by Mary Stone
But the detective had called him Misha. His cover still hadn’t been blown.
He needed to act the part of a Russian gangster, and Russian gangsters didn’t willingly follow cops’ orders.
With a scowl, Drew spat on the dusty concrete. Misha Pelevin didn’t have time for this shit. “What do you want, pig?”
“I told you.” The man’s voice was as calm as the eye of a hurricane, and just as ominous. “I want you to come with me, Mr. Pelevin. We can do this the easy way, or…” He waved the Glock to finish the threat.
“Or you’ll shoot me?” Drew’s expression of distaste intensified, and the effort wasn’t entirely feigned.
Between all the organized criminal empires that called Baltimore home, Drew wouldn’t be surprised if half the city’s police force was dirty. If he was a betting man, he would bet that this man’s loyalty didn’t lie with the city of Baltimore, or even the state of Maryland.
His loyalty was tied to the number in his bank account. Nothing less, and nothing more.
But the question remained. Who had sent him? The Italians? The Armenians? The Irish? The Russians weren’t at a loss for adversaries. Still, none of them would be ballsy enough to go after a Russian foot soldier on their home turf. And the dive bar at the detective’s back was deep in Russian territory.
“Don’t test me, Mr. Pelevin,” the detective hissed, his eyes narrowed.
“Fuck,” Drew muttered under his breath.
Call it a hunch, call it rapid cognition, call it instinct. It didn’t matter. Drew knew the black-clad detective wasn’t bluffing.
As he closed the distance, Drew studied the man’s features. If he made it out of this alive, Detective Smith would be at the top of his shit list.
They were close to the same six-one height. As the detective pocketed his badge, he shifted the Glock to his other hand. Either he was left-handed, or he was right-handed, and he used his left hand to shoot. Both hands were gloved, and beneath the black peacoat, the man was clad in a suit.
His eyes, a pale shade of blue, followed each of Drew’s tentative movements with the expertise instilled by years of training in a dangerous environment. Either he was far older than his youthful appearance suggested, or he had seen combat before he joined the Baltimore police.
Once Drew was within arm’s length, the detective took a gruff hold on his shoulder and shoved him toward the nondescript sedan. The man jammed the barrel of the nine-mil against the base of Drew’s neck, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the motion would leave a bruise.
Though the detective was silent as he patted down one side of Drew’s coat and then the other, his breathing was heavy. If Drew hadn’t been so certain the good detective was trigger happy, he would have fought back.
He wanted to fight back.
Every instinct instilled in him throughout his FBI career told him to fight back. He could take the man by surprise. Could smash his elbow into his nose before he even knew what the hell had happened.
But that was all provided his index finger didn’t twitch backward against the trigger of that Glock.
Dirty cops were nothing if not paranoid, and paranoia often translated to a jumpy demeanor.
The man relieved him of the hunting knife and a smartphone, but he missed the prepaid fossil Drew had tucked into a secret pocket of his boot.
Then again, if Drew’s cover hadn’t been blown and the detective thought he was part of the Russian mob, the man wouldn’t be worried about an emergency phone call.
Russian gangsters didn’t call the police for help. If the Bratva had decided their fate, they accepted it. With the exception of a few—such as the RICO witness—the Russians were loyal to a fault.
After he shoved Drew into the backseat of the unmarked cruiser, the detective took his seat and brought the engine to life.
From now until they arrived at their destination was Drew’s only shot. If he wanted a way out, he had to search for it now.
He let out an irritable grunt as he shifted in place. In the fleeting moments of movement, Drew reached into his boot for the prepaid phone.
Meanwhile, the driver was as silent as an executioner.
Drew made no effort to calm his racing heartbeat. The adrenaline that coursed through his bloodstream was more than warranted.
That was the tricky part about adrenaline.
Popular media, like films and television, made adrenaline out to be a savior when someone was thrust into a life-or-death situation, but the portrayal couldn’t be farther from the truth. Adrenaline had its share of perks where survival was concerned, but it had to be controlled to glean any semblance of benefit. Otherwise, a person fighting for their life was merely left with trembling hands and sweaty palms.
But after more than fifteen years in the FBI, Drew knew adrenaline. He knew how to steady his hands. How to keep his racing thoughts in check.
As he made a show of shifting in his seat again, Drew glanced down to the archaic device. If he didn’t want Detective Smith to catch on to his plan, he had to mute the speaker. Aside from the drone of the road, there was no other sound to mask the tinny voice of a 911 operator.
The seconds of silence ticked away as the orange glow of the streetlights came and went.
Once Drew was satisfied he’d located the correct buttons, he returned his attention to the stone-faced man in the driver’s seat.
“Where are we going, copper?” His voice was little more than a growl.
The man let out a derisive snort. “You’ve been sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, Mr. Pelevin. Some of your colleagues have taken issue with your snooping.”
First, the phone button.
“Colleagues?” Drew all but spat the word. “Are we in an office, Detective?”
Then the mute button.
Detective Smith’s eerie blue eyes snapped up to the rearview mirror, but he didn’t respond.
“O’Donnell Street.” Drew made a show of glancing out the window. As they drove past a cemetery, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
Ahead loomed the shadowy figures of two impressive cement columns. Like a pair of sentinels, they bore the weight of the overpass above. “And that must be I-95.”
More silence.
He didn’t care. He couldn’t hear the 911 operator, but he knew they could hear him. And now, they knew where he was.
As he tucked the phone back into his pocket, he left the call connected. The sounds would be muffled, but his location could be traced, and the 911 recording would catch at least part of the dialogue that was about to be exchanged.
Catch it for what? To play at the trial of his murder?
The sting of bile returned to his throat. The rhythm of his heart was frantic as it hammered against his chest.
This was it.
This was the end of the road, literally and figuratively. As the car lurched to a stop, he thought he might throw up.
No.
Russian gangsters didn’t vomit all over themselves when they were brought in front of their commanders. And if Drew had a prayer’s chance of making it out of this meeting alive, he had to convince them that he was one of their own. Russians held their tongue, and they took their admonishment, no matter the form.
But Drew wasn’t a Russian gangster.
He was an undercover federal agent. He was a father. He was a husband. He was a friend.
At ten at night, he was sure Amelia had already fallen asleep. Bob the cat was curled around their daughter’s head.
If she was roused from sleep by a nightmare, Emma could roll over and reach for Bob. Bob wouldn’t let anything happen to Emma, or to Amelia.
“Hold down the fort,” he’d said to Bob before he left home that morning. Amelia’s gold-flecked eyes had lit up at the remark, and her lips parted in a wide smile. Seated at her side, Emma followed her mother’s lead and offered Drew a grin.
One way or another, Amelia and Emma’s smiles would be the last thing he saw before he died.<
br />
Detective Smith flung open the rear driver’s side door and snapped Drew from the spell of reverie. The matte black Glock was leveled at his head again.
“Out,” Smith commanded.
Without responding, Drew slid to the edge of the seat and swung his legs out of the car, glaring at the man the entire time. Two more men waited in front of another sedan, each with their arms crossed over their chest.
When his eyes met those of the shorter man, Drew’s mouth was suddenly devoid of moisture.
He didn’t recognize the taller of the pair, but he knew this man.
“Sergei Kolesov,” he managed. “What the fuck, Sergei? They sent you here to kill me?”
Detective Smith jabbed Drew forward one more time before he stepped aside.
As he set his mouth in a hard line, Sergei shook his head.
“Not kill you.” Sergei spoke the words in Russian, a language in which Drew had become fluent thanks to his mother.
Holding both arms out to his sides, Drew chuckled. The sound was mirthless and dry. “Then what? Am I getting a promotion?”
Drew kept his expression blank, but in truth, a twinge of hope had started to blossom in the back of his mind. If they hadn’t planned to put a bullet in his skull, then all he had to do was hang on until the cavalry arrived.
Sergei’s gray eyes flicked to his superior—a Russian enforcer and one of the most intimidating human beings Drew had ever had the displeasure to meet.
The taller man clucked his tongue as he shook his head. “You’ve been nosy lately, Misha. Sticking your nose in places it doesn’t belong. You’re here because you’ve made a bad habit, and we intend to break you of it.”
In one swift motion, Sergei arced his arm behind his head and stepped forward.
The man’s movements were a blur. Even if he’d anticipated the sudden right hook, Drew wasn’t sure he would have been able to avoid the blow.
With a blinding explosion of pain and a wet crack, the Russian henchman’s knuckles smashed into the center of Drew’s face.
He felt himself fall backward as darkness rushed up to greet him.
Amelia’s golden eyes seemed to sparkle as her lips parted in a wide smile.
I could hardly believe what I’d just witnessed. That idiot Sergei had landed a heavy blow just above Misha’s nose.
As soon as I spotted the whites of Misha’s eyes as his lids fluttered closed, I knew Sergei had fucked up.
The thump of the Russian’s knuckles paled in comparison to the sickening crack of Misha’s skull smashing into the edge of a jagged rock. The glare of the streetlights glinted off the droplets of blood that spattered the concrete, and I knew.
The stone had rolled down from the sloping incline that led up to the interstate overpass. There were many more scattered around the edge of the asphalt, but Sergei hadn’t bothered to consider the implications.
Sergei’s gray eyes flicked from Misha’s still form to his boss and then, finally, to me.
“What the hell are you looking at me for?” I threw every ounce of vitriol I could manage into the question. “Check his pulse!”
I already knew it. It was just my luck when I had to deal with these sons of bitches.
They’d fucking killed him.
“You heard him, Sergei.” The enforcer’s voice was barely more than a growl. Alek, or at least that’s what the man called himself. I didn’t know his real name, and I didn’t want to.
Even from the distance, I could see the tremble in Sergei’s hand as he reached down to Misha’s neck.
“Chyort voz’mi!” Sergei stammered. “Shit! He’s dead!”
I found it exceedingly difficult not to reach for my gun.
Now, instead of the beating intended to warn Misha to stop prying, Sergei had killed the man. And now, instead of letting the Russians load their beat-up compatriot into their car to cart him off to only god knew where, I had to help these assholes clean up a crime scene.
Just as I opened my mouth to bark a series of orders at the moron, I heard it. The sound was distant, but it grew nearer with each passing second.
Alek’s eyes widened in surprise. “Shit,” he spat. “We need to leave. Now.”
I had no idea how the police had caught on to our location, had no idea why they’d even give a shit, but I’d figure it out from somewhere else.
It was time to go.
“So much for an easy cleanup,” I muttered to myself.
Nothing with the Russians was ever easy.
17
Even though she’d received the news the night before, Bree hardly heard Max’s voice as he went through the most recent updates for their investigation.
Officers had found Drew Hansford’s body after a bizarre 911 call led them to the underside of an I-95 overpass.
The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the back of the head, but what was less clear was why.
Agents in the Baltimore office would soon have access to the audio of Drew’s call to the city’s emergency services, but for right now, they were all in the dark. Though Bree’s first inclination was to believe that Drew’s cover had been blown, she wasn’t entirely convinced.
The fact that Drew had been killed as he looked into Eric Dalton’s involvement with the Russians was no coincidence.
“Agent Stafford.” The familiar, gravelly voice cut through the fog that swirled in her thoughts.
She snapped her vacant stare away from the whiteboard to meet Max’s gaze. “Sir?”
“I know that you and Agent Hansford were good friends.”
Bree swallowed, and emotion threatened to burn her face, but she managed a nod.
“I’m sorry, Agent Stafford, but I can’t assign you to this case. You’re still on the Eric Dalton case, but I’m sending Agent Black and Agent Dalton to help the Baltimore office with Agent Hansford’s murder.” Though his visage was steely as it always was, there was a pang of sympathy behind his gray eyes.
“Understood.” The word wasn’t much more than a whisper.
If she was honest with herself, she didn’t think she would have been fit to investigate Drew’s murder even if she had been given the green light. As soon as she found whichever Russian prick was responsible for her friend’s death, she would wrap her hands around their throat, and she wouldn’t let go until the life drained from their eyes.
All of this was for what? To save Eric Dalton’s hide?
The taste in her mouth turned bitter as she thought of Noah’s biological father.
What in the hell had he done?
His desperation to save his wife from being confined to a wheelchair had cost a good man his life. Eric’s idiotic decision had killed a woman’s husband and a child’s father.
Unbidden, she pictured the warm smile on Drew’s face as he regaled her with stories of his daughter with his wife’s cat.
Bob. The cat’s name was Bob. Bob was orange and white, and Emma Hansford looked like a tiny clone of her mother. Drew had sworn that the only attribute she’d inherited from him was the color of her eyes.
And now, that poor girl and her mother had been robbed of the source of so much of their joy. Because of one man’s stupidity and naivety, Emma and Amelia would never see Drew again.
Bree was still shrouded by a haze of disbelief as she stood to excuse herself to the ladies’ room. She double-checked to ensure she was the only occupant before she stepped into the farthest stall.
The flurry of her emotions oscillated between ire and sadness. Between blind rage and a crushing melancholy.
She didn’t know which she should give priority.
If she let the sadness take over, she would curl into a blubbering mess on the floor of the women’s bathroom. But if she gave in to the rage, she would be liable to join Augusto Lopez in prison before the end of the month.
After the murder of his daughter and the loss of his wife to suicide, Augusto had dedicated his life to tracking down the scum of the earth. Between his elite military trai
ning and his knowledge of crime scene forensics, the man had almost eluded capture entirely. Not long before his capture, news reporters had given him the moniker “The Norfolk Executioner.”
Because Augusto was judge, jury, and executioner.
This was how he had gotten his start.
The noxious combination of festering rage had overtaken his despondence and driven him on a bloody path to vengeance. She didn’t know if he had found his solace, if he had purged the demon of anger from his heart.
In that moment, she understood.
He had arguably lost more than Bree could even comprehend. In the span of a year, his entire life had been yanked out from beneath him.
All he was left with was a searing rage he could only quench with blood.
Even though the thought gave her a grim sense of satisfaction, Bree wouldn’t follow in Augusto’s footsteps.
She still had her life. She still had her brother, her parents, her fiancée, her friends. She wouldn’t let them down just for the fleeting rush of consummation that would accompany wiping Drew’s killer off the face of the planet.
But in the dark recesses of her mind, she knew she was no better than the man the media had dubbed The Norfolk Executioner.
The only difference was that she had a badge.
And unless the Russians had discovered that Drew was an undercover federal agent, his death made Eric Dalton’s story even less believable.
If—and she knew how significant that caveat was—he had been killed by the Russians because he had asked too many questions about Eric Dalton, then she could safely say there was a large portion of Eric’s tale that was either missing or was altogether false.
The Russians wouldn’t have smashed one of their people’s heads into a rock beneath an interstate overpass just for a handful of inquiries into a new money laundering arrangement. They were a ruthless group, but they didn’t kill their own unless they had a damn good reason.
In fact, the lack of information about Kelly Dalton’s business as a front to clean dirty money was bizarre all by itself.