Exposure

by Dee Davis

  "Really?"

  "Alicia—back off." As long as Melissa could remember, Alicia had been pressing her buttons. Her sister shouldn't be able to get away with it anymore, but somehow, despite that fact, it always managed to catch Melissa by surprise.

  "For the time being. But I'm not giving up. In fact, why don't you bring him with you to the benefit at the Waldorf? You are still planning to come, aren't you?"

  She could tell by Alicia's voice that she was going to be disappointed with her answer. "Oh, Alicia, I'm not sure I'll be able to make it."

  "Melissa," Alicia cajoled, "we hardly ever get to see each other anymore."

  "I hardly think a fund-raiser is the best of places to catch up."

  There was truth in the fact, but her sister chose to ignore it. "You promised. Besides, I really want you there."

  Ever since their mother had died, Alicia had been obsessed with breast cancer research. First spending all her time in the library, and then, as an adult, chairing events across the country to further research aimed at finding a cure. Melissa understood her reasons for involvement, but unlike her sister, Melissa wasn't comfortable openly discussing their mother's disease or her death. And despite the intervening years, she still wasn't comfortable attending Alicia's functions, the galas a constant reminder of all that she had lost.

  "I know. But this is really important. I swear it."

  "I see." Alicia could do icy better than anyone Melissa had ever met.

  "Look, I'll come if I can, okay? And I'll even bring Nigel." She had no intention of doing anything of the sort, but at least it would appease her sister for the moment.

  "Sounds like a plan." Already her sister sounded perkier..

  "How's the baby?" Best to get her off the subject while Melissa was ahead.

  "Fine. The doctor let us listen to the heartbeat yesterday. It was so amazing. You really ought to think about doing this, Mel. It's the most wonderful feeling, carrying a child."

  Uh-oh, right back into shark-infested waters.

  "Alicia, I've got to go. Give my love to Aaron. And stop worrying about me. You've got more important things to do, liking taking care of my new nephew."

  "Or niece." Her sister's voice sounded dreamy now, and Melissa felt a tug of envy.

  "I love you." That much was absolute truth. Alicia was the only real family she had in the world.

  "Me, too, you," her sister said, and hung up.

  Melissa sat in the wing chair staring into the fire, feeling more alone than she'd ever felt in her entire life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE RESTAURANT WAS located between a tailor and a grocery store that looked as if it had been pulled straight out of Soviet Russia. Nigel had seen the real thing on several occasions, and despite the fact that Russia was now a free country, there were places where it still felt decidedly old regime.

  Apparently Brighton Beach was a satellite. Everything was written in Cyrillic here. Street signs, storefronts, even billboards. He half expected the KGB to round the corner and whip the riffraff into shape. The buildings had a third-world appearance, and it was hard to remember that the capitalist haven of Manhattan was merely a train ride away.

  Blatnaya, roughly translated as thieves, looked every bit the part of a decrepit Soviet restaurant. Despite the city-wide ban on smoking, a haze filled the room, giving it a gray-blue hue and the pungent smell of tobacco and cabbage.

  Men, most of them hardly more than boys, sat huddled together at tables scattered throughout the room. Waiters lazed idly near a long mahogany bar, testament to the fact that the word restaurant was meant as something less than literal, although there were bowls of borscht on several tables, and some unappetizing meat with potatoes that appeared to be the special. Despite evidence of food, vodka was clearly the main course here, bottles littering the tables as if they were upscale water, not ninety-proof diesel fuel.

  The only real light came from the doorway, and at the moment Nigel was blocking it, Payton's substantial form filling in the gaps as he watched Nigel's back. Gabe had circled around behind the restaurant in an effort to make certain that all the exits were covered.

  Nigel detested walking into a room of unknowns, all of them most likely carrying at least one weapon. It was a recipe for disaster—but then so was pretty much everything he did, and he'd lived to tell about it so far. There wasn't even a guarantee that Jacovitz was here, but the odds were in their favor. Gangsters, especially hit men, had a lot of downtime as a rule. And according to Harrison's intel, this was the place he most often frequented. Not exactly the Metropolitan Club, but then everyone had his own unique tastes.

  Nigel's earpiece crackled to life—Gabe signaling that he was in place. With a nod at Payton, Nigel stepped into the shadowy room, his hand resting against the gun he'd stowed in his pocket.

  Payton followed, their presence causing a ripple of unease in the crowd. Nigel scanned the faces, looking for one that matched the mug shot they had of Jacovitz. It was hard to tell in this lighting, but no one seemed to fit the bill.

  He looked to Payton, who confirmed the fact. Nigel whispered the information into his microphone, and was debating retreat, when he noticed the bartender surreptitiously glancing at a closed door off to the left.

  Maybe their quarry was holed up in a private room. Instinct screamed that they'd found their mark.

  With a slight movement of his head, Nigel signaled Pay-ton, who followed the line of his gesture to the closed door. His friend nodded in return, his expression grim, his scar making him look deadly in the faded light.

  Sizing up the crowd, half of them with their hands conveniently out of sight, Nigel whispered instructions to Gabe and took a step forward, pulling a badge from his left pocket.

  "Immigration." His carefully rounded consonants and drawn-out vowels successfully obscured his English accent, leaving him indefinably American. "We're looking for a man named Ivan Jacovitz?" He kept his tone pleasant, but there was an undercurrent that conveyed a completely different message.

  Silence reigned, several men reaching for weapons. Pay-ton, however, was ahead of the game as usual, shooting just past the ear of the most aggressive looking of the lot. Hands appeared. Thugs, in most cases, turned to jelly when cornered. It was a rule one could live by. However, there was still the matter of accessing the back room.

  "Cat got your tongues?" Nigel smiled, knowing it conveyed little humor. "Too bad I guess I'll just have to start checking green cards."

  Gabe appeared briefly in the hallway leading to the back door, then stepped back again, disappearing into the shadows. Nothing like the element of surprise.

  Several of the men were now sending furtive glances in the direction of the closed door.

  "Anyone able to help us?" Nigel asked, surveying the room, waiting. Someone here would want out more than he wanted to protect Jacovitz. Nigel counted silently under his breath. One.. .two.. .three.. .four...

  "He's in there," a tall, thin man whispered, his accent heavily Slavic. "Behind the door."

  "Well done," Nigel said, producing his gun. "And now if you'll all just head for the nearest exit."

  Most of the men rushed the exit, anxious to get out of the building before the situation deteriorated any further. Two men remained behind with the bartender, their hastily produced guns making their intentions clear.

  "I wouldn't do that." Gabe stepped from the shadows, his gun trained on the biggest of the two. "It'd be a shame to damage the decor."

  The man dropped his weapon, slowly raising his hands. Evidently he wasn't fond of the odds. Nigel bent to scoop up the handgun, and Payton motioned the other gunman to follow suit. But evidently he missed the fact that the odds were now three to one, because he fired in Gabe's direction, the shot going wide.

  Payton dropped to the ground and fired, his bullet hitting its target, the man dropping before he had time to realize he'd missed. The bartender ran for the door, the unarmed gunman hot on his heels. Nigel made a move to foll
ow but pivoted instead at the sound of the door behind him opening.

  The gunfire, or maybe the bartender, had alerted the men inside the other room.

  Shots rang out as two men emerged from the doorway, the first dropping to the floor, his cry of agony cut off as he drew his last breath. Nigel trained his gun on the second man, who had hit the floor also, but in defense not pain.

  He rolled behind the bar, followed by a third man who slipped through the now-open door. None of them were Jac-ovitz.

  Payton was closest to the door, crouched behind an overturned table, but he was also in the gunmen's direct line of fire. Gabe was about a meter off to Payton's right, behind an old jukebox.

  Nigel was the closest to the bar, and with a nod at Gabe to cover him, he ran forward, keeping chairs and tables between himself and the gunmen. A bullet hummed past his ear, embedding itself in the far wall with a satisfying thunk. Better the plaster than his head.

  Gabe returned fire, and the diversion worked, one of the gunmen moving around the far end of the bar to get off a shot. Nigel pushed upright and returned fire. The man fell, and for a moment there was silence, then all hell broke loose as the remaining gunman launched himself up and over the bar, the staccato sound of gunfire ringing through the restaurant.

  It was over before it began, the second man landing half on, half off the bar in a spray of broken glass. Nigel and Gabe ran for the anteroom door, Payton behind them, only stopping long enough to make sure that the man on the bar was dead.

  At first glance the room appeared to be empty, but then Nigel noticed the small window high in one wall. Hanging out of the window, squirming like a stuck pig, was the back half of a man, leather-booted feet moving to an invisible rumba in an attempt to wriggle through the tiny aperture.

  Payton and Gabe each took a leg, and in moments, the second half of the man reemerged, the facial features identifying him as Jacovitz.

  "Not exactly the most dignified of exits," Nigel said, trying to contain his laughter.

  The man hardly looked like an assassin. But then looks were often deceiving. Gabe patted him down, removing not one but three guns, as well as the telltale hunting knife. It seemed the man preferred not to take any chances. Of course, he hadn't counted on Last Chance.

  "Why don't you have a seat?" Nigel motioned to an overturned chair.

  The Russian righted it and sat down, his expression making sullen appear sunny. "I have nothing to say."

  "On the contrary," Nigel said, straddling the chair opposite the man, his easy demeanor intentionally deceptive. "I think you have a great deal to tell us."

  The man's eyes narrowed. "I want a lawyer." "You seem to be under the misapprehension that we're with the police," Payton said, his voice harsh against the quiet of the room.

  The man blanched, but his expression remained impassive. "I don't care who you are. I have rights."

  "Not with me you don't." Payton moved closer, and the man flinched.

  "If I get hurt there will be hell to pay." The man's posturing was almost laughable, but Nigel gave him points for sheer bravado.

  "I don't think you'll be caring one way or the other." Gabe obviously wasn't as impressed.

  The Russian held Gabe's gaze for about three seconds then looked at the floor. "If I talk I'm a dead man."

  Nigel tipped forward on his chair, sensing his advantage. "We're not interested in your organization."

  That got Jacovitz's attention. "What do you want then?"

  "We're interested in some work you did for a man named Alexi Kirov."

  Surprise flashed in the Russian's eyes before he had the opportunity to successfully mask his expression. "I don't know who you're talking about."

  "Sure you do," Payton said, cracking bis knuckles for effect. "Slimy putz who works for the United Nations?"

  "I might have met him," Jacovitz allowed. "It is a small world when you are Russian."

  "It's a small world, period. Especially when you choose an identifiable weapon for assassination." Payton held up the hunting knife. "You used this to kill Hakan Celik."

  "Why would I be interested in killing a Turk?" The realization of what Jacovitz had said hit about three seconds after the words were out of his mouth.

  "We didn't say anything about a Turk."

  "But his name..." Jacovitz shrugged in a valiant effort to achieve nonchalance. He failed—miserably.

  "Is hardly a giveaway," Nigel finished for him.

  The man eyed the three of them, particularly Payton, who was still holding his knife. Finally he blew out a long breath, all attempts at bravado draining away. "So I killed him."

  "Why?" Gabe asked.

  "For money." The man actually looked surprised, as if everyone traded human life for a bankroll.

  "Of course for money," Gabe said, irritation coloring his voice, "but why work with Kirov?"

  "We're friends." Again Jacovitz shrugged. "His family knew mine in the old country. Over the years I help him now and then—for a price." The Russian smiled, a gold tooth glinting in the artificial light.

  "Did he tell you why he wanted Celik dead?" Payton turned the knife slightly, the blade pointing at Jacovitz's throat.

  "No." The younger man shook his head, his eyes glued to the knife. "Just something about a disagreement. I think this Turk he was working with Alexi on something. But I don't know what it was."

  "And the woman?" Nigel asked, his voice cracking on the question, anger simmering just below the surface.

  "I do not know what you're talking about."

  Payton moved with a speed born of years of training, the knife leaving a bloody scratch along Jacovitz's throat. "Make no mistake, my friend, I have absolutely no reason to keep you alive if you lie to us."

  "I never met her," Jacovitz said, rubbing at his throat, his eyes locked on Payton. "Alexi said only that she posed a threat. It was easy enough to frame her. I got what I needed Irom American CIA."

  Gabe frowned. "What are you talking about?"

  "Alexi had many friends. One of them was an agent. Ed something. I don't know. He was working with Alexi on something big. At least to hear Alexi tell it."

  "And you talked to him."

  "If you want to call it talking." The Russian's smile was cocky now. "In reality it was more of a persuasion."

  "Where is he now?"

  "Somewhere no one will ever find him." The man sat back with a swagger.

  "And the poison?" Nigel managed to ask, his finger twitching at the trigger of his gun.

  Jacovitz startled at the mention of the word, taking a moment to put it into context. "For the woman? It was enough to kill a cow. She never had a chance."

  Nigel's anger fled in the face of his confusion. "You've seen the body?"

  "Of course I have," the Russian bragged, but there was still wariness in his eyes.

  Payton stabbed the knife on the table, neatly separating the man's index and middle fingers. A millimeter in either direction and a digit would have been severed. "I don't make idle threats, Jacovitz. The truth now, or I promise you'll be favoring your left hand—permanently."

  "I have not seen the body. It disappeared. But I tell you there is no way she could have survived the amount of poison she ingested."

  Nigel rose from the chair, his rage threatening to consume him. Gabe reached out to stop him, the contact clearing his head. He sank back onto the seat of the chair. "She isn't dead."

  The man's reaction was of openmouthed astonishment, which meant that he hadn't known Melissa was alive. And more importantly, he couldn't have been the one shooting at them.

  "If you didn't know she was alive, why the double cross?"

  Jacovitz's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "I have double-crossed no one." It was a statement of pride. And again there could be no doubting the man's sincerity.

  "You didn't kill Alexi?"

  "No." The word hung in the room, seeming almost to have a life of its own. "I kill only for money. To do anything else is to risk
heart over head."

  "Someone could have wanted him out of the equation. Someone with bigger fish to fry?"

  "No one. I swear it. The last time I saw Alexi, he was very much alive. He paid me for my work, and was quite jovial about our success."

  "Well, he isn't smiling now," Gabe said. "He was shot point-blank with a modified Beretta. Sound familiar?"

  "Could be the work of a colleague, but I cannot be sure. There are many such guns in this city."

  "That colleague have a name?" Payton asked, still twirling the knife.

  "I said before that I will not betray my countrymen."

  "You gave up Alexi," Gabe cajoled.

  The Russian spit at the floor. "He is, how do you say, bottom-feeder."

  "Now there's the pot calling the kettle black," Nigel said to no one in particular.

  Gabe leveled his gun. "I'm afraid you've just run out of time, Jacovitz."

  The Russian paled and then held up his hands. "His name is Peter Stoeler. I can't say for certain that it was him. But he and Alexi, they have been known to quarrel."

  "He works for Alexi, too?"

  "Sometimes, yes." Jacovitz shrugged, breathing easier as Gabe released the trigger of the gun.

  "Where can we find him?" Payton's eyes narrowed as he watched Jacovitz.

  "He is usually here, but I haven't seen him at all today. He lives in a walk-up on Bridgewater. Over the gastronom."

  Nigel tightened his hand on his gun, his eyes meeting Gabe's, but his friend shook his head, and Nigel forced himself to relax. He'd like nothing better than to gut the man with his own knife. Payment for the hell he put Melissa through. But alive he could clear her name, and that had to mean something.

  Gabe pulled out his cell phone to dial local authorities. Jacovitz took one look at the phone and dived to the floor. He reared back, a second blade flashing in his hand as he aimed for Payton. Fortunately, Nigel was faster, firing a second before the Russian could throw the knife.