by David Pepper
“They are confident I will recover, and it was too important to miss,” he whispered. He swallowed, then took a breath, the sound magnified by another whoosh from the bedside device. “We now know the exact policy that will be implemented.”
Focus on his eyes, Katrina told herself. Stifle any satisfaction.
As the syndicate partners acquired assets in anticipation of the new law, they needed to stay below the thresholds. But how big was too big? Thanks to Dyadya’s trip, they would now know.
On the bed’s other side, his thin, hairless left arm rose inches above the blanket, a spindly index finger pointing across the room. Another whoosh sounded as he drew a long breath.
“Over there. That file has all the information we will need.”
A thin manila folder sat by itself on a mahogany desktop. The final ground rules. Two or three pages that would shape a decade of American economics, guiding the syndicate to billions.
She stood up, stepped to the desk to retrieve the file, then sat back in the chair. The hand that had previously touched his now gripped the file at her side. She leaned over the bed and looked directly into his eyes, her cheeks burning.
“Dyadya, why did you lie to me?”
The rhythm from the machine sped up for a few breaths. His veiny eyelids rolled slowly down, held for a moment, then lifted back up. He knew why she was there.
“Because I believed it was best.”
“I have spent eleven years alone.”
“Have I not been here for you all that time?”
“I have always been thankful. But Mikhail is my own brother.”
“And he needed my help as well.”
“Why?”
“Katrina, have I not helped you when you needed it?”
“But he killed his own mother. My mother.”
His eyes swelled, revealing even more intense redness at their edges. The rhythmic breaths from the machine quickened.
“Is that what they have told you?” Another breath. “Mikhail found your father standing over her. So he killed him, then called for help.”
Katrina stared at him blankly. He spoke firmly, but the words in the message had been so clear.
“Father was coming back into her life. Our lives. They were happy. Mother was happy. Why would he kill her?”
“He was their pawn. They wanted my money and I refused. Killing Sophia was their punishment.”
“Then why keep Mikhail a secret all this time?”
“The less you knew, the better for you both. The fewer people who knew he was alive, the better.”
Her head throbbed. Dyadya was saying what he needed to say, and she had no grounds to rebut it. But the message rung in her ear. Beyond its words, the sender knew the day of the deaths. And the tie to Razi Dallas. No one back home had known she’d had a relationship in England, let alone with whom. But the sender knew.
“So where is he now?”
He drew three short gasps without answering.
“Dyadya, where is he now?”
Another breath. “Brooklyn.”
“What does he do there?”
One breath, then another, echoed by the machine. “He runs some businesses.”
“What types of businesses?”
“A variety.”
“And how is he safe?”
Four breaths followed. Deeper than any thus far. He did not like this question.
She was getting closer. When healthy, Dyadya hid every emotion. He lied without detection. Unlike most, he didn’t sweat, alter his breathing pattern, change the tone of his voice, or look askance. But his weakened lungs and the oxygen machine were exposing him like a lie detector, flagging moments of dishonesty or unease.
“What do you mean?”
“If he is now running businesses in Brooklyn, how is he safe when he was not safe eleven years ago?”
Rage enveloped her, her arms and legs trembling.
Two deep breaths.
“We came to an arrangement.”
It made no sense.
“I would like to talk to him.”
“But, Katrina, it has been so long.”
Whoosh. The machine echoed his discomfort. Whoosh.
“Yes, it has. Which is why I must talk to him.”
He sighed, reaching for his phone. His spindly finger touched the screen several times, then he held the phone up. The screen displayed a number beginning with the digits 917—the only area code she’d known before setting foot on the Princeton campus.
Below it, the name “Mikhail” appeared. The brother she had thought was dead.
Her legs fell limp, forcing her to sit back in the small chair. Every emotion that had coursed through her on that futon eleven years ago surged back.
* * *
• • •
“Katrina? Is that really you? It has been so long.” His voice was a deep baritone, much lower than before.
“It is.”
She paused.
In the seconds it had taken her to dial, memories of a young Mikhail flashed in her head—details she had blocked out for eleven years and that the photo in her London drawer didn’t capture. Unlike her, Mikhail had always run with the troublemakers, in school before being expelled and even more so on the streets. Three times in the year before she died, Mother had been forced to get him out of jail—for stealing, selling pills, and destroying an old man’s jaw. The skulls tattooed to his knuckles had caused loud arguments with Mother; she’d been around the neighborhood long enough to know what they symbolized.
When Dyadya mentioned businesses, Katrina imagined the type of mayhem her brother, fully grown-up, was causing. She also recalled the second part of the message.
They’ve taken Razi Dallas to keep it a secret.
She had never said a word about Razi Dallas to anyone. Not to her mother, who would have worried. Not to her dyadya, who would have pushed him away. Not to Mikhail, whom she hadn’t communicated with about such things. Only her Oxford roommate had known they’d been growing close.
How the sender had learned the name was a mystery. But it reinforced the message’s credibility. The sender must have tracked Razi down. And, knowing Razi, he must have started asking questions back in Brooklyn.
“Please release him at once. He has nothing to do with any of this.”
Dyadya took his most strained gasps yet, staring at her as she spoke.
The deep voice on the phone replied. “Katrina, I’m confused. Who are you talking about? What are you talking about?”
“Mikhail, I have no time to waste. Release him. He knows nothing. He is not a threat.”
CHAPTER 123
CLEVELAND
Whoa, sir. Slow down!”
The security guard lifted his hand like a crossing guard as I raced out of the elevator, stopping me inches short of the metal detector. “Who ya visiting?”
“A patient named Oleg Kazarov.”
“Say the name again?”
“Oleg Kazarov. He’s Russian.”
“Does he expect you?
“He does. My name is Jack Sharpe.”
I spoke quickly, hoping to spark some urgency. Dominoes were falling quickly. The rerouting of the plane in mid-flight meant that Cassie’s message had packed a punch.
But the guard didn’t catch my cue, studying the list in front of him for a good twenty seconds. “Ah, there you are. Mr. Sharpe. He’s in room 1206. Please sign the sheet.”
I scribbled my name quickly. Directly above my signature, shaky cursive letters spelled out the name Kat Simmons, who’d signed in twenty-two minutes before. That was more than enough time.
“Is Kat still in there?” I asked casually, as if she and I were old friends.
“She must be. She hasn’t signed out yet, has she?”
�
�Doesn’t look like it.”
“Trust me, I would’ve noticed if she’d walked by.”
I stepped through the metal detector, which beeped immediately. Another damn delay.
“You have any metal on you?”
I stepped back through the machine, patted my pants pockets, which were empty, then reached into the pockets of my gray fleece jacket, where I found the culprits.
“Here you go.” He placed my wallet and keys in a small plastic tray as I stepped through again.
Another beep stopped me.
“Must be something else,” the guard said casually.
“Sir, I’m in a big hur—”
“Do you think I care about your damn hurry? We’ve got world-class clientele here, so this floor’s gotta be secure.”
I lifted my right hand in the air. “I have a steel rod in my arm. That’s got to be it.”
His face lit up. “Why didn’t you say so? I’ve got one, too. Take a step forward.”
He stepped around the desk holding the same wand as the Kelleys Island Police Department. He waved it up and down, front and back. Nothing beeped until he held it near my right arm.
“You’re good to go, buddy. Here’s your stuff.”
I jogged down the hallway, jamming my keys and wallet back into my jacket pocket.
The first door I passed displayed the number 1200 in large numerals. The VIP rooms were far apart, so it took me seconds to reach the next door, 1201, again on the left. Jogging faster, I passed 1202 and 1203.
Farther ahead, two nurses scampered from right to left across the hallway.
I was closing in on 1205 when a hand shoved me in my lower back, pushing me to the right. A short man in a white lab coat tore past, then disappeared to the left where the nurses had gone. I arrived seconds later, cutting into the same doorway.
Room 1206.
A yell pierced through the cacophony of noises. “All set!”
The young nurse with a deep tan then whirled my way, holding up two white handles attached to inch-thick pads, spiral cords curling out of each. Defibrillator paddles.
The man who’d run past me ripped the paddles from her hands, kicked a small chair out of the way, and leaned over the bed from its left side. He plunged the paddles into the chest of the brittle, hairless man lying on the bed. Most of his features were lost in his sickly condition, but the Russian mogul’s sharp, pointy nose was unmistakable.
“Clear!”
A high-pitched tone whistled throughout the room, followed by three quick beeps. The doctor’s arms tensed before a low, violent thud sent the patient’s gaunt upper body into a violent convulsion.
The nurse who’d passed the paddles to the doctor now noticed me. “You need to get out of here now.”
“I’m an old friend.” I said it loud enough so that he’d hear me if he could hear at all. But his eyes remained sealed. “Did you see where the woman went?”
That’s when I noticed a different set of beeps, recurring so quickly they almost ran together.
“Clear!” the doctor yelled. The woman ignored me and whirled back toward the bed.
The high-pitched whistle returned, then three quick beeps, then the thud and the convulsion.
“How the hell is he in cardiac arrest?” the doctor asked. “That makes no sense.”
“I have no idea,” the nurse said back.
My phone vibrated as a text came through.
Billy Luna.
She got back in the Mercedes. Should I follow her?
What was he going to do, barricade her from boarding her own plane? He’d get himself killed.
No need.
“Clear!” the doctor yelled. Whistle, three beeps, thud.
The second set of beeps, the short staccato ones, now ran together even faster. Kazarov’s heart was beating at breakneck speed.
“We’re losing him!” the doctor shouted.
A second text came through.
Tori.
Katrina got into a Mercedes and drove off. I’m right behind her.
“Clear!” Whistle, three beeps, thud.
The rapid-fire beeps ended, replaced by a sound I’d heard many times in movies and three times in person: the uninterrupted tone of a person whose heart had stopped.
CHAPTER 124
CLEVELAND
The danger was obvious. No doubt that was why Jack had called twice in five minutes.
But Tori also could not erase the image of her dad’s purple, puffed-up eyelids or the bandages wrapped around the rest of his head. Clearly the woman in the Mercedes, Katrina or Kat or whatever her name was, had ordered that monster to cut her dad’s ear off. And then she’d had the nerve to visit him this morning and pretend to be close to the family.
Watching her climb into the Mercedes SUV up close—tall and stylish and beautiful—sent Tori’s pulse rocketing. A woman with everything, torturing an old dairy farmer. She couldn’t let her get away.
Driving Jack’s Escape, she followed the Mercedes along a crowded boulevard. They headed west toward the hodgepodge of old buildings and towers dotting downtown Cleveland, looking like the real-life version of Gotham City.
The practice from Madison was paying off. She kept her distance, never getting closer than three car lengths, but never getting caught at one of many red lights, either.
She didn’t want Jack to talk her out of following. But she’d also need his help if she was going to stop Katrina. So she texted him again.
Meet me at the airport.
CHAPTER 125
CLEVELAND
Like an ice pick through yogurt, the needle had plunged smoothly into Dyadya’s lifeless skin. In the car’s back seat, Katrina shivered as she relived it.
“Ma’am.”
The copilot, who doubled as her driver, was saying something, but his words were rendered inaudible by the echoes of Dyadya’s labored breathing and Mikhail’s baritone voice.
Amid a maelstrom of emotions, rage dominated.
No one, not even Dyadya, talked to her the way Mikhail had just done. Not for years, at least. As if she were still the naïve sister she’d been back in Brooklyn, laughing away his troublemaking because she didn’t want to confront it. He had been a bullshit artist throughout his teenage years—the way he’d explained away the tattoos, or the missing money, or how he’d wrecked her car. Both mother and sister had seen through the lies then but let them go. And with his supposed death, like a time capsule, Katrina buried those less flattering memories deep within.
During the phone call, his voice was deeper than in those teenage days, but the cagey tone was the same. He was clearly lying about not knowing where Razi Dallas was. He was lying about Mother’s death, echoing the fairy tale Dyadya had tried to sell. And he and Dyadya had lied about why they’d kept it a secret all that time. Mikhail’s voice revealed the lies, while Dyadya’s strained breathing confirmed them.
Eleven years of lying meant one thing.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
She glanced back at her phone.
Katrina, your brother killed your parents. And he is still alive today.
Unlike her family members, the message bore all the trappings of truth. She had done the right thing.
“Ma’am.”
“Yes.”
“A car has been following us for five or six blocks.”
She looked out the back window.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It’s three cars behind us as we speak.”
“The Ford Escape?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see the driver?”
“A few lights ago. A skinny woman with black hair.”
Victoria Justice.
Katrina glanced at the folder that lay under her right hand. Dyadya was dead, but that folder meant the cart
el was very much alive. Her cartel now. And the one woman who had the power to end it all, whom they’d spent weeks trying to kill, now tailed only three car lengths behind them.
“Do you have a gun on you?”
“Of course.”
CHAPTER 126
CLEVELAND
The SUV cut the corner at the last possible moment.
After the two cars in front drove on nonchalantly, Tori pumped the brakes and followed the Mercedes onto the side street, just as the SUV’s back bumper disappeared around the next corner, tires squealing. Tori navigated a minefield of potholes before turning right at the same intersection. The new side street was considerably narrower and devoid of traffic—including the SUV. Small, single-story homes with tiny fenced-in yards followed one after the next, many posting “Beware of Dog” signs. Parked cars lined the little street, making the drive back to the boulevard a tight squeeze.
She sent Jack another text.
They turned off Euclid onto a side street.
She slowed halfway down the road. Four car lengths ahead, prominent amid a row of run-down, rusty beaters, the Mercedes SUV sat parallel parked next to a squat gray home with boarded-up windows and two-foot-high weeds.
As Tori closed to within a car length, she braked further, inching along to peer at the lifeless car. The engine was off and the thick head of the driver was gone, as was any sign of the woman in the back.
She pulled even, then shifted to neutral and lifted herself high in her seat to get the best view into the car. The dark leather seats were spotless with the exception of a manila folder on the far end of the back seat.
A deep, ferocious bark from behind jolted her almost to the ceiling. She whirled around.
The black barrel of a gun was pointing at the window. She spun away and threw her hands over the back of her head, hoping they’d slow or divert the bullet from her skull.
A deafening bang exploded in her ear, followed by the jingling of glass shards around her. She moved her hands around, searching for a head wound, but found nothing. A thick arm reached around her neck and wrenched her against the car door.
