by Dana Lyons
Once the words were out, Sasha released Stepan’s shoulder and grabbed the back of his neck. “Good,” he exclaimed congenially, but then he tightened his grip to a vicious hold as he brought them face to face. “And Stepan, you never cross me.”
Stepan’s eyes bugged when the grip tightened on his neck, but he nodded vigorously. “Never,” he said. “Never cross you, ever.”
Sasha searched Stepan’s eyes. Along with having a pretty face, Stepan also had that thread of at-any-cost self-preservation visible in his eyes. “Good,” he said, and released Stepan’s neck.
He stepped back, jokingly took a fighting stance, and delivered an easy brotherly punch to Stepan’s shoulder. “Now,” he said with a great smile, turning from the stench of the dead boy. “Let’s get you fixed up. Oh, what I said about not killing anyone before? I lied. That’s not a problem for you, is it?”
Stepan shook his head vigorously. “Don’t want to be dead boy, so, no. Not a problem.”
“Good,” Sasha confirmed.” Now, what kind of knife do you like?”
2
At the NATO tactical room, Quinn listened to his team’s plans.
“Ivanov’s trafficking squads all work at different times in each city.” Felix put up an array of still-shots from CCTV footage from Rome, Brussels, Paris and Berlin.
“By watching these four cities over the last ten days, we see that they arrive in the city, secure resources such as phones, housing, and vehicles through a shell company of a shell company, etc.,” Anika added.
August continued. “They target tourists from different hotels, mostly mid-priced establishments.”
“Can’t ruffle the upper crust,” Quinn said.
“Right,” Felix agreed. “They stalk their middle-class victims for two days, make the capture, and are gone within 36 hours.”
Quinn waited to hear the end of the tale. “Then what?”
Anika huffed. “Then we lose the victims as they get injected into Ivanov’s system.”
“And the lieutenants show up in another city in a random rotation with no pattern within 36 hours. Rinse and repeat,” Felix finished.
“How are the victims transported out?” Quinn asked.
“Probably by truck over EU borders till they reach a boat and slip into the night, never to be seen again,” August said.
“Have any of his victims escaped to tell the tale?” Felix’s fingers didn’t move to tap the keyboard and pull up survivor files. Quinn’s mouth went dry.
Of the thousands each year, no surviving escapees.
“If we can’t get Ivanov, let’s get his men,” he said.
“Stepan Kozar is his number one,” said Felix. “He and Ivanov are always together.”
“Then we’ll collect his lieutenants and see if any of them crack. Bring them in from every border check point, plane, train and bus station. I want their faces live and wanted.”
“At the very least we can save the victims from these disrupted operations,” Anika said.
“Maybe that’ll get Ivanov’s attention,” Quinn said. “Maybe he’ll show himself.”
The arrest notices on the two dozen lieutenants went out immediately. One by one, they were captured, detained and transported to a special Black Ops holding facility for questioning.
“Maxim Solonik, picked up entering Belgium,” Quinn said, watching the man in the interrogation room. Solonik, in his mid-twenties, appeared to be well built, good looking, and as cold-blooded as a dead sturgeon.
He entered the interrogation room. “Maxim, I’m Investigative Officer Quinn Kingston with a NATO Special Task Force on Human Trafficking.” He sat at the table and let Solonik’s thick file slap the tabletop. “Max, you’re a busy boy.”
Maxim pulled back with a sneer. “You have nothing on me because I have done nothing. So, let me go or call my attorney.” He tipped his head back with arrogant confidence.
“Well, it just so happens I can place you at the scene of several kidnappings over the last month in Paris, Rome, and Brussels.”
“Call the attorney.”
Quinn turned to the two-way window and motioned to turn off the camera. “I understand you’re loyal to Ivanov.”
“Who’s that?”
“Sasha Ivanov, approximately 28 years old, from Yekaterinburg. At around age 12 he murdered Nikolay Reznikov, cut his penis off and stuffed it in his mouth. Ivanov has blue eyes and a lightning bolt tattoo on his left cheekbone.
“Currently, he runs an international human trafficking organization which you are a part of and for which I will put you away for a long time under conditions you wouldn’t chose. A very long time.”
“I told you. I don’t know this Ivanov person. Let me go or call my attorney.”
“No, that’s not going to happen. You see, I’m going to throw you in a cell and forget about you. I’m going to do the same to the rest of Ivanov’s men, then I’m going to forget about all of you until someone gets thirsty, or hungry, or needs a fix. Once one of you talks, you’re all going down—except the one who talks.”
It took four days to make this announcement to all two dozen. One by one they went into their cells. Not one admitted to recognizing Ivanov.
“None of them are going to crack,” Anika said. “I studied all their videos and history, and they’re far more terrified of Ivanov than you.”
Twenty-four hours passed. Another day. And another day.
“How much water you giving them?” Anika asked.
“No more than I have to.”
“You can’t keep them much longer,” August said.
“I know. I really thought one would crack.” Quinn stared at the list of names, wishing he could wrap his hands around their necks.
If it were up to me, none of them would live.
“I’d feel better if these men never returned to Ivanov,” he ruminated out loud, feeling the glances pass behind his back. Locking up the lieutenants was meant to reveal a crack in the organization, but seeing the response from these twenty-four men left him doubtful.
Setting them free will likely bring Ivanov down on us. What have I done?
“Give it another day,” he ordered.
Forty-eight hours later, they processed the men out. Quinn watched as they were transported from the facility one by one, their exits leaving a rash of bad feeling skittering down his back. “We should have killed them.”
“I put tracers in all their phones, but they were burners. They’ll be in the trash as soon as they step off the bus,” Felix said.
“We saved the lives of at least a hundred innocent victims,” Anika said.
“We failed,” Quinn declared. “Ivanov will come after us.”
“Good. I’ve got a 7.62 round with his name on it,” August said.
“I want you all to take time off,” he ordered. “Avoid home, travel where you usually don’t go. Stay out of sight.”
“How long?” Anika asked.
“A few days. Give Ivanov time to move on to other business.”
* * *
Before leaving Orsk to visit his mother, Ivanov issued instructions. “Stepan, I’ll be gone a few days. Watch over things here until I get back.”
“Where do you go?”
A smile came to Sasha’s lips. He would travel by train once again over the Urals—going back to the beginning. “I thought I’d pay my mother a visit. I haven’t seen her in almost four years.”
“Will she be returning with you?”
Sasha held his new knife in the light, enjoying the deadly glint on the sharp steel. He retracted the stiletto blade and slipped it into his pocket. “Probably not.”
He took the train to Yekaterinburg, riding first class this time instead of in a stock car with three dead bodies. When he approached the block where he used to live in a dark and dingy apartment, he waited down the street, watching for his mother to make the daily vodka run to the market.
“Predictable, Mother, as always,” he muttered as he watched her skinny
ass hustle down the street. Once she turned the corner, he entered the building and climbed the stairs. At the shabby door of the only home he’d known before being sold to Nikolay, he pressed the button on his new knife and used the slim blade to force the lock.
The door popped open, and he slipped in. He wrinkled his nose at the stink of dirty laundry and stale cigarette smoke. The kitchen was a cold and barren room, with empty vodka bottles overflowing the trash. In the small refrigerator, he found a loaf of hard bread and a jar of jam with green mold on top.
He stared about at the shabby conditions. “I see you drank the money you got from Nikolay.” He sat in a dark corner and waited for her to return, flicking the blade on his stiletto knife, watching the razor edge explode from the hidden chamber over, and over, and over.
* * *
Quinn traced his fingers gently up Anika’s arm to her shoulder. In the early morning light, her skin was golden from a week in Amalfi. Her pale Scandinavian hair had bleached almost to white in some strands and lay in contrast against her bronzed back. Seven days on a sailboat, just the two of them, and he hadn’t had enough of her.
“I hear you thinking, you know.” She rolled onto her back. “And I know what you want.”
He pressed his erection against her thigh, and whispered, “That’s not my thoughts telling you what I want.” He pulled her on top of him so his hard on slid between her thighs and rode against her butt cheeks.
“You’re cheating,” she whispered, and sucked on a sensitive spot on his neck. She lifted her hips and his hard on sprang against his belly. When she lowered back down, his rigid flesh was trapped between them.
“You think you can wake me,” she asked, “and have me at your beck and call?” She rode forward and back, wiggling against him so her lips opened, spreading damp friction on his hard flesh.
“Oh no, that’s not how it works. You have to work for it, sailor,” she chided in sultry reprimand. She pushed herself upright, lifted onto her knees and gripped his hard on so she could take him in. She rose up then came down, encasing him in her warmth.
As she ground against him, he stroked her buttocks, moving his hands up over her flared hips to guide her movements back and forth. Each stroke incited hot rushes of sensation to build. He moved his hands up her ribs so he could hold her breasts and caress her hard nipples with the palms of his hands.
Faster she rode, driving him to return his hands to her hips as he pumped to match her pace. She had her head thrown back, her hair pouring down her back, her breasts bobbing with each stroke. When her thighs tightened, he closed his eyes and released his control, focusing on the building pressure.
His orgasm came up and rocketed out from his genitals and through his limbs. Shaking, he grunted with his release and gasped for air as she slumped down on him, her hair surrounding them in a white halo.
Her exhalations rasped in his ear, her hair tickled his neck and her breasts pressed into him with her heavy breathing. He smiled. “Was I a good sailor?” he whispered.
She giggled and kissed his neck. “I’ll let you know after you fix breakfast.”
“Aye, aye,” he murmured. He kissed her on the nose and got out of bed, threw on shorts and began prepping for breakfast in the galley. They were anchored off the coast of Amalfi, and the ocean glimmered cerulean blue all the way to the horizon. Other sailboats and yachts bobbed in the water; it was a hedonistic getaway.
“Eggs?” he called out.
She stood one step down from the galley deck, tugging on a tee-shirt when an engine on one of the boats nearby backfired. The noise echoed over the water like a shot. Quinn jumped in front of her, knocking her to the floor of the lower deck.
“Ow,” she cried as she stood up. “Quinn!”
He visually cleared the area surrounding the boat and assessed no real risk, but his heart pounded against his ribs with adrenaline. “Sorry, I thought—” He gave her a hand to help her up the steps into the galley.
“I know what you thought, and you have to stop this. It’s been six months since Ivanov, and you’ve been like piano wire ever since.”
She was right. Still, he ground his jaws. “I just—”
“You just worry is what you do.” She cupped his jaw and drew him in for a kiss. “And I love you for it. But this hypervigilance is going to kill you; you have to let go of it.”
He pulled her in so she wouldn’t see the fear ripple across his face. All his life he had been the golden boy with everything perfect. His childhood, his years at Sandhurst, all the military and special ops training, each challenge passed with ease because he was fearless, and thus invincible.
But he fell in love. And now he was vulnerable.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, and he hugged her tighter as her warmth took the chill from his bones. “I can’t lose you,” he whispered hoarsely against her hair. Just speaking the words caused his eyes to burn, and he had to blink rapidly to shut down his tears.
She pulled back, forcing him to look at her. “I’m here, not lost. Now fix me breakfast, or you’ll be walking the plank before lunch.”
Soon they had omelets and toast with fresh fruit served under a canopy on the stern deck. The boat rocked gently, laughter from nearby vessels skipped over the water, and the breeze stirred the halyards to slap. Her bright smile set off her blue eyes, and her hair whipped against her tanned face. It was a peaceful moment, one he gathered and tucked away in his heart.
“Why do you do it?” she asked, grinning around an orange slice like a clown.
He laughed at her antics. “Why do I fix you breakfast?” Mystified, he offered, “Because I love you?”
She nudged him with her leg. “No, I’m not talking about breakfast. Why do you risk your life being the Badass Black-ops guy when you have a more than generous trust fund to keep you afloat? Instead of paying outrageous maintenance and dockage fees for this boat, you could be a tanned and handsome boatie with an armful of pretty girls.”
Considering her proposal, he paused to think. “A boatie. Well, that does sound good, especially if you were part of the package. But.” He put a finger to his chin. “I wouldn’t get to ride in a helicopter and blow up buildings and bad guys, would I?”
She shook her head. He sucked his teeth.
“And I probably wouldn’t have much opportunity to lie on a rooftop with my Remington cross-hairs on some ugly dude’s face a mile away, either.” His lips clamped tight with grim assessment as he tapped her on the arm. Sadly, he lamented, “You know how much I love doing that.” He sighed and shook his head as if all the fun in the world had died.
“All right,” she laughed. “You give me that puppy dog face and I’m all noodle. But with Ivanov booted from our caseload, you have to promise me you’ll relax.” She pierced him with her profiler I-can-see-inside-you gaze.
He saluted and kissed her on the nose with a smile. “Aye, aye, captain,” he agreed, even though Ivanov was never far from his thoughts.
* * *
The following week, after returning from Amalfi, Quinn remained at his apartment in Brussels to prepare an operations assessment for the next day. As he sat in his office, a knock came at the door. He knew Anika was at her apartment putting together her notes for tomorrow. Felix was in town for the day on business. August called earlier from home, said he’d be there until he left for an appointment.
He drew his gun from his holster, approached the door, moved the curtain to see out, and watched a Special Delivery van pull away. On the porch was a plain envelope.
“Not expecting anything,” he murmured as he stepped out the door and quickly glanced right and left, clearing the area.
When he saw no one, he holstered his gun and stared at the envelope. His name and address were clearly typed, but the return address was nothing to him. Before he could decide what to do, his cell phone pinged with an incoming message. He glanced at his phone and saw the email address matched the unknown name on the envelope.
A bad fee
ling fired in his stomach. He glared at the envelope with fierce concentration and was ready to call in the bomb squad when a cell phone rang inside the envelope.
Don’t open it, don’t answer it!
But deep in his gut he knew—
Have to.
Using a pocket knife, he sliced open the envelope and pulled out a burner phone. His training argued fiercely for him to disengage, but his fear won the argument. He accepted the call but didn’t speak. A bead of sweat trickled past his temple. He held his breath, and a voice held his attention.
“Mr. Kingston, this is Sasha Ivanov.”
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He wanted to drop the phone, to destroy it and remove it from his universe, because he knew, as he always had, Ivanov would come for them one day. “You only want me,” he said. “I’ll meet you anywhere. Just you and me.”
His heart slammed against his ribs. His primal brain wanted to drop into a crouch, the trained part of his mind screamed for confrontation.
Just let me get my hands on you.
He waited, daring to hope Ivanov would go for the deal. Anything to save his team.
“I’m sorry, Quinn Kingston, but that won’t do. I believe you just received a multi-media message on your phone. You want to open this message.”
A scream of horror and denial rose from his heart, but he opened his phone and retrieved the message: a video of an apartment door.
“You don't want to miss this,” Ivanov said.
Dread lodged in his throat and choked him as he watched, recognizing August’s front door. August stepped out and pulled the door closed. A red dot appeared on his chest an instant before the dot bloomed with blood. August dropped out of sight.
“No,” Quinn shrieked into the burner phone. “You want accountability, you claim me, not them.” Another multi-media messaged pinged into his phone. He ground his jaws as a sickening fear expanded in his gut. Unable to turn away, he opened the next video.
