by Mary Stone
“It’s definitely possible. If they think they can turn a profit from it, they’ll try it at least once. Plus…” A thoughtful look flitted over his unshaven face. The stubble gave him a dangerous edge, and Bree could see why he fit in so well undercover.
“Plus?” Bree raised an eyebrow.
“You know, it just occurred to me. But maybe you’re right.”
“You already said I might be right.” She waved a dismissive hand.
The corners of his eyes creased as he grinned. “I did. But I mean it. Remember how I told you about that pending RICO case?”
“Yeah.”
“It might be that case is making them a little more cautious. I don’t doubt they’re on the hunt for our witness. They know that the whole thing hinges on that guy, so they’re a little preoccupied looking for some way to get their hands on him right now. But that might be why they’re keeping a tighter lid on this new venture with Eric Dalton and his wife’s yoga studio. A bunch of their people’s heads are on the chopping block.”
Bree tried to puzzle the pieces together, but something didn’t fit. “But if they were trying to be more cautious, why would they be reaching out to a brand-new business partner? A business partner who’s never had anything to do with any kind of organized crime ever in his suburban, cookie-cutter life?”
He inclined his head in a slight nod. “Also a valid point. I don’t know. This whole thing is just odd.”
“Tell me about it,” she muttered.
“We could go around in circles about this for hours. The list of pros and cons for starting a new money laundering gig with a squeaky-clean airline pilot and his yoga instructor wife is about fifty-fifty. I’m meeting up with an old buddy of mine tonight, though. He’s done pretty well for himself, and I think he’ll know a little more about what we ought to be looking for.”
With another nod, Bree forced a smile to her lips. She hoped the look was reassuring and not strained. “That’s good.”
A shadow of concern passed over his face, and her hopes were dashed. “All right, you look like something’s off. What is it?”
Sighing, Bree tilted her head to look at the gray upholstery of the ceiling. “It’s nothing. Just this weird feeling I haven’t been able to shake.”
“Feeling about what?”
“This case.” She straightened to meet his gaze. “And Eric Dalton. If you can’t find anything out tonight from your guy, I think you ought to just head back to the FBI office, and we’ll regroup. Maybe then I can figure out what’s been bothering me about this thing.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” He winked and flashed her a smile that practically dripped sarcasm.
“Watch your back tonight, okay?”
One hand hovering above the silver door handle, he turned his head and gave her a little salute. “Always, Agent Stafford.”
Between Winter’s behavior at the Falkner house earlier that day and the lack of information on Eric Dalton’s relationship with the Russians, Bree was all but certain they had overlooked a key piece of the puzzle.
“Be safe, Drew,” she whispered to his retreating back.
She just hoped that missing puzzle piece wouldn’t spell disaster for her friend.
16
Special Agent Drew Hansford raised a hand and tilted his chin as a familiar man pushed his way through a set of glass double doors and out into the night. Drew glanced back to the bartender and then to his wallet as he shuffled through a few small bills.
He dropped a twenty atop the bar and grinned at the shorter man. “Don’t need the change. Thanks, Ivan.”
With a pleasant smile, Ivan collected the payment and nodded. “Thank you, friend.”
Rapping his knuckles against the tarnished wooden surface, Drew turned to make his way to the same door through which Sergei Kolesov had just walked.
Tonight, Drew wasn’t Drew Hansford.
He was Misha Pelevin, a small-time trafficker and drug dealer for the Russian mob in Washington D.C. and Baltimore. Over the years, he’d maintained his cover under the guise of a brief stint in prison.
He kept his backstory simple. Once Misha was released, he had tried and failed to pursue a legitimate career outside the seedy world of the Russian mafia. Now, supposedly, he was back and ready to try his hand in the drug dealing scene after a hiatus.
Using the need for a connection for drug suppliers and money launderers as an excuse, he’d spent the last couple days prodding his old contacts for information about the most recent goings-on.
But now, thanks to his conversation with Sergei, he was almost certain the answer to his and Bree’s inquiry had been right in front of their faces all along.
The pending RICO case was at the forefront of everyone’s conversations.
Two Bratva commanders—or brigadiers, as they were called—were facing life sentences for extortion and murder for hire. Along with the foot soldiers who had been taken down at their side, the number totaled nine. As far as convictions against those affiliated with the Russian mob went, nine was a damn impressive number, especially in one fell swoop.
They didn’t have the connections in Baltimore to find the location of the key witness—a former enforcer with a guilty conscience. The man had turned coat and offered his testimony in exchange for the safety of him and his family.
If the Russians managed to find him, Drew shuddered to think the veritable atrocities they would enact in the interest of revenge.
When he kept in mind the upcoming trial, the answer to his and Bree’s question about the details of Eric Dalton’s agreement with the Russians seemed obvious.
Eric’s estranged son was a federal agent, and since RICO convictions were within federal jurisdiction, Eric Dalton must have promised the men after him that his son could locate the prosecution’s star witness.
Fucking idiot.
Drew’s first thought was to abscond to the bathroom to call Bree Stafford and provide a rundown of what he’d learned, but he had refrained. The little dive bar where he’d met up with Sergei was owned and operated by the Russians, and he wasn’t willing to risk the possibility that the conversation would be overheard.
Once he was in his car and headed away from the damn bar, he would be free and clear to contact his friend.
He flicked his wrist in a departing wave to the bartender as he pushed his way through the second set of double doors. As he remembered Bree’s ominous warning from earlier in the day, the little hairs on the back of his neck rose to attention. The sensation of goose bumps on his arms wasn’t the result of the brisk evening air. His well-worn, olive drab jacket was still insulated just as thoroughly as it had been when he’d bought it almost a decade ago.
Bree’s hunch was correct, but he still wasn’t sure he saw the same danger that she had.
Ever since they first started working together during Bree’s stint in organized crime, she’d been privy to the same types of hunches.
When he asked her about the instinctual reactions, she had told him that the women on the maternal side of her family were sensitive. At first, Drew thought she’d referred to some sort of hacky psychic capability, but she laughed off the suggestion. They weren’t psychic, she had said, they were just in tune with their instincts.
Psychologists called the phenomenon “rapid cognition,” and Drew could count Bree’s inaccurate hunches on one hand. If she suspected trouble was amiss in their case, then there was a high likelihood she was right.
Drew cast a hurried glance over his shoulder and jammed his hands in his pockets.
To stay consistent with Misha’s backstory, he didn’t carry a weapon aside from the hunting knife sheathed at his back. However, in a close-quarters fight, the blade was an effective weapon in the hands of someone who knew how to properly wield it.
A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye froze him in place.
The shadowy figure of a man leaned against the driver’s side door of a car, arms crossed over his chest. Drew�
�s car was in the lot catty-corner to the bar parking area. All he had to do was keep moving.
If the man wanted to kill him, he would have already brandished a firearm.
He had just departed the discussion with Sergei, and he’d watched the man drive down the street only moments after he left. If Sergei had picked up on Drew’s identity, he wouldn’t have told him about Eric Dalton’s potential connection to the RICO witness.
Long story short…his cover hadn’t been blown.
All he had to do was make it to the damn parking lot.
Pulse pounding in his ears, Drew started back in his trek with renewed vigor. He had to refrain from an outright sprint as he hustled past the entrance to the lot.
Though his head was turned straight forward, he kept the strange figure in his periphery for as long as he could manage. As soon as the man disappeared from his vision, he thought he was in the clear.
He thought wrong.
“Excuse me,” a voice called out from the darkness at his back.
Ignore it. He’s probably a bum or a druggie trying to beg for cash. Drew didn’t slow his pace.
“Excuse me, Misha Pelevin.” The volume of the man’s voice was no higher than conversational, but the bass reverberated off the concrete and carried over to Drew like the words had been uttered at his side.
Drew paused mid-step. He wondered if he could sprint to the end of the block and across the street before the stranger caught him. But it didn’t matter if the man could keep pace with him or not. A bullet could easily close the distance.
Each motion was agony. Drew clenched and unclenched his fists as he turned his head to the approaching figure.
Ruddy orange streetlight glinted off the silver badge in one of the man’s gloved hands. “Mr. Pelevin, I’m Detective Smith with the Baltimore City Police Department. I’m going to need you to come with me, please.”
Bile stung the back of Drew’s throat.
He swallowed hard against the sudden bout of nausea, but before he could rebuke the alleged detective’s request, he spotted it. The matte black service weapon in the man’s other hand.
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 mirro
r, 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.
