Leverage (The Mistaken Series)

by Nancy S Thompson

  “The baby’s okay. Katy, not so much.” She kept her focus on the fleecy blanket beneath us, picking at the pill balls then flicking them over her knee.

  I grabbed her hands and stilled them. “Hannah, please, don’t be afraid to talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Her shoulders slumped as she peeked back up at me. “Katy’s been sick, not eating, dizzy—normal early pregnancy stuff—except she passed out when she was alone. Conner’s worried ‘cause he’s working all the time and rarely home. He just wants someone to keep an eye on her ‘til the end of the quarter when his class and work schedules change.” Her brow screwed up and she chewed on her bottom lip. “I said she could stay with us.”

  I let go of her hands and sat up straight. “But that’s like…what? Another four weeks or so, right?” I asked and she nodded. “Hannah, you’ll be close to full term by then. You can’t be taking care of her.”

  “It’s not like I’ll be waiting on her or anything. Just…watching, making sure she eats right and all that.”

  I pressed my mouth into a hard line and started to shake my head. “Hannah—”

  “Tyler, this is my grandchild we’re talking about here.”

  I put my palm on her belly. “And this is my child we’re talking about here, already viable. You’re asking me to potentially put the both of you in harm’s way.”

  “I know, but…I think, since we’re already aware of whom Katy might be, without her being aware of us, that we have the advantage. We’ll stay on top of things, really keep our eyes on her until we know more. Okay?” she begged. “Please, Ty, I need you to take a different tack on this. Call Aaron, tell him it’s become urgent, and ask him for an immediate update. It’s just a few weeks. She’ll be gone before the baby’s born, and I’ll have peace of mind knowing Conner’s worry free and my grandchild is well taken care of.”

  Hannah gazed at me with those soulful green eyes of hers and her pretty little pout. It was enough to bring any man to his knees, and I was the weakest of them all when it came to her. Maybe she was right. Perhaps it would be better to have our enemy close at hand. Then, at least, we’d know what she was up to. And with Conner on his own back in Seattle, Hannah had one less thing to worry about. Seemed the best thing for now. But if Moody dug up any incriminating information on her, I’d see to it Katy gave birth in jail and never had the opportunity to see her child again.

  So I nodded. “Fine.” I pointed my finger at her. “But only ‘til the end of the quarter and not a day longer. Agreed?”

  Hannah smiled and nodded right back then threw her arms around my neck.

  “Thank you,” she offered and pushed me back onto the pile of blankets, where she proceeded to show me just how grateful she really was.

  ***

  The following afternoon, Conner and Katy arrived on our front doorstep, a single bag set at their feet. The introductions proved a bit awkward considering their predicament, but Hannah was gracious as always, and, after hugs were properly doled out, she took Katy by the hand and showed her around the house while Conner delivered her bag to his old bedroom. I followed him in and spied him bent over Katy’s open bag as he unpacked her things. He spun around when he heard me shut the door.

  “Ty?” he said, his forehead scrunched in worry.

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets and stepped closer. “Hey, bud. Got a minute?”

  He shrugged. “I guess. What’s up?”

  “Nothin’ much. Just wondering if you ever talked to Katy about school.”

  He looked me hard in the eye then turned back around and resumed his task, removing Katy’s clothes and stacking them in neat piles along the bed.

  “Yeah, we discussed it.”

  “And?”

  He took a large breath and sighed, but remained on task. “And nothing. She says your friend is mistaken, that she was enrolled and lived at McCarty.”

  I stepped to Conner’s side and faced him. “And you believe that?”

  He picked up one pile of clothes, spun away, and walked to the dresser where he opened several drawers and distributed Katy’s clothes.

  I put a hand to his shoulder. “Conner?”

  He shrugged me off and whirled around. “I don’t know what to believe, Ty. Why would either one of you lie to me? It makes no sense.” He walked back to the bed and started arranging a few of Katy’s things on hangers then placing them in the closet.

  “Well, I wouldn’t, and I didn’t. Can you say that about Katy?”

  His shoulders sagged and he looked over at me. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. I have to take care of her regardless. You should understand that, what with Mom being pregnant.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I get it, but…just be careful, okay? I’d hate to see you get hurt.” I clapped him on the back and walked to the door.

  When I opened it, Katy was standing there, Hannah at her back. Katy stared hard at me for a moment then glanced over my shoulder at Conner before offering me a slight smile, but her eyes remain aloof. I widened the door and raised my arm.

  “Your bedroom awaits, milady,” I said in my most proper English drawl.

  Katy chuckled, almost forcibly so, and joined Conner. “Thanks, Mr. Maguire.”

  “It’s Karras, actually, but please, call me Ty.” I offered a tight-lipped smile, turned toward Hannah, and closed the door behind me. I pushed Hannah back up the dim hall to the living room and turned on the TV, raising the volume a couple notches.

  “What did Conner say?” Hannah whispered. “Anything about Katy?”

  “Just that she denied everything Aaron said, and that he’s not sure what to believe. That girl’s got him wound up pretty tight.”

  Hannah sighed. “So what’s next then? What do we do besides watch her?”

  “I think I’m going to do some snooping of my own. Follow a few leads Aaron shared with me. See what I can find. In the meantime, see if you can get Conner to hang around for tonight.” I kissed her on the forehead first, then the mouth. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t hold dinner.”

  She squeezed my hand before letting go. “Be careful. I love you.”

  “Love you, too,” I added and took off for North Seattle.

  ***

  I glanced both ways up and down the sidewalk before I pulled the shop door wide. A small, tinkling bell announced my entry into the dimly lighted bookstore. I scanned the front area, the unguarded checkout counter, and unattended display shelves. The store appeared empty, though I could hear low voices, two men, coming from the rear.

  “Hello?” I called out.

  One of the voices answered, “Da, da,” as he moved closer, winding this way through the tall bookcases in my direction. “Ah, pre’-vee-yet,” he greeted as he raised both arms. “Dobro-pa-zha’-lo-vat! Welcome, welcome!” he repeated in heavily accented English. “Can I help you?”

  I stared at the man. Though just the sound of his Russian accent made my skin crawl, he appeared anything but threatening. Small and stooped, with his face and head covered in grizzled, grey hair with a floppy hat atop it, he looked more like a garden gnome than anything. But appearances could be deceiving. I knew that all too well; just look at the former head of San Francisco’s Bratva and his right-hand man.

  Alexi had been dashing with his ever-welcoming smile and easy-going manner. And Dmitri, with three hundred pounds of flesh around his middle, hardly appeared dangerous. But both had wreaked havoc on my life, as well as Hannah’s, so I wouldn’t discount this little troll. If fairy tales were to be believed, they’d been known to dispatch the unwary from time to time.

  I offered a bright smile and extended my hand. “Hi,” I answered in my best Americanized accent. “My name’s Sam Twohy. How’re you?”

  “Ho-roh’-sho,” he replied and shook my hand. “Good, good. I am Anton Vasin, the owner. Can I help you find something?”

  Bingo Anton Vasin. He must be Leo’s father.

  “Yes, I’m lo
oking for a book on Russian architecture for my son.”

  He put a finger to his chin. “A young child?”

  “No, he’s a student at the U-Dub,” I answered, hoping to spark something in the man since he had supposedly just lost his own son. But there was nothing, not even the acknowledgment that he’d had a child of a similar age and at the same school. I found that odd.

  The man thought for a moment and turned. “This way,” he said and presented me with a slew of choices.

  “Thanks. I’ll look ’em over.” I focused on the array of titles as the little toad wandered off to the back of the store and recommenced his discussion with the other man.

  As they continued to whisper back and forth in Russian, I pulled one book from the dark-stained shelves, then another, pretending to read when, really, all my attention was on the two of them. I followed them in my peripheral vision as they separated, and glanced down the end of the aisle when the owner’s friend passed by and walked up to the cash register.

  My heart rattled in my chest for an instant, sparked by something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, something vaguely familiar. That alone made me even more nervous. I selected two books and proceeded to the checkout counter, presently attended by the second man.

  My eyes grazed over his face and figure. Early thirties and two hundred pounds of pure muscle, and visibly inked beneath his thin, white henley. Even his fingers were adorned with ring tattoos, as well as the top of each hand. There was definitely something about him that creeped me out, though I didn’t recognize his face.

  I hadn’t experienced that kind of anxiety since…

  Shit! That’s who he reminded me off, one of the fighters at Dmitri’s cages back in San Francisco. Just the thought made my heart gallop within my chest. I kept my eyes averted, paid the bill, and grabbed the bag from his tattooed hand, then fled as quickly as I could without appearing conspicuous. I walked briskly back to my truck parked curbside a half block away and jumped in, locking the doors and scanning the area for anyone who might be watching. But all I noticed were a couple college students with purple hoodies walking out of a burrito joint.

  I started the engine and pulled from the curb. From the corner of my eye, I glanced over at the bookstore as I approached. The door was propped open, and the tattooed man stood leaning with one shoulder against the frame as he took a long drag from a cigarette. His eyes followed me through the haze of smoke, and he raised a finger to his brow and saluted as I passed. I kept my eyes forward and pretended not to notice, but I couldn’t ignore my heart lodged in my throat.

  I thought hard about that night nearly four years ago, when Nick was viciously killed during one of Dmitri’s human dogfights. I pulled and paraded each fighter from my memory, trying to make that connection. The only one who remotely matched was the guy who’d fought the boy right before my brother’s bout. I only vaguely remembered the boy, except that he was so young, nineteen or twenty, tall and thin, but obviously trained in martial arts.

  He’d taken down his opponent, a much larger man, at least ten years older, and certainly stronger with corded muscles that flexed beneath his heavily tattooed flesh. But was he the same man from the bookstore? I couldn’t say for sure. I’d been so nervous that night, I hadn’t paid much attention to the other fighter’s face.

  The fact it was a possibility sent me into a virtual tailspin. The connections seemed to be getting stronger, more tangible, even if they weren’t solid. I needed to discuss this latest bit with Moody. Aaron would be able to dig up employment records if the tattooed man was, in fact, Vasin’s employee. All I needed was a common thread, no matter how thin, to tie these characters together.

  Surely the FBI would want to know if the Bratva was moving in on me again. But if so, who was leading them? I didn’t know enough about the Brotherhood to discern that, but Agent Moody did. I dug my mobile out of my pocket and dialed. He picked up after the first ring.

  “Karras! I was just thinkin’ about you.”

  “Aaron, listen. I just visited that bookstore you told me about, and—”

  “Aw, Karras, come on. You can’t go around playing G-man. You’re gonna get your ass in a buttload of trouble. Leave this shit up to—”

  “I don’t have time to wait anymore! Things are heating up over here. Conner’s moved Katy into our house.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, Conner got her pregnant, and she’s not doing too well, I guess, so he asked Hannah to help out while he finishes up Winter Quarter. I don’t like it, Aaron. That’s why I went to the bookstore, to see if I could find a connection between Katy and Leo and anyone else.”

  “Well, you must’ve if you’re callin’ me.”

  “I’m not sure, but yeah, I think so. There was this guy there. He rang me up. And I think…” I sighed just contemplating the magnitude of what I was saying. “I think he was one of Dmitri’s fighters at the cages the night Nick was killed.”

  “Oh, fuck, man. No way. You serious?”

  “Yes, I am. I think you were right,” I said and paused. “Aaron…I think they’re after me again. And they’re using my bloody family to do it.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Conner

  My mom had asked me to stay with Katy on her first night at the house, but come morning, I had to get back home to keep up the charade of my busy life. I still had school, but didn’t see how I could possibly finish, not with all the shit raining down on my head. I didn’t want to flush my tuition down the drain again; I needed to see the registrar to withdraw from my classes and take a leave of absence.

  So I left early to swing by my place, grab a shower and a quick breakfast before heading over to Schmitz Hall. With my hair still dripping wet, I dressed, grabbed my wallet, and had just stuffed an energy bar in my mouth when someone pounded on my front door three times. I froze, wondering who it could be. At first, I thought it might be Nova, but what if it wasn’t? What if it was Greg? Or worse—Janek? I glanced over at the window. Maybe I could climb out onto the narrow ledge and try to escape.

  Are you insane? You’re on the third floor, for fuck’s sake!

  The hammering battered the door again, this time even harder. Then a voice…

  “Conner Maguire? Seattle Police. Open up.”

  What the fuck? The police?

  My breakfast lodged in my throat, and I couldn’t respond.

  Bang, bang, bang! “Open up! We have a warrant!”

  A warrant? For what?

  I tossed the remains of my breakfast in the sink and tried to swallow. “Just a sec,” I mumbled. With a swipe across my mouth, I approached the door, but swung back around and scanned the room, just to make sure Katy hadn’t left out anything illegal.

  Bang, bang, bang!

  “Mr. Maguire! Open the door now!”

  “Okay, okay!” I yelled then took a deep breath and cracked the door a few inches. In an instant, it was shoved wide, and two uniformed police officers stormed in with their guns drawn.

  “Down on the floor! Get down now!” they ordered.

  Before I knew it, they bowled over me and forced me, face down, to the floor where they wrestled my arms behind my back and secured my wrists with handcuffs.

  “Conner Maguire,” pronounced a voice from above, “you’re under arrest for second-degree burglary and first-degree criminal trespass.”

  I twisted my head to the side and looked over my shoulder at another guy, a detective, I assumed, in street clothes—black pants, white dress shirt with a loose tie at his neck, and a khaki trench coat. He crouched down next to me as one of the uniformed cops pressed his knee into my back.

  “You have the right to remain silent…” he said.

  I squirmed in place. “What are you talking about? What burglary?”

  “…Anything you do or say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “…You have the right
to an attorney…”

  “I don’t need a goddamn attorney. I haven’t done anything!”

  “…If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you…”

  “Stop, please! You’ve got the wrong guy. I swear, I haven’t done anything!”

  “…Do you understand the rights I’ve just read to you?”

  “This is a mistake!”

  “Do…you…understand…the rights…I have just read to you?”

  “Yes, I do, but, please, I swear—”

  “With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

  “About what? I told you—”

  The detective motioned to the other cop, who hauled me up by my wrists then forced me, face first, into the wall, where he held me tight with his arm across the back of my neck.

  “Ow, fuck, that hurts!” I screamed.

  He kicked my feet wide and ran his free hand all over my body then pushed his fingers into my front pants pocket, pulling it inside out. A sizable wad of cash fell to the floor, along with a small, clear plastic zip bag containing a tiny black ball the size of a pencil eraser.

  Jesus Christ!

  The detective snapped on a pair of latex gloves then picked up both the money and the baggie. “Well, well, well, what do we have here?” he said as he held them up for all to see.

  My whole body started to quiver, and I shook my head. “No way, man. Those aren’t mine, I swear! I don’t know how they got there.”

  “I think we have additional charges to add to the burglary.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “What burglary?”

  “Last night…at Rush Hour.”

  Oh fuck! “Oh God, please. I just work there. I didn’t steal anything.”

  He raised both brows, his mouth turned down in disbelief. “Videotape provided by the owner says otherwise. Doesn’t it, Jack?” he said, and the cop with his arm at my neck and his mouth at my ear nodded. “It was your face, clear as a sunny Seattle day.”

  And with that, the uniformed cop pulled me back and hauled me toward the still open front door. I struggled against him until his partner grabbed my other arm and dragged me through the door and down the hall to the stairs.