her question.

  “I’m afraid she’s unavailable at the moment, but maybe I can help?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, and he felt a chill in the air. “You’re Russian?”

  He nodded, wondering where this was going. He hated stereotypes and was amazed at how many people coolly regarded him after learning his nationality. The Cold War was long over and the Russian Federation was now a friend of the United States—or at least as friendly as the two nations could be—but some grudges were hard to let go.

  “Yes I am,” he said. She seemed to shudder at the tone of his voice.

  “Then no, you can’t help me. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.”

  She was polite enough, but he knew his nationality was the deciding factor in her decision. He wondered if she knew that Elena Gates, despite her Anglo surname, had been born and raised in Moscow. His gaze followed her as she moved towards him slowly and carefully, watching him like a rattle snake, expecting him to attack. He stepped aside so she could pass through the doorway. He noticed she kept one eye on him as she moved through the doorway, keeping as far away from him as possible, avoiding the slightest possible touch.

  “If you change your mind, you can find me here,” he called out as she hurried down the hall. He was right; the jeans fit very well to her rear-end.

  Chapter 12

  Carey returned home, having bought dinner at the local fast food drive-through. She was no longer hungry, her time at the CIA robbing her of the little appetite she had, but she knew she had to eat. She’d been running on empty all day and if she had to run, she needed something to keep her going. She was constantly surveying her surroundings, looking for the slightest tail or unknown person lurking about. She had been relieved to find Mikhail’s thugs had not returned to case her apartment and wait for her to come home.

  She was jumpy, every noise startling her. She was scared, feeling useless and vulnerable, and she hated being so nervous.

  Damn you, Brian, for bringing the mafiya back into my life.

  For years she’d been free of them. Had finally gotten her life back on track and now it was about to go down the drain again, only this time she didn’t think she would survive it. She was sick of crying, sick of worrying every second of the day that someone would jump out at her and drag her away. She knew her body couldn’t take much more until she completely cracked. Something had to be done soon, only she didn’t know what.

  Taking a bite of her burger, she chewed, the knots in her stomach making it hard for her to swallow and keep it down. She washed it down with Coke, the caffeine probably not a wise choice. She was alone and hadn’t bothered turning on the television like she normally did. She wanted to hear anyone approaching her door so not to be caught off guard. For the first time in five years, she felt every bit the loneliness. There was no one she could share her worries with. No one to hug or comfort her. She missed that feeling the most…strong male arms wrapped around her, holding her tight against a hard, broad chest.

  She had been young when she’d married Alan, barely had any time to find herself. She had gone from sharing her parents’ lives to co-signing a life with a husband. Even after Alan’s death she had never sat down and tried to find who she was.

  Now isn’t the time either.

  She’d been content to remain the person she had become and forget the past, but it always caught up to her. She was tired, and it seemed like ages ago since she’d last awoken so full of energy, yet it had only been twelve hours ago—only this morning. Her muscles ached and if she’d dared to, she would’ve enjoyed a long hot bath. But in case the mafiya turned up, she didn’t want to be caught by surprise.

  She swallowed the last bite of her tasteless burger and stood, for the first time noticing the small white rectangle resting on her hardwood floor by the door. She must’ve missed it when she’d come in. She bent over and picked it up, flipped it over, and heaved a resigned sigh as she read the name Detective Robert Harrington on the card.

  Why was she not surprised? He was a persistent man, a trait she would have admired had he not seemed determined to pin the murder on her. The detective hadn’t stopped calling all day, leaving half a dozen voicemails that she’d ignored. She hadn’t bothered calling him back, knowing it would only do more harm than good. Sooner or later she would say something that would cast more suspicion on her and without any evidence, even she was inclined to disbelieve her story.

  On her way to her bedroom, she dropped the card on her night table, and pulled out her knockoff Gucci tote bag. She had been raised in a frugal household, learning the value of a dollar at a young age, but that didn’t stop her from admiring pretty things. Even now, when she could easily afford such an item, she couldn’t see the point of buying a label when a knockoff looked just as good.

  It was small. She usually used it for her laptop, but now she needed something light and maneuverable. Opening her bureau, she pulled out some clothes, deciding on how well the colors would blend into the throng of people moving around D.C., and then she had to check the durability and flexibility of the styles and pattern. If she was going to have to run, she wanted to be prepared. If her next stop was Timbuktu, then so be it. She packed her underwear and a few toiletries, her passport and museum I.D., along with the cash she had saved up for a rainy day.

  Wrapping her arms around her body, she tried to drive away the constant cold. There was no worse feeling in the world than being vulnerable. Even in her own home, she was well aware just how unreliable the locks and wood were that were supposed to protect her. If someone wanted in, they would get in. All that stood between them and her was a little time and
effort.

  She wished she’d bought a gun, anything, even pepper spray, but she’d always believed that having those items was like supplying your attacker with arsenal. It was too easy for them to deprive you of them and use them against you. Her eyes closed slowly, feeling much too heavy.

  That night, she went to sleep with one question on her mind that had been nagging her all day.

  What have you gotten me into, Brian?

  Chapter 13

  Dmitry got home late. He had been working all day and most of the night on his new spyware program, which was more efficient and quicker than the ones currently available. He wanted his to be the best and the easiest to use, something that agents could take on missions in a flash drive so they could replicate a person’s hard drive fast, without alerting anyone or setting off alarms, and leaving no trace when it was done.

  Unfortunately, he was still trying to get it to work properly. It hadn’t helped that his concentration had been shot after the meeting with the mysterious redhead in Elena’s office. Was she all right? It was clear she was scared, desperate. Who was she and why hadn’t she allowed him to assist her? She wasn’t dressed like most informants he’d met while working for the CIA. She had seemed almost normal. He wondered if he should tell Elena, but then he doubted the redhead would allow him to become involved with her problem anyway. She hadn’t been particularly friendly.

  He hadn’t recognized her as one of Elena’s friends, having met the few she’d made since making America her home two years ago. Elena, like him, didn’t make or keep friends easily. The redhead didn’t match any of the case files she’d handed him to follow up on while she was on maternity leave. Since most of her contacts were Russian, he was the next best choice at continuing her job.

  He guessed the woman had been referred to Elena. After leaving her office this afternoon, he decided the redhead had probably found herself another agent, most likely American. He was still annoyed by that. Just because he was Russian didn’t make him a bad guy. Over the years he’d been living in Washington, he had discovered many people weren’t as open-minded as they claimed to be.

  He cleared his mind, but the only problem with removing that train of thought was that he kept returning to the redhead. He had already spent most of the evening fantasizing about her, all long legs, creamy skin, and thinking about nothing other than having them wrapped around his hips. Hell, he didn’t even know her name, yet he’d been turned on and had spent the rest of the afternoon with an uncomfortable hard-on. He again debated calling Elena. It was the middle of night, or early morning, and Lucas would kill him should he wake Yvonne, Elena’s and Lucas’s daughter.

  Since Lucas was such a great shot, he figured he’d leave it until morning.

  Hopefully, the redhead would stay out of trouble until then.

  Chapter 14

  Mikhail stared out the window of his penthouse at the early morning dawn. His gut told him he’d been wrong. He should never have left the woman alive. The detective assigned to Brian Nichols’s murder, Robert Harrington, was now investigating possible mob associations. All because Carey Madigan had put it in his head. How had she jumped to the conclusion that he, being Russian, was mafiya?

  Her correct assumption had an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. He hated loose ends and unknown factors.

  The woman had eluded his men and now she knew she was on his shit list. If she had half a brain, she would be on the first plane, train, or boat out of the city. Now he was wasting resources having every point of exit watched.

  Brian Nichols had lied, which was no surprise, but he hadn’t thought the man had the balls to lie to him. Carey Madigan had been more than his assistant. She practically ran the museum and knew more about what was happening than the useless curator. How had he missed her when he’d been looking to recruit for his little business? But she would’ve turned him down flat. She was a woman of passion and integrity. A woman of steel, and dare he say she had a pair on her? He’d just found out she spoke fluent Russian.

  She had heard and understood everything he had said. He tried to think back to what he’d said. Was there some damning sentence spoken? He couldn’t remember. He was amazed at the cool demeanor she had displayed and was quite impressed. He had known few women that he could admire but Carey Madigan was one of them. She was capable, a smart one, proved by how she’d escaped his men, a bloodthirsty lot. He had heard his men telling each other what they wanted to do to her once she was caught, what they’d like to teach her. How would she handle being their student?

  She was strong-willed and, like a captain, would go down with the ship. When the time came, he wanted to look into her eyes and watch as the light faded from them. He shook his head. It would be a waste to destroy such a brilliant mind. If there was any chance of changing her loyalties, he would happily recruit her, knowing she would be a better investment than Brian. But he knew he was only dreaming, that such an idea was pure fantasy. Only one thing mattered now. Carey Madigan was a dead woman.

  He would find her, torture her, and then kill her and he would enjoy it. No woman had ever put one over on him and lived. He remembered her disinterested gaze, not a flicker of recognition at the language being spoken. If she had spoken up, told him she spoke his language, he wouldn’t have been so interested in what she was hiding. The fact that she had pretended not to understand was damning.

  He opened his laptop as fury coursed through his veins. It had been a while since he’d been disarmed but this woman had him thinking she was harmless. He would see her again soon. Vasily and Grigori were currently on their way to her apartment in Fairmont Heights. She would have a different wakeup call this morning.

  He clicked on the search engine and typed Hamilton Museum into the search field. A beautiful, professional shot of the front of the mansion, showing the fountain and pebble drive along with the immaculate lawns and garden appeared on his monitor screen. The words neatly displayed in a fancy font across the publicity shot told him he was viewing Hamilton Museum and Gardens’ official website.

  There was a page for viewing the collection, opening times, location, and directions on how to get there. He also found information on the gift shop, a history of the mansion along with a section dedicated to the benefactors of the museum, job opportunities, and a section for photographs.

  He clicked on the About Us section and skimmed the information to read:

  The museum’s board of directors recently announced the position of curator has been temporarily filled. The position became available when the previous curator, Mr. Brian Nichols, passed away. Acting now in the role is Ms. Carey Madigan, who was previously Mr. Nichols’s assistant curator, and whose specialty is in Russian antiquities. Ms. Madigan spent many years in Russia, working at the Kremlin Armory, Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow State Historical Museum, and the Puskin Museum of Fine Arts to name a few.

  Something clicked inside his head. No wonder she’d haunted his mind. She’d gone by Thomas back then, and he’d been in Moscow five years earlier when her professor husband had been murdered. Pure luck had saved her life, but she wouldn’t escape again. What were the chances that the woman who’d discovered the forgeries at the Kremlin Armory would become a part of the mafiya’s new scheme? He couldn’t believe his odds.

  Chapter 15

  “You did what?” Alan bellowed at her, then ran his stiff hand through his blond hair.

  Carey’s eyes widened and she involuntarily stepped away from him. Alan had never raised his voice to her before. He stared at her, his own eyes wide with panic. She hugged herself tightly against his unexpected rage. She’d thought he’d be proud of her and commend her for bringing the forgeries to light. She was confused and hurt and wanted to cry but she held the tears back, swallowing hard to keep them at bay.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to soothe his sudden temper. “You weren’t here. I made a decision.”

  “That’s going to get us killed,” Alan snapped.


  She gasped. “W-What?”

  Alan cursed savagely and pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry, honey, I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

  She relaxed in his arms.

  “What did I do wrong?” she whispered.

  Alan closed his eyes for a brief moment and when he opened them again she saw the torment, resignation, and the love he felt for her reflected in the dark pools. She shivered.

  “I knew about the forgeries months ago.”

  She pulled away from the embrace. “You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Hurt fueled her anger. Sometimes Alan treated her like a child, as if she couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. Had he been testing her? Didn’t he trust she knew what she was doing and could see a fake from the real deal?

  “I couldn’t. They would’ve killed you instantly if I’d have breathed a word.” He stared into her eyes, ensuring she grasped what he was saying. “I’ve been so scared, wondering when I wouldn’t prove useful anymore and when I would become a liability.”

  She swallowed hard, her mouth dry. “What’re you saying? Who are they?”

  “Iosif Smirnov, the leader of the brotherhood.”

  She almost lost her voice, as it was it came out strained and barely above a whisper, fear coating her body. “The Bratva?”

  She had heard horror stories about the local mob and the reality of the situation suddenly hit home. “Oh my God.” She pressed a hand to her stomach as nausea began to rise. She looked to Alan for guidance. “What’re we going to do?”