by Mary Stone
Breaking my gaze away from the frustrating sight, I looked around the area behind me. When I spotted the same man seated at a bench against the wall, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Though the man pretended to observe his phone, it was clear that his interest lay elsewhere.
Did he work for the TSA, or was he here for me?
As I swallowed down the bile in the back of my throat, I spotted another suspicious person. A blonde woman, and like the man by the wall, she was engrossed in the screen in her hands.
The TSA might have had one plainclothes security official, but I doubted they’d have two.
And if there were two cops, there was no doubt there were more nearby.
Kneeling down to unzip my travel bag, I kept my movements as measured and even as I could manage. If I escaped the airport with no money and no way to obtain money, the effort would be pointless. I’d already been forced to leave my weapons behind. I wasn’t about to take off with no money, either.
My hand settled on an envelope, and then a small bag I’d stuffed with prepaid cards. Between those two items and the documents I already had in my wallet, I would be able to lay low outside the city until the heat died down.
I cast one more glance to the man and woman. I hoped they’d be gone, or that they would have convened with their family or friends.
But they hadn’t.
They were still there. In fact, they had moved closer. The man no longer sat at his bench—he had started his nonchalant advance to where I stood.
I clenched my jaw and rose back to my full height.
And then, I ran.
Bobby watched Tony Johansson’s body language from the video feed on his phone’s screen. Even though Bobby was certain Tony never saw him enter the airport, something had spooked the man. Bobby could see it in the way Tony’s shoulders had tensed, his facial expression as he took everything in.
It wouldn’t have been Winter. He knew she was being just as careful as he was. But still…
Pressing down on the button to the microphone clipped to his jacket, he kept his eyes on the screen as he crept closer to the security gate. “He’s spooked. We should just take him down now.”
As the crooked detective stood, Bobby hardly heard Winter’s staticky response. With one last paranoid glance, he leapt over one of the bands that was used to create a single winding path to the security checkpoint. Bobby burst from around the corner he’d hidden behind, but to his chagrin, Detective Johansson was already sprinting toward the entrance to a skywalk.
The elevated hall led to a massive parking garage, at the bottom of which was a route to exit the airport grounds.
Almost as an afterthought, Bobby clicked the microphone as he took off after Tony. “He’s headed to the parking garage.”
“Okay, I’m heading down to try to cut him off.” Winter’s tone was calm and determined.
As Bobby’s footsteps echoed over the polished floor, he lamented his neglect to change to a pair of shoes more conducive to foot pursuit of a suspect. He zigzagged through a throng of puzzled travelers, a handful of gasps left in his wake. The block text on the back of his jacket would tell them all they needed to know.
When he sprinted to the start of the skywalk, he looked into the distance and the shadowy entrance to the parking garage. The instant he spotted a fast-moving man among the group of otherwise slow-moving patrons, he ran to the set of glass doors as fast as his legs could carry him. There were fewer people to dodge here, but Bobby wasn’t above shoving them out of his way if they didn’t clear a damn path.
The stench of car exhaust greeted him like an unwanted embrace as he pushed his way to the veritable concrete fortress. He snapped his gaze left, then right.
With hardly a pause, Tony Johansson planted both hands on a concrete barrier between two sections of the same downward sloping road. As he leapt, Bobby took in a deep breath and sprinted after him. There were a handful of confused shouts from the civilians at his back, but he ignored them.
As Bobby approached the cement divider, he slowed his gait to a jog. Grasping the top of the four-foot wall with both hands, he used the momentum from his sprint to haul him over to the other side. He hit the ground running, and he noted with some satisfaction that the gap between him and Tony Johansson had narrowed a bit.
But unless Winter had found a quicker route to the ground floor, Bobby needed to close the rest of the distance. Gritting his teeth against the burn in his side, he forced his tired legs to move faster. He wasn’t in the same shape he’d maintained during his time in the Special Forces, but Bobby still worked to maintain a level of physical fitness that far surpassed the average Joe.
Apparently, so did Tony Johansson.
Rather than continue down the sloping concrete, Johansson took a sharp turn to the set of glass and metal doors that led to the stairwell. As Bobby followed the man’s path, he pinched the mic. “He’s headed down the stairwell. The southeast corner.”
“Shit,” Winter spat. “All right, I’m on my way. I’m on the main floor. I’m at the northwest corner, though. I’ll get there as quickly as I can.”
Bobby didn’t bother to offer a response.
He needed what little precious air he could pull into his lungs. His feet pounded against the concrete as he closed the distance to the stairwell, each jolt a pointed reminder that he wasn’t the twenty-two-year-old soldier he’d been during his second tour of Afghanistan.
Flinging open the nearest door, he launched himself toward the staircase. Though faint, he could hear the echo of Johansson’s steps as the man desperately tried to stay ahead of his pursuer.
With one hand, Bobby brushed the railing as he took the stairs down two at a time. He thought to shout at Johansson to stop, but he knew better than to think the man would heed his command. Tony Johansson had gone all or nothing. He either escaped, or he was caught and imprisoned. No caveat, no gray area.
Do or die. Sink or swim.
As he dared a glance over the side of the railing, he noted that there was a gap of less than a floor between them. The impact of his feet on the concrete steps was just as jarring, if not more so, than the sprint across flat asphalt.
The stairwell was a square, and if Bobby could close a little more of the distance between them, he might be able to use his higher position to his advantage. He looked over to a large plaque with the number two printed in the center.
Whatever he was going to do, he had to do it soon.
His side was on fire, and his breathing came in short, desperate gasps. He needed to catch this bastard soon, or he’d be liable to collapse into a heap at the bottom of the stairs.
Screw it all, he thought.
Clamping both hands down on the metal railing, he leapt off the fifth or sixth step and swung himself down to the landing. A few more steps, and then he took hold of the rail again. This time, however, he hauled himself over the corner of empty space between the landing and the next set of stairs.
There were a million and one different ways he could have messed up the maneuver and gone ass for appetite down the concrete stairwell, but even if he wasn’t in the same shape he’d been during his tenure in the military, Bobby’s reflexes were just as sharp as ever.
His feet had only just met the stairs as Johansson stepped onto the next landing. The disgraced detective snapped his wide-eyed stare to Bobby, though only for a split-second.
A split-second was all Bobby needed.
As Bobby took hold of the railing with his vice-like grip and lifted himself onto the metal handhold, he almost felt like he was a kid about to slide down the banister to hurry to the dining room for breakfast.
Only for this trip, he didn’t have eggs or waffles waiting. All he had at the figurative finish line was a dirty cop who’d sold out Drew Hansford and led the FBI agent to his death.
When Bobby was halfway down his descent of the handrail, Johansson finally thought to continue his descent to the main floor, to his supposed salvation.
But the decision came too late.
Bobby had him.
Rather than ride the railing to the landing, Bobby made use of his leftover momentum as he shoved himself away with both hands. If Tony Johansson hadn’t been at the edge of the landing, Bobby would have catapulted facefirst into the damn floor.
To his relief, Tony broke his fall.
The impact was at least ten times as jarring as the jolts that went through his legs while he’d sprinted down the stairs. Johansson’s face smashed into the arm he’d only just managed to throw in front of himself as he crumpled to the cement below.
Before the descent of the tackle had even finished, Bobby wrenched the man’s other arm behind his back. Still gasping for breath, he reached to his back to produce a pair of silver handcuffs. The sickly yellow light of the garage glinted off the polished metal as he closed one cuff around Tony’s wrist.
Jamming one knee into the center of the man’s back, he propped himself up and reached for the arm that had barely prevented Tony’s face from colliding with the landing. As he closed the second cuff to bind both the traitorous bastard’s hands behind his back, he took a deep breath.
“Tony Johansson.” He had to pause for another desperate gulp of air. “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, as anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and if you can’t afford one, one will be provided to you. Do you understand these rights as I have read them?”
Amidst Johansson’s labored breathing, the man grunted. “Yes.”
With one more breath, Bobby pressed the button on the microphone. “I’ve got him. Southeast stairwell, first level.”
Winter’s breathing was almost as labored as Bobby’s. “I’m on my way.”
Glancing down to the back of Tony’s head, Bobby ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.
The foot pursuit had been the easy part.
Now, they had to try to convince Tony Johansson to tell them where Natalie and Jon Falkner were.
Now came the hard part.
36
Aside from a bruise on the side of his forehead, Winter was surprised to see that Tony Johansson was unscathed. According to Bobby, he’d leapt off a railing to tackle Johansson to the ground. Although she didn’t care much if Bobby had squashed the man into a greasy spot on the concrete floor, she was glad the detective was alive and well. He wouldn’t be able to tell them the location of Eric Dalton’s daughter if he was in a coma or dead.
Before Bobby had joined her behind the familiar pane of one-way glass, he’d stopped by his hotel room to shower and change his clothes. According to him, he didn’t want to subject her to an extended period of time in close quarters with a sweaty man who smelled like a week-old gym sock.
As she caught a whiff of the woodsy scent of his shampoo and conditioner, she was suddenly glad for his attention to vanity. The light scent of soap was a vast improvement from body odor and smelly feet.
They had been forced to wait for Tony Johansson’s lawyer to arrive, and Bobby had made good use of the time. While she had waited for the agent to return to the office, Winter had sent a message to Noah, checking in with him. He hadn’t replied yet, and she was starting to worry. If he didn’t reply soon, she thought she’d send out an all-point bulletin.
She’d also exchanged a handful of text messages with Aiden to check on the status of Justin’s case. Forensics in Richmond was in the process of wrapping up the examination of evidence from a homicide, and next on their docket were the items they’d taken from the house in Harrisonburg.
Meanwhile, the forensics department in the Baltimore office had suddenly been inundated with evidence secured from Alek’s residence, and now Tony Johansson’s. Marie Judd was nowhere to be found, and Winter could only assume she was busy helping the crime scene techs and agents sort through their findings.
Bobby’s alert eyes flicked over to her as he lifted a brow. “You ready?”
Winter nodded.
“Too bad Parrish isn’t here, huh?” A ghost of a smile passed over Bobby’s face as he cast one last glance to the glass.
She clapped Bobby’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine. Aiden was sort of my mentor, so I’ll try to make him proud.”
Bobby chuckled as they stepped out into the hall. “Ready?”
Winter dropped one hand down to the metal handle. “Ready.”
A light creak accompanied the motion as she shoved the door inward. She shifted her gaze from the well-dressed lawyer to his disheveled client. “Mr. Johansson, we’ve already met. Mr. Thorton, I’m Agent Black and this is my partner, Agent Weyrick.”
Bobby offered the pair a charming smile. “Gentlemen.”
The lawyer nodded. “What can I do for you, Agents?”
As the door latched closed, Winter took up residence against the same wall where Aiden had stood the night before.
“Well,” Bobby paused to pull out a chair across from Tony and his lawyer, “we think your client might be able to help us with something, and in exchange…” He left the thought unfinished and shrugged.
Before Winter could add her piece, a sharp pain lanced from her temple through her head. The sensation was so sudden, she hardly managed to hold back a wince. Not now, dammit. Not now.
Thorton narrowed his eyes at Bobby. “What exactly is it you think my client did that he’d need your help, anyway?”
With a chortle, Bobby shook his head. “Really? We’ve got physical evidence that ties your client to a double kidnapping and the murder of a federal agent. Your client’s staring down the barrel of the death penalty unless he gives us something we want to know.”
The lawyer turned his incredulous stare from Bobby to Winter and back. “The death penalty? How exactly do you figure you’re going to get a seasoned, decorated detective in the narcotics department of the Baltimore PD sentenced to death, Agent?”
Bobby’s shrug was as noncommittal as his expression. “Even if he had a purple heart hanging from his balls, that’s the normal penalty when you’re responsible for the death of a law enforcement agent. That, plus the kidnappings, plus your client’s ties to the Russian mob ought to do the trick. Doubt any judge in his right mind would think any of those were mitigating circumstances.”
“The Russian mob?” Thorton paused to laugh, though the mirth didn’t reach his dark eyes. “You’re kidding, right? Do you have any proof of that?”
Winter was more prepared for the second lance of pain. As the warmth trickled from her nose, her heart hammered in her chest. With one hand, she reached into the pocket of her slacks for a tissue. Even though the headaches were few and far between these days, she was grateful she still carried a tissue with her at all times.
Johansson’s blue eyes followed the motion as she dabbed at her nose. “Sorry.” She wasn’t actually sorry. “It’s the dry air. I’m used to the Virginia humidity.”
Johansson looked unconvinced, but he returned his focus to Bobby.
“Agents.” Thorton sighed. “If you keep throwing around ridiculous accusations like this, you’d better be prepared to show us some evidence. Yeah, I know you’ve got the particles. And you should also know that the Russians deal in automotive work quite a bit, and it’s entirely likely that the particles were transferred to Mr. Johansson’s jacket when he was doing his job.”
Winter could hardly make sense of the thoughts that flooded her mind in those next few moments. Her pulse rushed in her ears, but there was no new twinge of pain.
Just names—Russian names. Names she’d caught a glimpse of while in the police station. She’d wondered about them then, but she knew about them now.
An offshore account located in the Cayman Islands, far away from the prying eyes of the IRS.
And then, there were the victims.
Women’s names, men’s names, young, old, all at the start of a news article about a suspicious death or a mysterious disappearance. All their names scrawled along a whi
teboard in the Baltimore police station, along with dates and case numbers. She watched as an officer rewrote some of the names and dates in a black marker to indicate the case had been closed, but more often than not, the text remained red.
But one name stood out above the rest—Alena.
Winter had read that Alena was an immigrant from the Ukraine, and she’d been brought to the States with the aid of her brother, Ilya Gulin. Her brother, a Russian mafia enforcer.
The nameless, faceless RICO witness.
Winter knew it as well as she knew her last name.
“What about Ilya Gulin?” She felt like someone else had voiced the question, but she recognized the voice as her own. “Or Ivan Tokarev? Ivan’s wife and Ilya’s sister, Alena, what about her?”
The shock on Tony Johansson’s face would have been funny if she hadn’t wanted to punch him in the throat.
“What?” Johansson managed.
When Winter squeezed her eyes closed to rub the bridge of her nose, she saw a woman she knew instinctively was Alena Tokarev, Ivan’s wife. No, not his wife. Alena Chekhova was Ivan’s mistress. And Ivan was one of the two brigadiers who had been imprisoned without bail as they awaited a RICO trial that would likely send them to prison for the rest of their lives.
Winter could hear Alena’s voice as she pleaded with Ivan to just let her leave. The woman’s pale blue eyes filled with tears as a tall, broad-shouldered man wrapped her golden hair around one hand and jerked her head backward.
They’d been in Alena’s house, standing in front of the open suitcases that she’d been midway through packing when Ivan arrived.
Alena Chekhova had been killed—murdered by Ivan after she’d become pregnant with his child. He’d beat her to death in a fit of rage, and who better to help him clean the scene than a Baltimore detective?
“Ivan Tokarev,” Winter repeated. “You helped him, didn’t you? Helped him wipe Alena Chekhova’s blood off the walls of her bedroom, helped bleach all the spots where her brain matter stained the hardwood floor. Bleach makes it so blood doesn’t show up with luminol, that’s what you told him, wasn’t it?”
