Kostya

by Roxie Rivera

  “Like?”

  “Like tracking people down,” he said.

  “Like a skiptracer?”

  Surprised she knew that word, he asked, “What do you know about skiptracers?”

  “I dated a bail recovery agent when I was in college. He schooled me on all sorts of interesting things.”

  “You dated a bounty hunter?”

  “He was hot and interesting and a little dangerous.” She traced the collar of his shirt. “I guess I’ve always had a thing for men like you.”

  “There aren’t many men like me, Holly,” he warned carefully. “If you think a bounty hunter is dangerous—”

  “I know it’s a different kind of danger with you,” she interrupted. “I know.”

  She had the most honest and open eyes. She hadn’t been taught to hide her feelings or emotions. He could see it written plainly on her face. She understood what he was, even if she didn’t have all the gory details.

  “I need to answer that call.” He hated to do it, but he had to ask. “May I use your phone?”

  “You can’t use yours?”

  He swept his fingertips down her cheek before tucking one of her pale blonde waves behind her ear. “It’s better if I don’t.”

  “Oh,” she said quietly. Taking a short step back, she patted his chest. “I need to get Vivian’s bracelet out of the safe anyway. You can use the phone in there.”

  He followed her back to her office and picked up the phone while she unlocked the safe hidden there. He dialed Sunny’s courier line and waited to punch in the right extension. When he reached the voicemail box of that extension, he keyed in the passcode and listened to the coded message Sunny had left for him. He committed the GPS coordinates to memory before erasing the message and hanging up the phone. Sunny would call the same number in a few moments, check the voicemail box and find it empty. That would be her signal that the message was received.

  “Here.” Holly presented one of Vivian’s delicate gold bracelets on her palm. “She left this after her appointment.”

  “On purpose,” he said, taking and pocketing it. “She’s done this before with Bianca and Sergei,” he explained. “She stole Bianca’s phone at a wedding and then sent Sergei to return it to Bianca. You know how that story ends.”

  “She is so sneaky!” Holly laughed. “But I guess I owe her now.”

  “She doesn’t operate that way.” He was certain this wasn’t the time to educate her on the language of favors and debts that ruled the mafia. Someday, when she learned that Nikolai was her brother and Maksim was her father, she would be taught that lesson. Not tonight, he thought sadly. Not tonight.

  “When will I see you again?” Uncertainty filled her voice.

  He wanted to promise her tonight and tomorrow morning and all the rest of the days that followed. “I’m in the middle of something important. I’ll try to see you tomorrow night.”

  She grasped his hand and rubbed her thumb along the side of his. “Business?”

  “The kind we can’t talk about,” he reminded her.

  “I understand.”

  She did now, but in a few weeks or months, her patience with his secrecy would wane and then what?

  Leaning down, he kissed her, letting his lips linger against hers. He didn’t want to leave, but he didn’t want to lose Marco if Sunny had picked up his trail. Sliding his arms around her waist, he tightly embraced her and kissed the side of her neck. “I’m sorry I have to run like this. I wish—”

  “It’s all right.” She kissed his jaw. “You know where to find me.”

  Not for the first time, he hated himself for the decisions he had made in his past. Holly shouldn’t have to wait around for him to have time for her. She should have been the center of his fucking universe, but instead he was running off to capture, interrogate and possibly disappear someone.

  Loathing the way he was leaving her after this incredible shift in their relationship, Kostya pressed a final kiss to her temple. He didn’t look back as he practically fled the salon. He wasn’t sure he had the willpower to keep walking if he saw her sad face.

  Chapter Ten

  OUT IN THE cool but humid October night, he unlocked his car and slid behind the wheel. He didn’t have to punch the GPS coordinates into the navigation screen. Sunny’s coded message directed him to a storage facility he owned across town. He kept this one a secret from everyone except his little spiders and made sure there were about a dozen layers of protection between his name and the owner of the facility. It was located in an underdeveloped area so privacy wasn’t an issue. There was no manager or security at night, and Fox had the ability to remotely wipe the security cameras, if necessary.

  When he was on the property, he slipped on his favorite pair of black leather gloves and typed in the access code at the gate. He drove to the back row of storage units and pulled up next to Sunny’s sleek black Ducati. He got out of his car, locked it and walked over to the door of the unit. He knocked twice before entering the brightly lit and air-conditioned space.

  “You’re late,” Sunny announced, already shoving out of the banged up old folding chair and stalking across the unit to meet him. “We have places we need to be.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her, but let it go when she slapped an address scribbled on a piece of paper against his chest. He took the paper from her and glanced at the address. He wasn’t thrilled by the idea of driving that far tonight. “College Station? You’re sure he’s there?”

  “It’s the best lead you’re going to get,” she answered matter-of-factly. “We chased down all the loose ends here in town. They were all bullshit. Between Diego, Ilya and Lalo, those hideouts and hangouts had all been trampled and searched. He’s not in Houston.”

  “What makes you think he’s in College Station?”

  “You know that rundown roach hole that Lalo and Marco call their club?”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s a little grocery store about a block away from it where Marco likes to walk over and pick up his cigarettes every afternoon. I decided to check in and see if they would talk to me. The old lady who runs it doesn’t like him. Called him a pendejo,” she added with a smile. “She told me he comes in once a month and sends money via Western Union to some girl in College Station. She told me the woman’s name, and I ran it.”

  “And?”

  “And eight years ago, he guaranteed a bail bond for a woman who was picked up for hot checks. She was pregnant at the time she was booked and had a little boy seven months later.” She paused as if to let him do the math. “The kid has another man’s name, but Marco sends her at least two grand every month. He also had a vehicle registered at that address in College Station until two weeks ago.”

  “What happened two weeks ago?”

  “The car was registered under her name in Phoenix.”

  “Arizona?” He said curiously. “Why?”

  She shrugged. “No idea. The place she was living in was a rental. I called the landlord and found out she still has seven months on the lease and the rent is paid in full. Guess the name of her co-signer?”

  “Marco.”

  “Yep. That address is the same address he uses for one credit card with a very large amount of unused credit and five different phones.”

  “Does anyone else know about this connection?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not.” She zipped up the front of her jacket. “So are we taking your car or my bike?”

  “We’ll get one of my decoy cars.”

  Sunny slid into the passenger seat and buckled up. She began spouting off all the intel work she’d done, telling him about the routes in and out of the mobile home park and giving an estimate of the police response time to a 9-1-1 call. “I doubt anyone would call,” she remarked. “You know how a lot of these trailer parks are. No one wants to be nosy or start drama by calling the police.”

  “Usually,” he agreed.

  “I scoped out a few places we can use for interrogat
ion if you don’t want to drag Marco all the way back to Houston.”

  “I have a place outside of College Station. It’s quiet and secluded.”

  She twisted in her seat and eyed him with interest. “How many properties do you own?”

  “Me personally? Just my house and some of the clubs.”

  He could practically feel her rolling her eyes before she asked, “How many properties do other people own for you?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “How do you keep track of it all?”

  “Very carefully,” he said, pulling into a nearby convenience store with a payphone outside. “Can you run in and grab some coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  While Sunny shopped, he called Nikolai to let him know that he was going out of town and then called Artyom. He spoke three words to the captain, their secret code to be used whenever Kostya was going to be out of town, before hanging up and returning to the idling car where Sunny waited with two cups of black coffee.

  He drove to the parking garage where he kept an extra car registered in the name of an exotic dancer who worked for him. He kept vehicles like these stored in parking garages, storage units and apartment complex parking lots all around the city. He had placed them strategically, making sure they were close to major highways. Each one had a duffel bag packed with necessary gear and money in the trunk. After taking the bag out of the trunk, he checked the contents. It was a redundant move considering he had packed the bag himself, but he always had to be sure, just in case.

  “You want me to drive?”

  “I’ve seen the way you drive.” He gestured to the passenger seat before closing the trunk. After he finished swapping vehicles, they drove out of the city, avoiding toll roads and red-light cameras.

  Sunny didn’t seem particularly interested in talking. She stared out the window, her mind obviously occupied with something that she wasn’t comfortable sharing with him yet. He let his thoughts wander as he drove the speed limit, checking his mirrors often. A dark, foreboding sense of dread plagued him. He hadn’t been able to shake that strange, aching feeling since receiving the package. His insomnia was back, and he had been spending hours at night digging through old coded notebooks. He’d been poring over his old life, his mind running through the seemingly endless number of bodies and lies he had left behind as he tried to find the missing connection. He was stuck in a tangled web he couldn’t escape.

  Sooner or later, it would all catch up to him. All that cleaning and wetwork put the people he cared about at risk. Long ago, he accepted that he would die a violent death, but he had never wanted that for people close to him. His stomach churned painfully at the thought of Holly being hurt because of things he had done twenty years ago.

  Of course, when he had made the decision to follow in his dead parents’ footsteps and become a covert operative, he hadn’t had any friends or family. He had been an angry teenager hungry for vengeance and determined to prove himself as the son of two of the most dedicated agents the KGB had ever spawned. Things like feelings and affection were weaknesses he had purged from his system.

  Until Nikolai had shown him friendship and Lobo had looked to him for paternal comfort and guidance and Holly had smiled so sweetly at him…

  Trying not to think about Holly’s smile or any other part of her, he navigated the dark streets of the sleeping city according to Sunny’s prompts from passenger seat.

  “Left up here,” Sunny said, “and then it’s the last mobile home on the right. The white one with the red shutters.”

  He killed the lights as he pulled into the neighborhood. This wasn’t the kind of place he would have chosen as a hideout or bolt hole. “I can’t believe he was able to keep this woman and her son a secret.”

  “His son,” Sunny corrected. “And I can believe it. What I want to know is what’s in Phoenix? Why did he send his ex and kid there? What did he know was coming?”

  “Something that’s probably going to hurt us badly.” He rolled to a stop, using a large dumpster for cover. His trained gaze scanned their surroundings. Most of the windows were dark up and down the street, but there was a dim glow behind a broken blind a few houses down. There was no movement on either side of the street, but there was always the chance someone would step out for a late-night smoke or leave for a late shift.

  So far, the neighborhood had been quiet, but there were probably more than a few dogs locked away behind chain link fences. He didn’t see anyone standing outside in any of the yards or on the porches, but there was always the chance someone would sneak outside for a midnight smoke or leave for a late shift and spot him.

  “I see something,” Sunny said, looking behind them. “Shit. It’s a car.”

  They both slid down into their seats, hiding below their windows as the flash of headlights turned onto the street behind them. In the next moment, the headlights went dark.

  “Honda,” she said. “Late model. Do you recognize it? I can’t see the plate.”

  “No, I don’t recognize it. Don’t waste your time with the plate.” There was no point in getting the license plate. The car would be chopped and farmed out to junkyards before sunrise.

  He lifted his head just enough to see the sedan slow to a stop in front of the double wide where Marco was supposed to be hiding. The driver’s side door opened, but the interior lights didn’t turn on which meant they’d been disabled by someone who wanted to stay hidden. He caught a glimpse of a man-shaped shadow get out of the car.

  Watching the man walk up to the mobile home with purposeful strides, Kostya reached into the back seat and grabbed the bulletproof vest that was part of his gear. He draped it over Sunny and pressed her down toward the floorboard to make sure she was as protected as possible. Reassured that she was safe, he kept his gaze glued on the man moving quickly across the yard and up onto the porch.

  There was a brief flash of light as the man opened the front door—but it was all Kostya needed to identify the assailant. The outline of his jaw was familiar, but it was that long braid that gave him away. Spider. The president of the outlaw motorcycle club that Vivian’s father had founded and handed over to him.

  What the fuck is happening here?

  “Stay here. If you hear anything—”

  “Get into the driver’s seat,” she answered. “I know the drill.”

  He slipped out of the car and moved with stealth through the shadows. He unholstered his weapon, keeping it low against his hip, ready to lift and fire in a heartbeat. With the other, he retrieved the ultra-bright flashlight from his pocket. Taking care with the rickety front steps, he opened the door with his leather-clad hand and stepped into the dimly lit house.

  Immediately, he lifted his weapon and the flashlight, training both on Spider where he stood in the kitchen. The biker shut his eyes and grimaced, flinching away from the painfully bright light. Before Kostya had even uttered a command, the stench of blood, fresh and hot and metallic hit his nose. Someone was dead or dying.

  “Put your hands up,” Kostya ordered. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

  “Jesus Christ, Kostya!” Spider hissed, careful not to raise his voice and alert the neighbors. “I damn near pissed myself! Get that fucking light out of my face!”

  “Put your hands up!”

  “Fuck you!” Spider snarled but did as he’d been asked, lifting his hands and showing that he wasn’t a threat. “Satisfied?”

  Wordlessly, he lowered the flashlight beam and swept it across the open living space. There was a shotgun propped next to the sofa to his left and pistol and extra magazine on the kitchen counter. A can of beer on the kitchen table had been knocked over and liquid still dripped off the edge of the table. There was a box of pizza in the puddle of beer, the cardboard crumpled in one corner as if it had been stepped on and smashed.

  As the beam moved to the other side of the table, he spotted Marco slumped against the island, his chin touching his chest and his body slack. Blood, thick and dark, soaked his
shirt and jeans. The gash in the side of his neck and the stab wounds in his chest and stomach explained everything. Marco’s panicked heart had pumped out his blood in rapid bursts, spraying the floor and wall and chairs.

  He shined the beam over the pool of blood, along the arterial spray and then followed a mess of bloody foot and hand prints on the cheap linoleum. It led him to the awkwardly huddled lump wedged between a chest freezer and a cabinet on the far wall.

  A flash of blonde hair. Shaking shoulders. Small feet.

  Tiffany.

  Turning his attention back to Spider, he asked, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Spider glanced at the girl. “I don’t think this is a good time to talk about that.”

  Kostya lowered his weapon and turned toward the window behind him. He flicked the flashlight on and off twice to signal Sunny that he needed her help.

  Looking back at Marco and then Tiffany, he tried to piece together what had happened. Knowing the history between the two, Marco had probably started smacking the girl around and she had finally snapped. Dealing with the body and the scene would be a problem, but at least Marco wasn’t a threat anymore.

  “Holy shit,” Sunny said as she came into the trailer and surveyed the scene with her own flashlight. She dropped the duffel bag she’d brought from the car onto the sofa and unzipped it. She tossed him a pair of disposable gloves and put a pair on herself. Without a word, she grabbed a set of surgical booties for each of them and then pulled together what she needed for Tiffany.

  Careful not to step on any blood, she crossed the living room and kitchen and crouched down in front of Tiffany. He couldn’t hear what Sunny said but the girl stopped crying and let Sunny pull her into a standing position. It took her less than a minute to get Tiffany into disposable booties and scrubs over her bloody clothing. Catching his eye, Sunny said, “I’m getting her out of here.”

  “Go. We’ll catch up later.”

  “You need anything out of the car?” she asked, guiding Tiffany around the mess.

  “No. Ditch it when you’re done.”

  With a silent nod, Sunny grabbed a jacket from the couch near the door and draped it around Tiffany, hiding her face. As soon as they were gone, Kostya turned on Spider. “Don’t touch anything.”