[Magic Sisters 05] - Safe Harbor

by Christine Feehan

  "I guess I have to get it over with." But instead of going into the living room, he wrapped his arms around Hannah and held her against him, his hands sliding down her jeans to cup her bottom and bring her tight against him. "Thank you."

  "I love you, Jonas."

  "Thank you for not telling me what an ass I am for tearing up the kitchen. Sometimes I have so much anger in me," he confessed in a whisper against her ear, "so much rage, it scares the hell out of me."

  She pressed her mouth to his throat, remembering very vividly the day, long ago, he had come into their house so angry he couldn't stand still. Waves of grief poured off him and mixed with impotent rage. He'd torn up the kitchen then, too. Her mother had taken Libby and had gone to do what they could to ease Jeanette Harrington's suffering. Mrs. Drake had never chastised Jonas, but she had handed him a broom.

  "It doesn't scare me, Jonas," Hannah said. She kissed him again. "But after we're married, if you break my dishes, be prepared to clean up the mess and then go out and get me new ones immediately." She reached back, tugged at his hand until she had possession of it and brought his injured knuckles once more to her mouth. "Let's go. I can feel how worried the others are about you."

  The moment they entered the living room, he was swarmed by Hannah's sisters—his sisters. They crowded around him, their hands soothing, bringing peace, healing his knuckles—healing his soul. Sending him waves of love and support. He went from wanting to viciously beat something with his bare hands, to being choked up. The Drake sisters. His family. Hannah. The love of his life. Who could be luckier?

  "Are you all right?" Sarah asked gently.

  He nodded, wanting to ease the concern on their faces. "I lost it there for a minute." He glanced back toward the kitchen. "I made a mess, Sarah, I'm sorry."

  "Tell us what's upset you."

  "Boris Tarasov went after Hannah to draw me out. I'm the real target. He'll try to kill her because she matters to me. He might try to kill all of you."

  Joley frowned. "I don't understand. Why would a Russian mobster want to kill you? That doesn't make any sense, Jonas."

  "Duncan Gray is my old boss and he asked me to do a little job for him, nothing dangerous, or at least I didn't think it would be, but we caught Petr Tarasov on tape murdering an undercover agent."

  Ilya Prakenskii made a small noise at the back of his throat. There was silence, as if by that one small sound, everyone instantly understood the chilling repercussions.

  "I was shot in the ensuing battle and went to a clinic. I had a picture of Hannah and me, one I always carried with me. Tarasov's crew must have found the picture, and in order to bring me out into the open, they attacked Hannah using an innocent family to do so. My guess is, we'll find that the mother has ties to Russia and that's how he chose her. She would know his reputation and believe absolutely that he would kill her daughter if they didn't do what he said."

  Joley's hand moved defensively to her throat. "Is that true, Ilya? Would someone be so convinced they'd kill another human being?"

  Ilya stroked a caress down her hair, a gesture of comfort. "Unfortunately men like this exist, Joley, very evil, and yes, those who know of him would do whatever they could to spare their loved ones the brutality of his chosen executions."

  "Then you have to stop him, Jonas," Sarah said. "We all do."

  "Do you know where this man is?" Joley asked Prakenskii.

  Rare expression rippled across Prakenskii's face. "Joley, these people…"

  "Want to kill my sister, Jonas and possibly us. Do you know where they are?"

  He pushed away from the wall. "I'll take care of it."

  Jonas shook his head. "This is my fight, Prakenskii. He did this to my woman, not yours. Where is he?"

  Prakenskii swore in Russian. "You cannot arrest such a man, Harrington."

  Jonas lifted an eyebrow and remained silent.

  Prakenskii swore again. "He's on a yacht with several of his crew."

  Jonas nodded. "We'll need Duncan to get the necessary warrant to board. We'll have to strike fast before he has a chance to launch another attack. Can you girls give us the weather we'll need and help from here?"

  "Of course, Jonas, tell us what you need," Hannah said. Prakenskii shook his head and walked out. Jackson hesitated a moment and then followed.

  THE Drake sisters may have overdone the fog, Jonas decided as he approached the boat where Duncan's grim-faced men waited.

  "These people play for keeps, Jonas," Jackson warned softly. "If you leave Tarasov alive, he'll keep coming at you—even from jail."

  "I heard Prakenskii, same as you," Jonas snapped. "Where the hell is he, anyway? You'd think he'd want in on this."

  "He didn't show, but then, with Duncan Gray running the operation, I can't blame him too much." Jackson flashed a small grin. "Gray thinks Prakenskii's both a spy as well as the world's best hit man." The smile faded. "You know Duncan's going to want to take Boris into custody. It would be the biggest international arrest of the decade. It isn't going to matter that Boris is after you and your family. We have to get to him first."

  "I know." Jonas leaned down to examine his gun for the hundredth time to avoid looking at Jackson.

  "I'll take him out, Jonas," Jackson said.

  Jonas shook his head. "It's my responsibility, Jackson, I'm not laying it on you."

  Jackson didn't bother replying. He'd already had a long conversation with Prakenskii—well, as long a conversation as two men like Ilya Prakenskii and Jackson Deveau needed when protecting a friend. Jonas had the courage to charge hell with a bucket of water, and he never walked away from a fight or a fallen comrade, but he didn't have the makeup for the kind of extermination job they needed to do. Jonas had been raised to revere life, in the same way the Drakes had been raised, and had far too much compassion in him to live comfortably with what needed to be done. He'd do the job, but it would haunt him. Jackson wasn't going to let that happen.

  "The girls will be waiting in case we need them. Already they've got the fog thick and still, so we'll have plenty of cover going in," Jonas said. He stepped aside to allow Jackson to enter the boat with Gray and the rest of his team.

  Gray barely looked up from studying the yacht's layout for the millionth time. "Our information says Tarasov's got fifteen men aboard the yacht and no civilians. All of his men are armed and will cut you down without thought. These four are the most dangerous. Don't get close to them for any reason. Don't try to cuff them. Don't try to disarm them. They know more ways to kill a man than you could possibly imagine. Contain them and wait for my team to apprehend. This is our target." Gray passed around photographs.

  Jonas found himself staring at Boris Tarasov. The man was short and stocky, with a shock of gray hair and bushy eyebrows. He had heavy features and mean, bullish eyes. The second picture was of the captain. He was taller with an athletic build, a very handsome man.

  "That's Karl Tarasov, Petr's son. He's been the number one hit man for his family for years. He's ruthless and bloody and doesn't mind killing women and children," Gray continued. "No one has ever come up against him and lived. He'll do anything to protect his uncle."

  "If we don't arrest them, Jonas, you and the Drakes are never going to be safe."

  That was a blatant lie and it twisted Jonas's gut into knots. Gray knew as long as any of the Tarasovs were alive, Hannah would never be safe. Never. And that meant they had no choice but to see to it that each of them were executed. He sighed and rubbed his temples where the beginning of a headache was throbbing. He thought he was long out of that business.

  "How do they let someone like that into the country?" Jonas asked, disgusted.

  "We didn't know he was anywhere near the area," Gray said, "not until you brought us the information about the yacht. Our last information was that he left the country after Petr was arrested. You're absolutely certain of your informant?"

  Jonas wasn't going to give up Ilya Prakenskii, not to Gray. Duncan was ambitious, an
d if he arrested Prakenskii or Tarasov or even Nikitin, his political career would be made.

  Whatever Prakenskii was, he'd saved Hannah's life and Jonas wouldn't betray him. "Yeah, I'm sure."

  "The other two I'm really interested in are known for their extreme violence. Yegor and Viktor Gadiyan are brothers. Yegor was married to Boris and Petr's sister, Irina. She died some years ago, but the Gadiyan brothers continued to work for Boris."

  "Great family business."

  "It was Yegor and Viktor who tried to kill Sergei Nikitin some years ago. The other Russian families stepped in when Nikitin brought in Ilya Prakenskii as his bodyguard. I don't think any of the families wanted to chance having Prakenskii come after them."

  Jonas studiously avoided looking at Jackson. "It's funny how these men have such badass reputations, but no cop in Europe or here can pin a thing on them."

  "This cop is going to," Gray said. "We can't waste any more time. The fog being so thick is a huge asset but it can't last. We've got to move now."

  THE men were grim-faced and silent as they approached the yacht, moving through the rippling water, their boats climbing waves and slapping down with enough force to shake their teeth, yet there was absolutely no sound. Jonas knew the Drake sisters were controlling the air around them, but he wondered what Duncan's men were thinking. It was eerie to move over the choppy surface surrounded as they were by dense gray fog. Within the fog bank, darker colors swirled and moved, but the heavy mist layers were thick and still, stubbornly holding position for several miles in either direction around where the yacht lay stationary. Waves slapped the sides of the ship while men patrolled the deck, peering through the fog in an effort to see.

  It was imperative that Jonas and Jackson reach Tarasov first. If Gray did, he would do everything to keep the mobster alive. It had taken effort and a lot of persuasion to get Gray to agree to allow Jonas and Jackson to slip aboard first. Fortunately, they'd always held that position when they'd worked for Gray, so in the end, he'd agreed it was best for them to do what they knew.

  Jonas and Jackson slipped into the cold water, some distance from the yacht, pushing their waterproof gear ahead of them while they swam toward it. Jonas felt a nudge against his body as a gray shape slid soundlessly past him. His heart jumped and he whipped his head around, trying to peer through the water to see what was coming up below him. Beside him, Jackson pulled his spear gun out, but it was impossible with the combination of fog and darkness to see anything around them.

  Voices rose and fell in the fog, soft and melodious, feminine. The voices sang of dolphins, sea creatures aiding sailors. The notes danced in the mist and slid easily into their minds. Both men relaxed, and when the dolphins pushed beneath their hands, they caught hold of the offered fins and accepted the ride.

  As they neared the large bulk sitting in the water, Jackson caught Jonas by the arm and pointed at the splash of red on the side, down near the water line. The dolphin pulling Jonas suddenly abandoned him, diving deep, straight down. Jonas moved closer to examine the red smears.

  "Fresh blood, Jackson, and a lot of it."

  Jonas took a slow look around him. Waves slapped his face as the dolphin returned to the surface towing something behind him. Jonas saw the hand first, fingers outstretched and reaching up through the dark water. It seemed to come out of the fog and water, detached, a gruesome macabre sight. The knuckles had a tattoo across it, much like the one Rudy Venturi had described. Jonas reached to snag the sleeve and pulled hard. The dolphin let go, but the body seemed weighed down, too heavy to keep on the surface for more than a few moments.

  Jackson reached over to help, tugging the arm out of the water. Shoulders and chest followed, and then the face with the heavy, handsome features and the gaping wound circling his throat from ear to ear like a ghoulish smile. Karl Tarasov had died hard. His eyes were dull and glassy, his face a mask of horror. He wore the coat of a captain, and beneath it, Jonas could make out the shoulder harness with the gun still in the holster. Jackson indicated something under the body weighting it down and Jonas nodded his understanding before allowing the body to drop away, back under the sea.

  Jonas boarded first, moving as soundlessly as possible, trying to puzzle out the implications of Karl Tarasov's execution. He gained the deck and lay flat, waiting for his heart to stop pounding as he oriented himself to the surroundings. Jackson slid into position beside him and they pulled their gear from their waterproof bags and readied themselves for war. Jackson fit the radio piece into his ear and gave Gray instructions for his men. Two guards patrolled the deck. They would take them out as quietly as possible to allow Gray to get his men onboard.

  Jonas signaled Jackson forward and he moved in the opposite direction, circling around to get in position to take out the guard as he came back around. He drew his knife and waited, heart pounding, a bad taste in his mouth. This day would haunt him. He knew it had to be done, and he was more than willing to kill these men to keep the Drakes safe, but that wouldn't make killing any easier. He just wasn't wired that way. His mother—and the Drakes—had seen to that.

  The guard loomed out of the fog, his footsteps muffled, merging with the sound of water slapping the sides of the yacht and the occasional cry of a bird overhead. Jonas let the man go past him and stepped in, arm whipping up fast, knife sinking deep. He let out his breath, holding the guard while the life drained out of him before easing him to the deck. He asked the universe for forgiveness even as he was making his way down to the next level, seeking Boris Tarasov with every intention of ending his life—and wasn't that irony? Sometimes he made himself sick.

  Jonas heard Jackson whispering through the earpiece. "I'm looking at Karl Tarasov alive and well. He's talking to two of the guards in front of the master state room."

  Jonas frowned. There was no doubt in his mind that Karl was anchored at the bottom of the sea. "Are you sure?"

  "It's him. He just patted a guard on the back. They laughed together and he went into the stateroom. The guards definitely think it's him."

  "One at the helm," Jonas said. "He's got a bird's eye view, Gray, get one of your best on him." He made his way slowly down the stairs, hugging the wall, careful to make no sound as he eased each foot forward.

  Someone laughed as he passed the salon. Jonas crouched down, making himself small as he studied the layout. The rooms were spacious, but there weren't a lot of places to hide. Movement attracted his attention. Karl Tarasov came out of the master stateroom, clapped a hand on the guard's shoulder and gave him orders. The guard snapped to attention. Jonas studied the Russian captain. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His uniform jacket was immaculate, not a wrinkle, the same with his pressed trousers. The shoes were polished and every hair in place. He walked down the hall to the salon and disappeared inside. Only then did Jonas realize he was wearing thin black gloves over his hands.

  Jonas swore under his breath and lifted the gun, silencer in place. Before he could pull the trigger, both guards went down almost simultaneously, a crimson hole blossoming in each forehead. Jackson moved past them, kicking the guns out of the way and reaching for the door.

  "Damn it, Jackson." Jonas had no choice but to cover him.

  Jackson slipped inside the master stateroom, Jonas right behind him. Boris Tarasov lay on the bed. His eyes were wide open, staring and glassy. The bed beneath him was soaked red and around his throat was an obscene smile.

  "Son of a bitch," Jonas said, and then spoke into his radio. "Gray. Tarasov is dead. I repeat, dead. It looks like Karl Tarasov killed him before we got here. I saw him coming out of the room just before we entered." He hesitated a moment before tossing in the red herring. "I think we stumbled into a power play, a takeover, going on here."

  Gray swore softly in his ear. "Ben reported seeing Karl go toward the salon where the Gadiyan brothers were last seen. Everyone be damn careful, and for God's sake, keep the son of a bitch alive. We need one of the major players talking."

  Jonas s
hook his head. If that was the real Karl Tarasov, then who was in the water? And if it was Karl, he would never be taken alive, Gray should know that. He was handicapping his team, sending them against a lethal killer and ordering them not to fire. They moved in tandem, Jackson point man, clearing the hall, and Jonas sweeping each room as they passed, then guarding their backs. Gunfire erupted in the vicinity of the helm.

  Jackson let out a sigh. "There goes any advantage we might have had."

  More gunfire burst out on the deck, this time a volley answered by another volley.

  The doors to the salon burst open and bullets sprayed the hall, slamming into the walls and shattering glass, tearing up everything in their path. Two men stood side by side, automatic weapons blasting as they hurtled themselves out of the salon toward the stairs. Gray's men returned fire. One agent screamed and lay writhing on the floor, another was flung backward into the wall.

  Jonas felt the familiar rage welling up and forced it down, taking careful aim, taking his time, making the shot count. Yegor Gadiyan went down without a sound. Viktor Gadiyan reached with one hand to try to grab his brother's collar and drag him even as he continued to spray the hall in a systematic and very thorough sweep. The noise in the small confines of space was deafening as well as frightening. Jonas stayed crouched low in the tiny alcove, sweating, pinned down, and waiting for an angry bullet to strike him.

  Off to his left, Jackson signaled him, putting three fingers up, one by one indicating in three seconds Jonas needed to draw Gadiyan's fire. Jonas closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer. He counted to three and allowed the edge of his shoulder to show for half a second and jerked back into cover. Bullets thudded all around him, spitting splinters into his face and shoulders. He heard the single shot Jackson squeezed off followed by a heavy body hitting the floor and then absolute silence.

  Jonas looked at the wall around him. Bullets had smashed into the wood in every conceivable spot without hitting him.

  Some higher power was working to save him, but he didn't believe it could have been the Drakes this time. He allowed himself a moment to slump against the wall in relief. Viktor Gadiyan would have killed him given another few moments. He saluted Jackson, who was already checking the bodies.