by Hazel Hunter
17
NATALIE INHALED SHARPLY—and groaned. The mother of all headaches started in one temple, lanced through her head, and ended in the opposite temple. Though she suspected that opening her eyes would make it worse, she opened them anyway.
“Ow,” she whispered, as one eye reluctantly opened.
Nausea welled up in her throat. But as she sat up straighter to get ready to throw up, she tugged on her wrists. They didn’t move. She opened the other eye and found she was looking at her lap.
What was going on?
As she tugged her wrists again, she realized her ankles didn’t move either. A memory slotted into place as the wave of nausea began to fade. She’d been waiting at the elevator. There’d been two men. They’d covered her mouth. She could still smell it, whatever had been in that man’s hand, some kind of chemical.
Ignoring the pain in her head, she quickly looked around. She was in someone’s office, a place she didn’t recognize. She glanced over the side of her lap to her feet.
“Rope,” she muttered.
She could see it looped around her ankles. She wriggled her fingers behind her. They’d used rope on her wrists too—whoever they were. And whoever they were, she wasn’t waiting around to find out.
She wriggled in her seat as if she were crawling with ants. She moved everything: her arms, hands, feet, and legs. The chair bobbled but she didn’t care. In a moment, she’d use that bobbling. One of her shoes loosened. Using only the wild wriggling of her toes, she kicked it off. The ropes tied to the legs of the chair had begun to slide down. She bounced and twisted, keeping them moving, until the shoeless foot had enough slack. She picked up that knee, pointed her toe, and tugged that one foot free. Now it was just a matter of time—for an escape artist.
With a wild pitch of her hips left and right, she sent the chair tipping over. With a grunt, she landed on her side. She kicked with both feet against the slackening ropes. Without the ground to interfere, she pushed the ropes off the bottom of the chair’s legs. When she did that, the ropes on her arms went slack. She twisted her wrists, her arms flexing behind her, bending at impossible angles. Though her shoulder was close to dislocating, the ropes at her wrists loosened. She compressed her hand and fingers, elongating them as she pulled them through the small openings of the knots. One hand was free.
Hurriedly she brushed the loose ropes away, twisted on the ground and saw the knots that still held the one hand. She bent to it and using teeth and fingers, she quickly untied them. Quickly she sat up, scooted away from the chair and stood. If she’d had a stopwatch, it would have been her best time.
But there was no time to celebrate. There were footsteps outside. Frantically, she searched the room for any place to hide, but there was nowhere. The footsteps were getting closer. She grabbed the toppled chair and ran to the door. As it opened, she pivoted to keep herself behind it. A man rushed in and stooped to pick up the ropes.
• • • • •
Matteo leaned over the guard to peer at the monitor. He pointed, putting his finger on the screen.
“There!” he said.
Conleth crowded in behind him, on his right. Naldo stood at his left. The guard had already started sorting through the footage of the basement for the police, but abandoned that as soon as Matteo told him to bring up the lobby. All three of them stared at the black and white video.
The security camera in the lobby had picked her up just as she’d said good-bye to Conleth. As she rounded the corner to the elevators, the camera above the west doors had taken over. They watched as she pushed the elevator button.
“So she did go to change,” Conleth whispered. “But–”
Suddenly two men rushed from the elevator, picked her up, and dashed into the stairway. It happened in a heartbeat.
The seated security guard jumped in his seat.
“Good god!” Conleth exclaimed.
“Is there a camera in the stairwell?” Matteo asked.
“No,” Naldo said. “I don’t think so.”
The monitor operator nodded, scanning the various views. “Nothing in the stairwell.”
“Replay that,” Matteo said. “Can you slow it down?”
The operator nodded and, as they all watched, two blurry forms smeared across the screen.
“They had their heads down,” Naldo said.
“Anything slower?” Matteo asked.
“No,” Naldo said, shaking his head. “High res takes too much space.”
“Wait,” said the guard typing. He grabbed the mouse at his station and gave it a few quick clicks. “The elevators have cameras, in case of emergencies.”
Another window appeared on his computer screen. “It’s elevator two for the west wing,” he said, more to himself as the video started.
“That’s them,” Naldo said.
Filmed from above, two muscular men in Hawaiian shirts got into the elevator together. Their longish hair hid their features—but not their tattoos.
“Freeze it,” Matteo said.
They all leaned close.
Both of the men had dark tattoos on their hands. Was that a skull with a dagger through it?
“What does that say?” Conleth said. “I can’t read it.”
The other man had tattoos on his fingers, one letter each.
Matteo’s insides went cold. “You will not be able to read it,” he said. “Not unless you read Cyrillic.”
“Cyrillic?” Conleth said.
“Russian,” Naldo muttered. He exchanged a look with Matteo.
It was Slokavich. Matteo was sure of it. All the old poisons were bubbling up from the mud. First Detective Heller, and now this.
“Fine,” Matteo said, executing a quick one-eighty. He pushed past Naldo and Conleth.
“Where are you–” Conleth said.
“You can’t just–” Naldo said at the same time.
Matteo paused at the door. “I can,” he said loudly. “And I will.”
18
GRIPPING THE CHAIR, Natalie clenched her teeth and held her breath as she stared at her captor’s back. In her life, she’d never so much as hurt a fly. But her mounting fear and the lingering headache finally made up her mind. Before the man could turn, she raised the chair over her head and brought it down as hard as she could.
It smashed into the back of his head and shoulders. But the impact jarred it from her hands. As it fell to the floor, the man began to get up from his crouch. But then, for what seemed like an eternity, he wobbled and then finally fell. Natalie cautiously looked around the door—and exhaled a huge sigh of relief. No one was there.
She shut the door, almost slamming it, and then turned her attention to the ropes. With the same speed she’d used to escape, she tied up her visitor. Only when she was sure he couldn’t move, did she roll him to his side. She needed to see his face. Early on she’d learned that her Wiccan ability to change into other people wasn’t just a matter of touch. It was like looking in a mirror. She tilted her head, put a hand to the side of his face, and her transformation began.
Molecules slipped against molecules. The elemental structure of her body morphed. The world around her faded for a moment, then snapped back into focus—or nearly. The man was nearsighted, and now so was she. But there was no time to search him for glasses.
She crept to the door and pressed her ear to it. There was no sound except her pounding heart. Silently she turned the knob and opened the door just a fraction. The sliver of hallway that she could see was empty. Though she had no idea where that hallway led, she had to go. The transformation wouldn’t last forever.
She stood up straight, imagining this was her office, and she was just stepping out for a bit. With one long step she exited, and let the door close behind her. She was at the end of a dim hallway. The way out had to lay straight ahead. As she strode in that direction, she passed several doors, though none looked like exits. But oddly the place smelled of perfume—lots of it.
Where in the hell was s
he?
A man appeared up ahead, and Natalie’s heart rate jumped up a notch. He was looking right at her.
Why? Had she not got the look exactly right?
The other man was coming to a stop. “Is she ready?”
Though every instinct told her to run, Natalie made herself stop. What was that accent of his? Russian? Could she fake one? Probably not. Her best bet was to keep it short.
She nodded to him. “Ready,” she said, trying to say it exactly as he had. The low, gruff sound of her voice startled her.
The man smiled, and a gold eyetooth glinted. As she suppressed a shudder, he showed her something, holding it up between them. It looked like a piece of metal in the low light. What was she supposed to do, take it? But before she could reach for it, the man pressed a hidden button. A long, slim blade popped up from its top.
“Good,” he said, grinning. “Let’s see.”
As he headed toward the closed office door, Natalie headed in the opposite direction. Her new heavy body took some force to get moving. Her plodding footsteps were slow.
“Hey!” said the man with the switchblade. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She was going to get as far away from him as she could. Why she’d been abducted and why they wanted to hurt her, she had no idea. The only thing she knew was she needed to escape. Though she wanted to wipe sweat from her brow, she kept her hands at her sides. The transformation would only last another few minutes. She had to keep moving.
“Toilet,” she said, trying to clip the word like he did.
“Now?”
Natalie nodded and held her stomach, not sure if he could see that. The end of the hallway was only a few feet away—except she didn’t know which way to go. She would just have to pick.
“Alexi!” yelled the man with the gold tooth.
Natalie turned left and ran. In moments she barreled headlong into some sort of fabric. She shoved it out of her face. As she pushed through, she ran into a chair, knocking it into a table. It was some sort of restaurant. Where was the front door?
“Alexi!”
“What’s going on?” said another voice.
She was breathing hard now, but not from the run. The transformation could only last another couple minutes. She didn’t just have to escape, she had to be out of sight. Maybe she really ought to find a bathroom. She glanced left and right, but didn’t see one. She dashed between the bar and empty tables. Up ahead there was a host station—and the waiting area and front door beyond. She was almost there.
Suddenly the door burst open and Matteo charged in.
• • • • •
With a great whoosh of air behind him, Matteo came to a stop in the dark interior. Down alleys, through deserted strip lots, but mostly along the train track, Matteo had managed the trip to downtown in only minutes.
As his eyes adjusted, a man in front of him yelled, “Matteo!”
Though Matteo didn’t recognize him. It didn’t matter. He grabbed the guy by the front of his Hawaiian shirt, hauled him to the nearest wall, and pushed him up against it.
“Where is she?” he demanded. He shook the man. “Where is Natalia Trucco?”
“Matteo,” he said. “It’s me! It’s Natalie!”
From somewhere in the strip club someone shouted, “Alexi!”
“Where is he?” yelled someone else.
“I have to transform,” the man in front of Matteo said.
Matteo could feel it now, that sense of another immortal. “Natalia?” he said.
“Yes,” the man breathed. “I can’t hold this.”
There were heavy footsteps somewhere behind him. “Get behind me,” Matteo said, and spun toward the club.
Slokavich and Pyotr had just cleared the tables, but came to an abrupt stop.
“Monti,” Slokavich growled, his upper lip curling.
“Slokavich,” Matteo answered.
“How did she get loose?” Pyotr asked.
Matteo kept his eyes on Slokavich, but both the Russians were looking past him.
“Natalia,” Matteo said without looking at her. “Wait outside.”
He heard the door open as a slice of sunlight cut across the floor. Then it closed.
“I told you,” Pyotr said to Slokavich.
“Shut up!” Slokavich retorted. Like Matteo, he never took his eyes from his opponent. He raised his hand to show him a switchblade. “I’ll get to your bitch. Never worry. But you first.”
“How’s your brother?” Matteo asked. “What was his name?”
Though his opponent might be good with a blade, probably trained in vicious prison duels, he was no match for Matteo. Centuries before the man had been born, Matteo had perfected the art. Though Slokavich didn’t know it, he’d already lost. His red face, bulging eyes, and trembling chin said so.
“Ilya is rotting,” Slokavich said, his jaw unmoving, his knuckles white around the haft of the knife.
Of course Matteo had already known that.
Nine years ago, Matteo had been the key witness that Sergeant Mike Heller had used to put Ilya Slokavich away. In exchange for Matteo’s testimony, the then junior investigator had looked the other way in the Trucco matter. It had violated every rule of the Magus Corps to get involved with mortal matters, particularly a criminal investigation, but it had assured Natalia wasn’t arrested or held for questioning.
“Not much borscht in the prison commissary,” Matteo said, smiling.
“You piece of shit,” Slokavich hissed, and lunged.
The man was wildly off-balance. Matteo feinted a slow sideways dodge, only to dart forward. His hands clamped down around Slokavich’s. With a wicked twist and downward thrust, he broke the man’s wrist. In his peripheral vision, Pyotr hadn’t moved. Though Matteo had been ready to use Slokavich’s body to catch a bullet, there was no need.
Just as Slokavich cried out, Matteo elbowed him in the face. His head snapped back, his brief wail cut off. When Matteo let him go, the Russian collapsed to the floor in an awkward, unmoving heap. Matteo stood back, keeping Pyotr in view, particularly his hands.
“Don’t come for her again,” Matteo said to him, and glanced down at the unconscious Russian. “Next time I won’t be so nice.”
A strange smirk twisted Pyotr’s lips. His eyes shifted left and right, before finally settling on Slokavich. Then he seemed to relax, standing a little taller.
“There won’t be a next time,” he said.
19
“CLIP IT,” HELLER said.
Sergeant McVoy nodded to the patrolman with the bolt cutters. “Go ahead.”
The officer positioned the giant pincers just above the lock itself, and snipped. It cut through the U-bolt like wet clay. Then he repositioned it and clipped the other side. The body of the lock hit the pavement with a thud.
“Open it,” Heller ordered.
In his pocket was the search warrant. The owner of the storage facility had hardly glanced at it—just drawn a line on a map to the unit. The RV was parked elsewhere on the lot. If they found enough evidence in the storage unit, they’d have enough cause to search the trailer too.
The patrolman lifted the metal door on the large unit.
“Whoa,” Sergeant McVoy muttered.
The unit was filled with wooden crates. Stacked floor to ceiling, few if any were the same size. Fresh pine boxes were mixed in with older crates made of darker, thicker planks. Although some had shipping stickers, most appeared unlabeled. There wasn’t a single plastic tote or cardboard box to be seen. Nor was there any debris. If this storage unit reminded Heller of anything, it was a weapons depot in the field.
The patrolman wandered in. He peered down at a particularly long box. Something was stenciled on the top.
“China Lake Naval Weapons Center,” he read. He gazed up at the sergeant.
“Open it,” McVoy said.
The officer put down the bolt cutter and tried to lift the cover. He shook his head. “I need a crowbar.”
/> McVoy jerked his thumb at the SUV.
As the patrolman fetched the tool, Heller took a look around. Though he knew Matteo’s associate had a penchant for unusual firearms and explosives, he hadn’t quite imagined this. A contact at the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives had tipped him off months ago. But he’d sat on the lead, waiting for a moment when he might need it—a moment just like this.
The patrolman came back with the crowbar and quickly had the lid off the long box. He slid it off to the side, only to reveal a long, olive drab, metal case. He popped the butterfly latches on the sides, and opened it.
The officer stood back, staring at it. “Bazookas?”
“No,” Heller said, stepping past him. He picked up one of the tubes by the pistol grip underneath. “Shoulder held rocket launcher.”
“Jesus,” the officer muttered. He looked around the unit. “Jesus.”
Heller put the launcher back in the case. “Okay, McVoy,” he said. “Let’s get the paperwork started. I want an arrest warrant.”
McCoy flipped a few sheets of paper on the clipboard. “Rinaldo Santorini at the–”
“No,” Heller said. “This unit is rented by the Hotel Paradiso. Issue the warrant for Matteo Monti.”
20
MATTEO NEARLY RAN into Natalia as he burst out the front door. Still wearing the dress and fur coat from last night, she stood close to the building, hugging herself. But as soon as she saw him, she rushed into his arms.
He hugged her tight, his heart pounding in his chest, and adrenalin still coursing through him. “Did they hurt you?”
If the answer was yes, he would make sure Slokavich never got up again.
He felt her shake her head no.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded.
The knots in his shoulders unwound a fraction.
“Let me see you,” he said, giving her a little room. He took her face between his hands and tilted it up to him. Tears streaked her face. “Amore mio,” he whispered, his throat suddenly tight. “You are safe now.”