“I can’t.” I tell him, feeling panic rise in my gut. “It’s too late. He’s here.”
I hang up the phone, trembling. Who is he, this Russian? What have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 3
Him
BARYSHNIKOV’S SMALL HELICOPTER HAS landed. He will be with her in two minutes.
The sound of her voice awakened a memory from long ago. It’s like a sensation of déjà vu, but more intense. More complete. More powerful, too. It takes me a moment before I recognize the feeling, the sounds and scents of a clearing in the forest behind my grandmother’s house where I used to visit her, back when I was a boy.
A full memory of that dappled spring morning washes through me. The colors weave into an image, sparked by the sound of her breath. I touch the ring that I kept, the only thing I have left of my dear grandmother.
She cared for me so well when I lost mama. The moment that I remember, that I had almost put away and forgotten until now, is where I lost myself, that awful day. Breaking through the darkness of it all, when everything seemed so hopeless, when I saw in a flash that I would have a future.
A butterfly fluttered, fast and vivid in the sunlight. It made me realize that my mama would always be a part of me. I would always be a part of her. She would always be with me. And however hard it got, life would go on.
My life had been on hold until that morning and the news about my mama. I realized in that instant, I had been holding my breath for what seemed like years. I knew that this moment would come, and I dreaded it. But now that it was here, I knew that I could face it. Now, ready or not, I would be a man. Starting that very instant.
In those shafts of sparkling sunlight I swelled and grew from an eight-year-old boy into a man.
I want to call her straight back. Tell her again, ‘Get out of there! What are you thinking?’ but I heard her voice. Her strength. She has to decide for herself. She won’t be told. Realizing that makes me feel her determination and her independence. Her courage. She will stand alone, because she knows she must rely on herself.
How do I know such an important and intimate detail about her, from so little information? I know enough to trust my instincts. To examine what I feel, but not to doubt it. And from one note in her voice, I know her. I know her because it’s a note that I know in myself. Whatever happens, you must be able to rely on yourself. I hear her. And I know that I have to save her.
I need to do what has to be done with Baryshnikov, and I have to protect her.
I see him. His arms swing wide from his sides as he lumbers toward her. A slow, loping menace.
Now I have a plan.
Chapter 4
Her
IGOR BARYSHNIKOV PEERS DOWN at me.
He’s huge, and he speaks English like he’s pulling it through a meat grinder. “I am pleased have such a lovely member of the firm as my escort. Reed Barnett obviously understands what is important in a business relationship.”
His dark, hooded eyes are piercing, and constantly moving. The mysterious Russian on the phone was right, and I should have run. Baryshnikov’s voice, and his eyes, show a jagged, brutal man. Not like my Russian.
OMG! Where did that thought come from?
Baryshnikov speaks. “Do you have the contract for the sale?”
Without missing a beat I tell him, “I have it on my tablet, yes.” I’m not ready for that, though. I took a .pdf of the contract, but only so that I could read it. To familiarize myself with the property and the deal. It’s so out of my league. I read it over and over last night.
I couldn’t believe the whole contract for a one-point-eight billion dollar deal is only seven short pages. Mandates for payment, bank account numbers for the transfers, everything.
All it needed for all that property, and all that money to move, was his dated signature in authorization, and signing by a witness.
I don’t feel that I should represent the deal for the firm, but Mr. Drucker told me there was no chance of Baryshnikov signing on this meeting.
When he called to brief me, he’d said, ‘It’s only a site visit, Emma.’ Over the phone I could hear his awful wet grin, ‘You get your little knickers in such a twist.’ Of course, he had to add, ‘although yours would be quite big knickers, wouldn’t they?’
I hung up in his face right then. I thought he was going to go further and I didn’t want to have to let him or I would have responded. Slapping an official complaint in the boss's face is not a brilliant way to keep a job.
“The contract, Mr. Baryshnikov. Do you want to see it?”
His eyes crinkle, “Igor,” and his thin lips stretch in a grin, like a boy eyeing a juicy steak, “Please.”
I take an involuntary step back as I reach into my purse. While I fish out the tablet, my eyes don’t leave Baryshnikov for an instant.
“I need you to show me over some of the property,” his expression is like a cat with its paw on a mouse’s tail. “The principal penthouse at least.”
“Of course,” I pull up the contract on my tablet. It’s a good thing I downloaded a copy from the server to read last night. There’s no network connection here for the tablet. I pass the tablet to him with the .pdf loaded.
I tell him, “The dominant penthouse is called the Commodore’s Nest.” All the top level apartments have nautical or naval names in the literature.
“I won’t sign the contract yet,” he tells me, looking up from the screen, “but I will sign it with you. You can witness it.”
I’m confused. Why would he do that?
And he’s already telling me, “That way, a slice of the commission will go to you.” His grin now was one I recognized. I’ve seen that look enough times before. It’s a look that says, ‘I’m doing something for you. A favor. So you can do something for me.’
Chapter 5
Him
THE LONG BLADES OF the Bell 407 helicopter are still turning, swishing to make the air turbulent as I run, close to the airframe. The pilot is still in his seat. He looks military, like he’s from the Russian navy. No way the army or the air force would train a man that big or heavy to fly any kind of aircraft. Costs too much in fuel. For the navy, they only have to be super-tough.
I slip alongside the tail, keeping near to the fuselage. Out of sight. When I’m behind the pilot’s door, I rap the handle of my gun on the bottom of the hull.
The pilot’s door opens and, as soon as he leans out to look for what’s happening, I’ve got his arm. I twist his wrist hard as I yank him out. He falls six feet to the ground.
He’s sturdy. Most men, especially most men who weigh what he does, his arm would pop out of its socket.
Not this one. He still has enough composure to extend the other arm, stretches out his hand, palm down, and slaps at the ground to spread the impact of his fall. He’s good.
But I have a Glock pointed between his eyes. I also still have hold of his hand. But he has hold of mine, too. He yanks, hard. He’s strong.
He drags me toward him, down to the ground. Pushing off from my back foot, I throw all of my weight into rolling, over him and up.
Still gripping my hand now, he twists my arm, pulls my thumb back, hard. His torso curls, and he’s rising up. The pain in my thumb is almost blinding. He feels like he may have the strength to break it off.
His free hand shoots out, fast and hard at my throat.
I’ve read his move.
Leaning all my weight into my arm and gun hand, I slam the barrel of the Glock into his knuckle and I follow through. His hand whacks back into his eye and the barrel of my Glock pins his palm. He freezes.
My face is close enough to his that I can smell his sweet, showy cologne. I can taste a trace of cognac on his breath.
“Okay,” I speak to him in Russian. “Well done. Honor is served. Now,” I tell him, “Fuck off. We both know that a slip of my finger would kill you. And we both know I don’t want to, or I’d have drilled a hole in your forehead already.”
His eye
s narrow. I push my nose closer to his. “I don’t know what Baryshnikov is paying you, but here’s where you decide if it’s enough to fucking die for.” I give him the space of two heartbeats to think about it.
“You can leave now. It’s a long walk,” I shrug, “Or I can drop you into the fucking water. Your choice.”
He grunts. I keep the gun on him as he moves. “Ah!” I tell him, “First, slowly, empty your pockets. Guns, knives, phones, keys, wallet, photo of your mamma. Everything. Then I’ll check you over. See if you held anything back. Hold out as much as a coin or a pocket knife and it’s the canal for you. Clear?”
Chapter 6
Her
IF BARYSHNIKOV SIGNS THE contract with me, here and now, that ‘small slice’ of commission would be more than my annual salary. But I can’t get excited about it. People like him love to play games like that.
Wealthy people often tell you things like that. ‘I’ll sign with you.’ But they don’t mean it. It’s just a way to make you feel like you should do more for them. Maybe that’s the key to how people get wealthy. Getting other people to do things for you a way to get rich, I guess.
So, I take him inside the flagship building. The enormous glass doors open without me even having to take out the keycard. Across the mosaic marble floor I take him to the elevators, like big, glass jewel boxes. One of the elevators opens up like a clamshell as I approach.
I’m thinking that I could get used to this, but I keep a straight face while I’m reeling off memorized statistics about the development for Mr. Baryshnikov. He probably knows them all better than I do, but I don’t want to let the conversation slip. ‘Lurching into the intimate,’ Tania calls it. Or ‘thrashing around in personal space.’
That makes me think of the voice of the man on the phone.
I shudder as the glass car whizzes us up fast. It’s twenty-eight stories up to the Commodore’s Nest.
I’m not prepared for the views. They take my breath away. The Seattle shoreline sparkles and shimmers across the Sound in one direction, and the Olympus mountains, snow-capped slumbering giants, stretch out the other way.
“Yes,” he’s behind me. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” His voice is soft. Confidential. I step aside and move to the kitchen area.
“Feel free to explore,” I tell him. “The master bedroom suites are on the middle floor, the lounge and recreation areas are on the top.”
“Won’t you join me? I would love to have you conduct me around. Especially through the bedroom suites. They have whirlpool baths, don’t they?”
“They do.” With my back against the kitchen surface and the brushed steel induction hob, I’m ready to duck away if he approaches me. He remains still. I could believe that he’s just teasing playfully. He could overwhelm me so easily, though. It makes me nervous to be here, alone with him.
I tell him, “Each suite has a large, sunken bath with water jets and these same views.” There’s another part of the marketing spiel that I’m supposed to say here, telling the client about playing, frolicking above the Sound, but I’m not going to recite any of that to him. It’s all old-school innuendo with double-meanings, and I want to avoid any of that with this man.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me for what feels like a long time. Then he shrugs and says, “Well, I could get what I need from the marketing material online, but I want to see it and take a look out on the balcony for myself.” His eyes narrow as he turns. “I’ll make a call while I do that, so give me five minutes before you join me upstairs. On the top-floor deck.”
He looks back over his shoulder as he walks up the winding glass stairway. I watch until he’s out of sight. He’s done everything that he could to make me doubt my judgement of him. But I know my instincts are good.
Standing by the huge window, I’m looking out over the water, watching yachts and dinghies and a few fishing boats. Wondering what it would be like to live this kind of a life. A big apartment, a great view, a yacht right down at your front door.
Instead of daydreaming, a voice inside tells me I should run. Get in the elevator and head straight down. Don’t look back.
My phone rings. Instinctively, I know it’s going to be him. My Russian.
I try to stiffen myself, but his voice undoes me. I sense danger here. What I hear in his voice is the most dangerous thing. And he makes me like it.
“He’s on the floor above you.” A shock runs through me as I realize that he’s watching me. Like I can feel his eyes, running and dancing all over my oversized curves. “Get in the elevator. Just fucking go. Get out.”
“Who are you?” The way that I’m feeling is so wrong.
“I’m the man who’s going to save you.”
“You sound more like the man I need saving from.”
“You’re in danger.”
“I know that much. Why should I trust you?”
“Because I’m telling you to.”
“Oh…”
His voice is firm. Hard. “Trust me.”
And I’m drenched. And from his voice, I know not to trust him an inch.
Not even an inch.
As I’m hanging up, Igor returns down the stairs. He’s walking slow, swaggering, very sure of himself. I see his face, and he registers me, slipping my phone back into my pocket.
He holds out his hand as he approaches. “Give it to me.”
For a moment I’m flustered. I’m wishing I had taken the elevator and gotten out of here.
“The tablet.” His eyes flash. “I’m ready to sign.”
I can’t hold back a slight sigh of relief as I hand him the tablet. He watches my face, and he signs the .pdf. “I knew I was going to take the property anyway.” He signs with a flourish, sweeping his distinctive and well-practiced signature with his finger. Then he holds the tablet out for me to sign as a witness. I can’t believe this is happening.
As I’m signing, I try to keep my mind from doing the math on the commission. His voice is light but quiet as a whisper as he says, “Who were you talking to?”
“Oh,” I look up. “A friend.” He smiles. “She was a housemate when I was at school.” His smile fixes. Then as I go on, it falls. “We’ve been friends forever. And she still lives in the same house…” His face has turned stone cold.
If I stopped at, ‘A friend,’ he might have believed me. I know it and I’m biting the inside of my cheek. I gave him too much of an explanation.
Quickly he scans the horizon through the windows.
“It is time we leave now,” His voice is flat, and he reaches for my elbow. “Time to go.” I pull my arm away, but he grabs it again. “We take your car, I think.”
“What?” Fear drops through me like a falling brick.
He pinches my elbow. I try to shrug free again, but his grip is too strong. “You drive.”
He hustles me to the elevator. As I’m pressed close to him in the car, I feel a hard and heavy bulk under his coat. Near the side of his chest.
My voice skids and skips. Hearing it makes me even more afraid. “Where do you want to go?”
His laugh is like a shower of ice. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Anatoly : Ruthless (Bad Russian Book 11) Page 2
