Leverage (The Mistaken Series)

by Nancy S Thompson

  “Thank you for your assistance today, Mr. Toller,” he said. “I’m sorry about Moody. I know you were friends.”

  Ezra pressed his lips together. “Yes, we were,” he replied. “You take care of this family, Agent Sidorov. They meant a lot to Aaron.” With a solemn tap to the side of the vehicle, Ezra stepped away.

  Maks nodded then signaled the driver to proceed. He rolled up his window, sealing us into the dead-quiet of the armored SUV. Then we were off.

  “Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Conner demanded.

  Maks peered at me over the top of his sunglasses then started chatting quietly into his mobile phone as his eyes moved forward again. Our chaperones sat mute beside us. Conner pulled the back of my seat as he sat forward, his face inches from my ear.

  “You better start talking,” he warned. “No more secrets.”

  With a sigh and my eyes straight forward, I started telling Conner a limited version of my involvement with the Russian Mafia, sharing only what was pertinent and explaining that I thought his boss, Greg, and friend, Nova, were somehow involved, along with our neighbor, Roman, and God only knew who else.

  “What about Mom?” he asked. “And Katy. Are they gonna meet us?”

  I turned and stared Conner in the eye, shook my head, my lips pressed tight. “No, son. They’re not,” I admitted. “My friend, Aaron, the FBI agent? We spoke just before your hearing. He arranged for Mr. Toller and was sending a team to pick up your mum and Katy. But…” I dropped my head for a moment. “They weren’t there when Aaron’s team showed up.”

  Conner snorted. “Well…where the fuck are they? You told them to wait, right? Mom knew what was going on?”

  I nodded. “Yes, but…something must have happened. Your mum’s car and purse were still there, but there was no sign of either of them. And the house was…torn up. There was some…blood and—”

  “What?” he cried, his hand atop his head. “Where is she? What did your friend say?”

  I scrubbed both hands down my face. “Aaron is, um…he’s…he’s been…um…” I shook my head as tears gathered. I took a deep breath, and turned back to Conner. “Agent Moody is dead. He was murdered just after we last spoke.”

  Conner’s brow pulled down tight above his eyes, and his lips moved without any words coming out. He rocked his head from side to side as he looked from me to each of the agents then back again. He pressed his fingers to his forehead.

  I reached over the seatback and gently grabbed his wrist. “We’ll find them, Conner, your mum and Katy. Agent Sidorov is working on it now and—”

  “You don’t know that!” he wailed and pulled free. “You don’t know anything. None of these guys do. You don’t know if they’re dead or alive or—”

  “Yes, I do, son. They want me, and they need Hannah to get to me. They’re not going to throw away the one piece of leverage they have.”

  “Leverage?” he asked in disbelief. “Is that what we are—all we are—leverage?”

  “I’m sorry, but…to them…yes.”

  “You’re sorry?” he repeated. “You’re fucking unbelievable. That’s what you are.” He turned his head and stared out the side window. “I always knew there was something fucked up about you.” He snorted and shook his head one more time. “Now I know.”

  “Conner—”

  “Not now,” Maks ordered. “We’re getting ready to move inside.”

  I twisted in my seat and looked around. The SUV idled in a long driveway at a house at the end of a cul-de-sac. The garage door opened and the truck pulled inside, the door closing once again behind us. The engine cut and Sidorov popped his door open, as did the agents on either side of me. I was pulled from the seat and ushered into the house behind Maks. There were two more suits inside the home, both normal-sized like Maks. Sidorov approached them in a low whisper, and nods were exchanged between all six agents.

  The three linemen shuttled back out to the SUV. The garage door opened again and the vehicle reversed into the driveway as the door retreated into its closed position. I turned back into the room, my eyes scanning each of the remaining three agents.

  Maks raised an arm toward his colleagues. “Tyler, Conner, this is Agent Rick O’Day,” he said, indicating the older of the two gentlemen, a fortyish man with intense blue eyes and close-cropped hair. In stone-faced silence, Agent O’Day reached his hand out to me first, then Conner, who simply raised his casted right arm in explanation. O’Day let his hand drop back to his side.

  “And his partner, Agent William Ford,” Maks continued, presenting a fresh-faced young man, undoubtedly still in his twenties, with hair and eyes the exact same shade of brown and dressed impressively in a well-tailored black suit.

  “Call me Liam, please,” Agent Ford replied with a genuine grin and a warm handshake.

  I nodded. “I’m Ty, and this is my stepson, Conner.”

  Maks clapped his hands then rubbed them together. “All right, listen closely,” he said to me and Conner. “You two are not to leave this house until you hear from me. Agents O’Day and Ford will take the first shift with one inside and the other outside the house at all times. They’ll take care of all your needs. I hope to have your family reunited within a day or two. At that point, we’ll move you all to another location and work on a permanent solution. For now, though, just hang tight while I work on finding Hannah and Ms. Holender. No sending or receiving phone calls. In fact, both of you, give me your phones,” he ordered with his hand out.

  “No way, Maks. What if Hannah calls or whoever has her? I want to be able to negotiate directly,” I insisted.

  He shook his head. “Absolutely not. That’s our job. The agents here will hold your phones and determine if you can use them should the occasion arise. But we don’t want them turned on. That could give anyone the ability to triangulate your position. So hand them over,” he repeated with both hands out and his fingers curling in urgency.

  Conner handed his iPhone over. “It’s off,” he said, explaining he hadn’t had time to power it up after he was released then summarily picked back up by the FBI.

  I pulled my mobile out and checked it for messages. Finding nothing new, I turned it off and placed it in Sidorov’s hand. He handed both devices to Agent O’Day who deposited them into a locked briefcase. Maks motioned toward the family room.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” he urged. “This could take a while, but I’m confident we’ll get it sorted out and your women back where they belong. I’ll check in often with updates and to see how you’re doing. But if you need me, don’t hesitate to have my men call.”

  Conner huffed in disgust and plopped down onto the old sofa, his arms slung over his middle and his legs bouncing at warp speed. Maks and Agent O’Day spoke a quick word with Agent Liam then left together through the front door. I watched them between the blinds at the front window. Maks jumped into the black SUV and took off, while O’Day slid behind the wheel of a non-descript car parked in the street out front of the house.

  I peered up the narrow lane, lighted only by one dim streetlamp. I couldn’t see any other vehicles or even other homes or driveways. We seemed to be pretty isolated with the house set back into the trees and no visible neighbors or cars.

  I released the blinds back into place and started pacing around the family room. Liam had settled into a worn recliner and was channel surfing with the TV remote. Conner continued to simmer and twitch from his spot on the sofa, but grew impatient when our guard settled on an old rerun of Law and Order. He stood up and wandered into the kitchen, where he opened cabinet doors, stared into their empty abyss then slammed them shut again. The maneuver was repeated with the refrigerator and pantry.

  Finally, Conner leaned over the edge of the breakfast bar and watched me pace back and forth. Anger and resentment radiated from his burning eyes. I wanted to explain fully, to ease his fears and dampen his rage, but my head was too consumed with Hannah and wha
t she might be going through. It was all I could do to remain closed up in the FBI’s house while I knew Hannah was anything but safe. I chewed my nails until the cuticles bled, and sighed when it proved no relief. Conner started tapping his fingers against the chipped ceramic tile, his eyes sweeping back and forth, following me.

  “So…what do these people want anyway?” he asked quietly, his eye momentarily drawn to Liam, probably to make sure he couldn’t hear us.

  I glanced up at him briefly as I passed, but kept pacing. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, why use us to get to you? Why not just go to you directly?”

  I stopped and captured his intense gaze. “Like I said, leverage. If they’re anything like the people I dealt with back in San Francisco, then they think nothing of using family to get their enemies to do what they want.”

  “But what is that exactly?”

  “I. Don’t. Know,” I stressed more clearly. “I don’t really know who these people are or how they’re connected to the Bratva, if they’re even connected at all.”

  “If? Like it could possibly be anyone else.” He rounded the end of the bar and leaned back against it. “Who the fuck are you anyway? I mean, who the hell gets mixed up with Russian mobsters?”

  I told him about my father and how his testimony had set off this entire ordeal years ago. I shared some of Nick’s history and my attempts to free him from the Russians’ grip, which only culled their wrath against me. Conner nodded with each detail and seemed to simmer down, his rage waning by the slightest degree.

  “Fine, I get all that, but…you still haven’t explained how my mother got involved.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s something only your mum has the right to share.”

  He snickered. “What does that mean?”

  “Means it’s highly personal and involves your father. It’s not my place to explain.”

  I knew it was a total cop-out to fall back on that for an excuse, but it wouldn’t help either of us for him to know the full story, and I knew Hannah wouldn’t want him to know anyway. It would only serve to tear our haphazard little family further apart.

  “You’re a dick, you know that?”

  “Conner, come on—”

  “No, you don’t get off the hook that easy, because, apparently, and through no fucking fault of my own, my life, as I knew it, is over. School, my friends, my future. Gone. All of it. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Because of you. And now you won’t fully explain how my mother and I figure into it? That’s bullshit, and you know it,” he said and paused for effect. “You are a dick.”

  “Hey, cool it, son. You’ve made your own poor choices and need to take responsibility for that. I didn’t force you to drink, to get your girlfriend pregnant, or gamble with money not your own. Time to man up and stop blaming your parents for your mistakes.”

  “First off, I’m not your son and you’re not my parent. Second, I never would’ve been in the position to make those poor choices if it wasn’t for you and your fucking family.” With that, he pushed away from the counter and sauntered down the hall toward what I assumed were the bedrooms. He disappeared, and a door slammed shut behind him.

  Without tearing his eyes from the television, Agent Liam mimicked in a Ricky Ricardo accent, “Looks like you gotta lotta ‘esplainin’ to do, Lucy.” He chuckled at his own joke and glanced at me over the back of the recliner.

  “Not if I can help it,” I mumbled then resumed my slow pacing.

  CHAPTER 37

  Hannah

  Greg ordered me relocated from his den downstairs to a bedroom on the second floor. Even though it was spacious and finely appointed, it was still a prison. The doors were locked from the outside, both here and in the adjoining bathroom. I was once again held captive, far from free, though I realized it could have been far worse. I’d seen far worse.

  Four years ago, when Dmitri Chernov’s client, the sadistic Mr. Sergeyev, had purchased and locked me away, he’d done so in a filthy storage closet in Dmitri’s warehouse offices, a stained mattress on the floor and a dim light bulb swaying from a thin cord above. I shivered thinking about what had been done to me in those few hours I’d spent in that closet, what I’d submitted to, just to survive.

  I shook my head. “Stop thinking about that,” I told myself. But it was hard not to. I associated being locked up with rape and torture. Just because this room was beautiful didn’t lessen that affiliation. I paced around, corner to corner. My bare toes sank into the deep, plush area rug, but only because my shoes had been taken away, another order from Greg, to make me even more vulnerable. But if given half a chance, I’d run regardless, barefoot or not.

  To that end, I tested the tall, wood-sash windows, all three of them. Even though I twisted the locks open, they still wouldn’t budge. I stood at one, my hands pressed to the divided glass, and stared at the acres of meticulously landscaped lawn below. With a sigh, I turned back into the room and spied a brick-sized carved-marble box on the dresser. I fingered the smooth, cool stone before I hurled it at the window, closing my eyes and covering my ears in anticipation of breaking glass. But there was none, just a loud thunk as it bounced off the window pane then rolled across the thick rug. Son of a bitch!

  I half-expected, even wanted, some burly henchman to storm into my room to investigate; it might have given me the opportunity to escape. But no one came. Not even when I pounded on the door and screamed for thirty minutes straight. In frustration, I picked the marble box back up and pitched it at the vase sitting on the far nightstand. That did break, in an ear-piercing crash, and pieces of delicately painted porcelain scattered onto the floor, along with the half-dozen flowers inside.

  “Great. Now I’ll probably step on it and bleed to death. And no one will ever know!” I hollered at the top of my lungs, just to spite them, but still, no one came.

  I flung myself onto the bed, and, with my eyes squeezed tight, screamed into the mattress until I was hoarse. When I opened my eyes, I saw the scattered bouquet of peach blossoms on the floor next to the bed. I reached down and picked up one of the woody stems.

  What, at first, I thought was real, was actually artificial. I fingered the end of the plastic stem and felt a hard wire poking out, barely, but it was there. It made the stem flexible, bendable. Excited, I sat up on the bed and tried to fold it, but the plastic was too thick and stiff, so I grabbed a piece of the broken vase and carefully stripped the plastic away, exposing the wire within. Then I looped the end over itself, and violà—a makeshift key—a trick I’d learned years ago after Conner had repeatedly locked himself in his room.

  I hopped off the bed and knelt down in front of the bedroom door. Inserting the looped end into the lock, I bent the other end of the wire into a handle and turned, gently jiggling the wire as I rotated it. When the wire proved too flimsy, I doubled it up to make it more rigid. After a couple more minutes of fiddling, the wire finally turned and the knob along with it.

  With my nerves screaming, I cracked the door open and peeked through, scanning what little of the hall I could see. I turned my ear to the opening and listened for any sounds—talking, a TV, anything that might indicate someone was nearby—but there was nothing, only silence. I slid the door open and stuck my head out, peering first to one side, then the other. The coast was clear. No one was about.

  Glad now to be barefooted, I tiptoed into the hallway. The door to my room was slightly more than halfway down. There were four doors to the left and five to the right, all staggered on both sides, with white painted wainscoting set in between. With a deep breath, I slinked down the lushly carpeted hall an inch at a time, my back to the wall, fingers skipping along the wainscot as my head swung back and forth, up and down the passage. When the floor creaked beneath me, I stopped and held my breath until I was sure no one had heard it. I pressed a little faster the farther down I got, but at each open door, I halted and stole a quick glance before passing on to the next.

/>   Only one door remained, and maybe ten feet beyond that were the stairs, with elaborate, wrought-iron balusters and a glossy dark-stained wood rail. That was my route of escape. I’d been escorted up those stairs on the way up from Greg’s den. They landed in the entry foyer below, a massive hall with polished marble floors, an enormous multi-tiered crystal chandelier, and towering double doors carved from the darkest piece of wood I’d ever seen, and topped with a stately palladium window easily twelve feet wide.

  I was so close, I could taste freedom. Trouble was, that last door right before the stairs wasn’t pushed wide like the others. It was cracked open by about three inches, and I thought I heard a voice coming from within. I stepped to the same side of the hall as the last door and pressed my back to the wall as I slid ever closer, inch by inch, until I could touch the frame. I stuck my head closer and listened over the wild thrashing of my heart.

  At first, I thought I might have been mistaken, but then, there it was, a woman, anxious and crying. Though I hadn’t known her for long, I instantly recognized her voice. Katy. And she wasn’t alone either. I heard another voice hissing at her as he passed from one end of the room to the other. Pacing. Obviously angry, but under tight control.

  Dammit! This was my only way out. I had to pass this door to get to the stairs. My heart told me I couldn’t just leave knowing Katy was there and in trouble. But my head told me to run, as fast as I possibly could, no looking back. Just get the hell out. That was the smart thing to do, and I decided I would do just that, but first, I needed to see that Katy was all right. Then I’d run and get help. So I stuck my head out and leaned toward the crack in the door, taking a careful step so I could see who else was in there. When I poked my face closer and tipped my chin up, I could see Katy sitting along the foot of a king-sized bed.