by Andrea Kane
Those companies weren’t employing the hot Russian women.
Marc interrupted Ryan’s observations as his voice came through the earbud.
“Hey, seems like your program has tracked the cell phone to within our central zone,” he informed Ryan. “Our guy should be walking through the front door soon.”
Ryan returned to his iPad, appeared to be reading, but instead was preparing to snap pictures of anyone entering.
The first person who walked through the door was a definite dork. Ryan shuddered to think that, right now, he probably resembled him. He took the loser’s picture just in case, but that wasn’t their guy. Next came a tall, thirty-ish woman with long black hair and a curve-hugging pantsuit. Ryan gave her an A-minus, then took her picture. Probably just a formality. She didn’t fit Marc’s profile.
Finally, in walked a tough Slavic guy in an expensive Italian business suit, who looked less like a business exec than he did like a bloodthirsty fighter in an underground cage-fighting match.
Bingo.
Ryan kept snapping pictures.
As it turned out, he didn’t have to rush. Bruiser bought himself a cup of coffee and reentered the lobby, scanning the area. His eye settled on a long-legged brunette stunner who was smiling to herself as she texted someone. Seeing the chair beside her was empty, the big guy made his way over and claimed it.
He leaned toward her and said something in Russian that had to be a come-on line, judging from his tone and body language. The woman laughed, tossing back her hair and responding in an equally friendly manner.
Money talks, Ryan mused silently, as he took more photos. Bruiser looked like Boris to her Natasha, definitely not a hot stud who would turn a girl on. But he smacked of cash, and that was clearly enough. Good. That gave Ryan plenty of time to study the guy and take pictures. He’d learned enough from Casey to lock in on certain behavioral signs. Bruiser had an eye for the ladies, a big-ass ego, and an aggressiveness about him that Ryan guessed went from the bedroom to the boardroom.
Eventually, the woman glanced at her watch and reluctantly stood up. She punched something quickly into her cell phone, speaking in rapid Russian as she did, and nodded her head toward the phone peeking out of Bruiser’s pocket. He plucked it out, glanced down at the screen, and a wide smile split his face.
Okay, that was a no-brainer, Ryan thought. She just texted him her phone number.
After that, she hurried off to—no surprise—the far bank of elevators.
Bruiser rose, still smiling as he drank his coffee, and headed to the bank of elevators closest to where Ryan was seated. Ryan watched the elevator doors shut behind him, and the numerals as they ascended. Seventh floor and the elevator stopped. Once again, Ryan consulted his photo of the building directory. There were six companies on that floor.
It was up to him and Marc to figure out which was the right one.
Back at the hotel, Ryan and Marc set up shop to figure out who their mystery man was and where he worked. They did the initial checking on Marc’s computer, so they could keep Ryan’s open for all in-depth research.
“Of the six companies on the seventh floor, four are Russian businesses,” Marc noted. “Those are the ones we concentrate on.”
It didn’t take them long to zero in on the likely suspect.
“RusChem,” Ryan said, pointing at Marc’s computer screen. “It’s a Russian-owned biochemical manufacturer, with a sole production facility in Akron, Ohio, and sales offices strategically positioned across the globe to service regional customers.”
Marc nodded, reading rapidly and noting the key points of information.
RusChem’s Chicago office was one of their three US sales locations, along with Los Angeles and New York. Internationally, they were represented in Frankfurt, Germany, Sao Paolo, Brazil, and Shanghai, China.
The next section on the About Us page was even more interesting—and pertinent.
RusChem manufactured enzymes, coenzymes, monoclonal/polyclonal antibodies, recombinant proteins, and high purity chemical reagents. Their customers included leading companies in the IVD, API, life science and nutraceutical markets.
“This has to be the company we’re looking for,” Marc said. “Time to dig.”
“I’m already on it.” Ryan was clicking as fast as his fingers could fly across the keyboard. His frown deepened as the long minutes turned into an hour.
He leaned back, staring from his screen to Marc and back.
“All information on RusChem points back to Moscow. But the ownership information is either buried in bureaucracy or intentionally hidden. I’ve tried it from every different angle. Nothing. This is going to take long hours and a lot of patience.”
Marc acknowledged that thoughtfully. “My guess is that we’re going to find out that this supposedly legitimate company is nothing more than a front for criminal enterprise distributing PEDs throughout the world.”
“Okay, but run by who? Marc, we’ve got a shitload of players here. Who factors in where?”
Ticking off on his fingers, Marc replied, “Shannon was unknowingly taking PEDs. Jim Robbins was the conduit. Robbins was connected to—what did you call him?—Bruiser. Bruiser is connected to RusChem. That’s a hell of a lot of A equals B and B equals Cs. We need to figure out who Bruiser is. That’ll be the key to answering all our questions and ending the threat to our clients’ lives.”
“Sounds simple.” Ryan scowled. “Now how the hell do you propose we do that? I can dig up dirt on anyone. But I need something to go on.”
“Then let’s get you that something.” Marc picked up his cell phone and punched in Casey’s number.
“Hey,” she answered. “I was just wondering how your spy cam operation was going.”
Tersely, Marc recounted the situation. “I need Emma here now,” he concluded. “Put her on the next plane to O’Hare. And tell her to pack the shortest, sexiest dress she owns.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Chicago, Illinois
Slava was in one hell of a mood when he blasted into his office building the next morning. He didn’t do his usual lobby scanning of the beautiful women he’d like to screw. He just strode directly into the coffee shop, pitying whoever waited on him today if the asshole didn’t know that he took his coffee black. In Russia, he always drank black tea, but the black tea in this country sucked. If the server asked him if he wanted “room” in his cup, he’d probably choke the life out of the guy and enjoy doing it.
He ordered his drink and loomed at the counter, waiting, his jaw clenched as he recalled the phone call to Max yesterday. The lunatic had gone ballistic when he’d heard about Alexei’s and Vitaliy’s screw-up. No argument about the fact that it had been a big one—one that was going to cost them their lives. Slava had already verbally castrated them, even as he decided who he’d move up to be their replacements once they were six feet under.
But Max? The guy had reacted like a raging psychopath, screaming about his research being compromised, about killing everyone who threatened it, and about slitting the throats of his own people if need be. Half of it had been in English and half in Russian, but, more than once, Slava had heard his name shouted with an expletive attached to it.
He didn’t take well to being threatened. And if Max didn’t calm down, it would be his throat that would be slit.
Slava’s jaw clenched as he reached the counter and barked out a command for coffee. Fortunately, the coffee shop employee gave him the right drink, looking like a timid mouse as he did. Slava snatched the steaming cup from his hand, threw a crumpled five on the counter, and walked out. He stood in the lobby, loosening his tie and ignoring the scalding in his throat as he took a huge gulp of the hot liquid. A redheaded Russian woman with long, shapely legs gave him a coy smile. He ignored it. She wasn’t his current type, and he wasn’t in the mood.
He half scanned the room and was about to veer toward the elevator when a flash of blonde hair caught his eye. It belonged to a beautiful young woman he’d never seen here before. She was seated directly across from him and was studying him as intently as he was her. Exquisite, he thought. Natural blonde hair, loose and just brushing her shoulders. Huge blue eyes like the sky. The face of an angel. The body of sin. She was wearing a tight black dress that hugged every inch of her and that barely covered the tops of her thighs. One shapely leg was crossed over the other—legs that were surprisingly long, given her diminutive size, and that looked even longer thanks to the four-inch heels on her designer shoes.
When she moistened her full red lips with her tongue and then smiled at him, gesturing toward the seat beside her, he was lost.
He re-knotted his tie and made his way over, stopping to lower himself into the chair she’d designated.
“Hi,” she said breathlessly, her voice as bewitching as the rest of her.
“You’re American,” he noted in a thick Russian accent.
“Is that a problem?”
“With a woman as beautiful as you? Never.”
She gave him a more melting smile, and he could feel his erection pounding against his clothes.
“I am Slava. And you are…?”
“Isabella.” She breathed the word in a soft, ethereal cloud.
“A lovely name.” He watched as she took a sip of her coffee, frowning as she looked down.
“A beautiful face like yours should never wear a frown,” Slava said. He sized up the problem instantly. “Let me buy you another cup.”
Her smile returned, reaching her eyes. “Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure.” He rose. “How do you like it?”
A teasing spark flickered in her eyes. “Many ways. I’m adventurous. Surprise me.”
He caught his breath. “I’d enjoy doing that very much.” He nearly knocked over the businesspeople arriving for their workday, and was in and out of the coffee shop in record time, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow.
“With cream and sugar,” he said, handing her the cup. “Just like you.”
Their fingers brushed, and Slava literally caught his breath.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re a gentleman. Such a rarity these days.”
“Not always such a gentleman.” He chuckled. “Did you just start work here? I would have noticed you.” He shifted in his chair so that his trouser leg brushed up against her bare calf.
“I’m just in town on business,” she answered ruefully. “I have to fly back to LA tonight.”
Slava felt his erection deflate. “Can’t you take the…” He searched his mind for the right phrase. “Late night to morning…”
“The red-eye,” she supplied. She bit her lip thoughtfully. “I can try.” She looked as eager as he did, which raised his spirits and his appropriate body part. He watched as she put down her coffee and pulled out her phone. “What’s your cell number?” she asked.
“I text it to you. You give me yours.” He, too, took out his cell.
She rattled off a number that he very much wanted in his contact information. He punched it in, sent her a text message from his unrestricted phone, and then waited to hear her message chime.
“I’ll call you,” she said when it arrived, rising and retrieving her coffee cup. “I have a lot of juggling to do—meeting and flight time changes—and arrangements with my hotel.” Another seductive smile. “I’ll make this happen, Slava. I want it as much as you do.”
“That I doubt.” He came to his feet, as well, lifting her fingers to his lips. “My evening is open to you, Isabella.”
“Until then.” With one last bone-melting smile, she turned and walked out the door.
Once out of view, Emma shuddered, wiping the fingers he’d kissed on her dress before she gingerly gulped down the rest of her coffee—being careful to only touch the rim—and slipped the empty cup into a Ziploc, which she then deposited in her purse. “I’ve got it,” she said into the tiny microphone clipped to her bra. “And I think I’m going to puke.”
“You missed your calling, Isabella,” Ryan teased into her earbud. “Bruiser was about to come in his pants.”
“Not funny. I’m pretty sure his eyes drilled a hole in my dress on the way out. And FYI, he’s repulsive.” She was already walking toward the curb, arm raised. “I’m taking a cab to the hotel. No way I’m walking on these shoes for another minute.”
Cruising through the streets of Chicago was a bittersweet experience for Emma. She stared out the window of the taxi, flashes of memories popping into her mind like nostalgic photos. The just-like-in-the-movies suburban house with a white picket fence and rows of tulips that came up every year. Doing cartwheels on the lawn. Learning to ride a bike with training wheels and pedals she could barely reach. Her dad tinkering in the garage. Her mom cooking Sunday dinner. Her first day of kindergarten. Her sixth birthday party and the red velvet cupcakes with the heaps of white frosting her mom had baked for her and her twenty school friends. She and her parents going to the movies. Buying a deep-dish pizza and having her dad dangle a piece of mozzarella over her mouth, teasing her until she jumped up and chomped it between her teeth.
Emma blinked back tears. All of that was in the past, treasured memories that she’d stored away and that were only now resurfacing because of her first return trip home. The dark memories followed close behind. Her family moving to New York. Her parents dying in that horrible crash. Foster care. Life on the streets.
She’d become a different person since then—harder, street-smart, a seasoned pickpocket who had only now turned her life around.
She swallowed hard. She had to concentrate on business or she’d lose it entirely. But, despite her best efforts, long-suppressed tears slid down her cheeks.
Fifteen minutes later, under control with her emotions back in check, Emma knocked on the hotel room door. Marc swung it open, and Emma walked past him and directly over to a chair. She dropped down into it, groaning as she yanked off her shoes.
“Thank God.” She massaged one aching foot. “I’m glad I’m too short to be a model.” With that, she dug into her purse and handed the Ziploc to Marc. “Here’s your evidence. I got Bruiser sweating like a pig in heat. He’s as good as caught.”
“You did a great job, Emma.” Marc, with his keen sense of observation, noted the tears on her lashes and the strained look on her face. “I realize this must have been difficult for you. But you pushed past it and got even more than we hoped for. A name, a phone number, and the touch DNA we needed. You’ve moved up the FI team ladder.”
That brought a small smile to her lips. “Thanks. I aim to please.”
“Okay,” Ryan announced from his spot at the computer. “I took care of the cell phone problem. All calls to Isabella will be routed to voice mail on an untraceable number. And since Emma gave Bruiser—aka Slava—nothing else to go on, we’re in the clear. Slava, on the other hand, won’t be too happy. He’ll go to bed with a hard-on and never find his mystery woman. Tough break for him.”
“My heart bleeds.” Marc was shrugging on his jacket and snapping shut his suitcase. “Ready to hit the road?”
“Damn straight,” Ryan replied. “At top speed. We’ll brief Casey as we drive. I want to get back ASAP so I can have access to all my technological resources. Meanwhile, I’ll be in the back of the van, subtly hacking into Homeland Security.”
“To see if there’s more on Slava,” Marc stated.
“Yup. The DNA needs to go to a crime lab. But the partial name, the photos… Who knows what our government agencies have on him. So if not Homeland Security, there’s the NSA, the DMV…”
“I get it.”
Ryan grinned. “By the time I’m done, we’ll know everything about Slava
, including his jock size.” A quick glance at Emma. “Hey, brat, are you all set?”
Emma inhaled sharply and shook off the rest of her nostalgia. “Not until I change into normal clothes and wash this crap off my face. She grabbed her backpack and a towel and headed for the bathroom. “Give me five.”
Burlington, Vermont
Max sat in his study, his hands clenched tightly on the desk in front of him. His rage from yesterday had been eclipsed by reality and the difficult decisions he had to make. The attempt at kidnapping Shannon Barker had not only been unsuccessful, it had opened the door to major questions, complications, and the potential for dire consequences.
The episode itself would have been salvageable if the Barker girl had merely seen she was being followed and taken off. At worst, she would have taken her suspicions—and that’s all they would have been—to the police, who would have shooed her off like an annoying fly. After all, she’d just been interviewed by two Chicago cops. She’d clearly given them nothing and doubtlessly come across as a traumatized teenager. So resurfacing again, claiming she was the target of some dire act, would come across as an overactive imagination.
But that wasn’t what had happened. The fact that someone was after Shannon Barker had been validated and the kidnapping attempt foiled by some private security guy—a guy who was clearly safeguarding her and who carried a gun.
That raised the red flag question. Why did Shannon Barker have an armed bodyguard? She must have convinced someone her life was in danger. And that meant she knew something, provable or not. It also meant that, whatever she knew, she’d passed along to Julie Forman and her friend, Miles Parker. Did they also have a security detail watching them?
And who was orchestrating all this? It had to be professionals. Which made the threat to Max even more problematic.
