by Jaycee Clark
True. Still he didn’t say anything.
“Should I call you Dimitri Petrolov, then?” she asked.
If he wasn’t Dimitri Petrolov, who the hell was he currently? Another alias?
Someone from his past covers?
The names all floated through his brain.
“Dimitri Petrolov no longer exists,” he said, blinking as the shaded lies of five years blurred.
She paused and looked at him, her dark brow cocked.
Petrolov was no more. And . . .
“Ian. My name is Ian.”
She smiled. “Nice to meet you, Ian.” She quickly cut a large hole in the mirror. There was a slight grind as she lifted the cylindrical piece of glass away. “I’m glad you turned out to be a good guy. I’d hate to think I let you live if you were part of this. Of course, then I’d just hunt you down anyway.”
“Still contemplating that five million?”
She shook her head. “No, it was the price that gave me pause. If they wanted you gone that badly, I had to ask myself why. And if I turned it down and found out you were party to the shit going down here,” she said, winking at him, “I’d have gone after you pro bono, so to speak.”
“Target practice.”
“Some of us don’t need target practice, luv.” She frowned and looked into the hole. “Looks like we found the videos.”
“Move,” he told her.
John was still on the phone, barking orders to someone.
Ian walked up and she stepped back.
Ducking his head, he looked into the small enclosure behind the mirror. A video camera sat on a tripod. More sex toys hung from the wall. The more he saw the more angry he became. A voyeur’s haven. A swing hung from the ceiling, manacles were chained along the wall, more whips and leather and velvets. He didn’t care. What people wanted to do, what they liked, were their own business.
But this . . . This was Elianya’s sick and twisted version.
“Check the other room, behind the mirror,” he said, pulling back. “I’m betting the video camera is there as well.”
“I’ll just get right on that,” she said, sarcasm heavy in her voice. “Since I work for you and all.”
He ignored her and glanced around the room again.
A whimper.
A cherry armoire, at least eight feet high, stood in the corner.
Slowly he walked to it, noted one of the doors was slightly open, the dull metal handle not flat against the wood as the one on the left door.
He pulled his gun free.
The woman beside him did the same thing.
They aimed at the armoire; the thick carpet swallowed their footfalls.
Quickly he jerked the door open.
A breath of air whooshed out.
Nothing. It stood bare.
Then just a sigh.
He looked at the woman beside him, then back to the armoire.
Inside, there were shelves and two doors on each side at the very bottom. No more than eighteen inches high or so.
Squatting down and taking a deep breath, he pulled the right-side door open, just as the woman pulled hers.
For a second he glanced her way, but noted it was empty and looked back to his.
Inside sat a little girl, her black hair curly, her eyes wide and dark blue.
She looked just like the girl on the camera, on the bed.
Her eyes were wide and vacant, staring at nothing, pupils dilated. He watched as her chest rose and fell quickly. Dressed in a white eyelet, with her thumb firmly in her mouth, she was a white bundle in a small space.
He closed his eyes. Opening them he said, “Just a minute, baby. Hang on, we’ll get you out.” He leaned down further.
“How the hell did she get in here?” he asked. She was curled up in a little ball. Not even her toes peeked out.
“Poor kid,” the woman muttered.
Turning to Lenora, he said, “Do you think she’d rather you go in there for her?”
Lenora only shook her head, straightening. “Sorry, I don’t do kids in any way, shape, or form. If you need me to go in and get her I will, but I’ve never really . . .” She took a deep breath and he wondered if something else was going on here.
He focused on the small girl trying to hide. There wasn’t even enough room to reach in and get her, unless he pulled her out by her feet. He really didn’t want to force her to do anything. God only knew what she’d witnessed.
“Máte přání?” he asked her softly in Czech. When she continued to stare, he tried again, “Jmenuji se Ian. Jak se jmenujete?”
Not a flicker of recognition. Nothing. Just that fast panting, wide staring eyes as she sucked her thumb.
Damn it.
He wanted to coax her out.
He tried German. Then Russian next, “Privet. Govorite li vy po angliyski?”
Still nothing. All the while he wondered if he should just reach in and grab her. She sat unmoving, hardly blinking, her small face pale, her eyes . . . God, those eyes.
Gently, he reached in and felt her cheek. She was cold, and clammy. Just as easily, he took her wrist, red and abraded, to feel her pulse. He frowned at the fragile bones. There it thumped, a bit too quickly. How old was she? Four? Five? Six? Too damn young.
He told her again in different languages that he was going to give her his coat. “I’ll take you out of here.”
She didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stared ahead.
He shifted directly in front of her, shielding her as he stood and shucked off his long coat. He had no idea if she had any other injuries and didn’t think this was the time to check them out. Being careful not to startle her, he reached inside, surprised there was more room in the cubby than he’d realized. He grasped her under the arms and pulled her toward him. When he had her out, he wrapped his coat around her and picked her up.
At first she was stiff, then she slumped against him, her head dropping on his shoulder. Her thumb still in her mouth, he felt the motion of her jaw as she suckled. Ian pulled her back far enough to see the eyes still stared past him to the room beyond. Covering her head, he stood.
“Come on,” he told the woman, who was taking the video from the camera within the hidden chamber.
They walked out of the blue room and back down the hallway to the yellow room, where John stood pacing and barking into the phone.
The little girl roused in his arms, trying to get down and looking toward the bed.
She frowned and looked at him. Her eyes, God, those eyes. They weren’t vacant now, but asking questions, confused and terrified.
Ian tightened his hold on her, even as her breathing quickened and whimpers crawled up her throat, squeezing inside him.
“I want those cameras,” he said softly to Lenora.
She nodded and looked from him to the child in his arms.
Lenora, or Rori as her friends called her, stared at this man.
Earlier he’d been quick, fast as a striking snake, and now he was as gentle as a breeze. He held the little girl as if he were used to holding a child against him, wrapped in a coat, as he muttered soft things into her hair.
He walked into the hallway. She grabbed both cameras, staring at this room, the empty bed—and she remembered. That poor kid . . .
Rori muttered a prayer for the lost ones and turned her back, following Ian out into the hallway.
He and John Brasher were talking, the girl still squirming in Ian’s coat.
Again he said something softly to her. She stilled in his arms.
John got his first look at the little girl and shook his head, his don’t-screw-with-me face hardening even more into a mask that would send most running in the other direction. His flat gray eyes darkened.
And she knew if it was the last thing any of them did, they would find the buggering bastards who had committed this crime.
Ian shifted his gaze from his whispered conversation with John to her.
“We’re leaving and you’re coming with u
s,” he said. His dark blue eyes dared her to object.
John looked quickly from Ian to her, then back to Ian. “I think we should discuss—”
“She’s coming,” Ian said, still not taking his gaze from her.
Rori returned his study, wondering what he wanted.
She shrugged. “What the hell, the car was nicked anyway.”
Ian cocked one brow and John muttered something, drawing her attention to him.
What was John Brasher doing here? Just her luck, when she didn’t take a bloody mark, she was made, and by none other than someone she had worked with.
Christ.
They all headed back downstairs.
Ian stopped in the entryway and said, “What if there are more locked here in the house? This wasn’t a one-time affair, John.”
Rori agreed. “It’s probable she has them locked in here or nearby. They . . .” She cleared her throat and looked away, taking a deep breath.
“I’ve already taken care of it,” John said. “Our first priority is to get you”—he pointed to Ian—“the hell out of here, and her.” He motioned toward the little girl, who lay quietly in Ian’s arms. “A team is on their way to tear this place apart. And find whatever evidence we can to dismantle this ring.”
In the darkened entryway, the house was again silent. She glanced around at the prestige, the ornate house, the wealth, and thought what blackness it hid.
Shaking her head, she walked outside.
The temperature seemed to have dropped even further since they had been inside. She followed them to the black Beemer.
“Won’t there be a bulletin out for your car?” she asked.
Ian didn’t pause. “Probably.” Then he looked to her. “Which is why we’re taking your Audi. You were driving the Audi?”
She shook her head. “So much for my tailing skills.”
He grinned. “At least you have something to practice on.”
John opened the gate. “Will you both put a sock in it?” They walked through the gate, scanning the street.
“Did I mention a car pulled out into the back alley when you two were scaling the gate?” Her boots thumped along the sidewalk.
“Probably Elianya and that sad bastard driver of hers,” John muttered. “Now, as I said, we don’t have time to piss around, let’s go.” He held his hand out. “Give me your keys and follow me. We’ll ditch your car somewhere other than here and strip it.”
Ian shifted the girl, reached in his pants pocket and handed the keys to John.
They parted and Rori led him down the street to the car she’d parked in the shadow of some trees near the park.
The engine turned over as easily as it did the first time. She turned around and watched as Ian—what was the man’s last name—buckled the child in the seat. Still she merely stared, didn’t utter a word or a sound, but she did turn around and look back at the house.
Ian shut the back door and slid into the front seat beside her, double-checking his gun, and motioned for her to follow John.
Without a word, she pulled out and followed the car in front of her. Ian turned toward the backseat and checked the girl. “She’s in shock.”
“I would assume so, yes. Especially after all she’s been through, and we both know they probably gave her something.” She took a deep breath, wishing they could change the subject.
“She needs a bloody hospital,” he said, his voice edged and ripe with fury.
“Probably.” Glancing at him, she said, “We could just drop her off at one.” What kind of man was he really?
His eyes glittered, hard and bright. “We’re not dropping her off anywhere.” He checked the side mirror and scanned the streets. “Someone else already did that. I’ll be damned if I’m another that just says, ‘poor thing,’ and moves on my fucking way.”
For a moment she didn’t say anything.
She followed John to the outskirts of town, the old world dropping off into modern industry.
“Most would rescue her and move on,” she said as she turned behind John, only to have another car turn from the opposite direction and follow them.
“I’m not most people,” he said, shifting in his seat and watching the car as its headlights drew closer.
He could say that again. Mr. Ian was not like most men.
“So what are you going to do with her? She’s not a bloody stray dog to just take with you.” Rori frowned as the car sped quickly around them, the motor roaring.
“I’ll run a trace on her.” He frowned after the green Mercedes. “Get closer.”
“I know that.”
“And if no one claims her,” he continued, rolling down the window, “then I’ll take her home.”
“Mr. Mystery Man has a home. Marvelous.” She pressed the clutch and shifted again. “And I know how to keep up, thank you.”
He speared her with a quick glance. “Good, because I have a feeling that car is about—”
They both saw the rapid-fire succession of bullets shatter the back of the BMW, peppering the boot of the car, the red taillights going dark.
“Damn it.” He leaned out the window, firing off several rounds of his own, taking out the tires of the shooters’ car. The Mercedes fishtailed, its back tires catching the edge of the road. In a scream of metal it rolled end over end.
Rori swerved to miss a piece of the car that rocketed across the pavement in front of them.
Bloody hell.
She jerked the wheel and almost overcorrected. They rocked and straightened back onto the road. Rori slammed on the breaks. Ian cursed again, and glared at her.
“Finish it,” she said. “They would have.”
“I don’t need you,” he said, emptying his clip into the windows and door panels of the car that now rested on its top, “to tell me how to finish a job.”
That remained to be seen. He sat back in his seat and she drove on, noting John had turned off the road. He was leaning into the car, wiping it down.
“He’ll never get everything,” she muttered.
“The catch twenty-two for those of us in these games. With today’s technology we can be found on both sides of the law.”
She pulled up behind John. Ian looked at her and said, “Stay with her.”
“I’m not a bloody dog either.”
He gritted his teeth. “Please.”
She smiled. “Bet that hurt.”
He climbed out of the car without a word to her and she watched as he hurried to help John. What an interesting job this was turning out to be.
• • •
Ian took the electric drill gun he always carried out of the back of the car and went to work on the plates. He quickly unscrewed them as John transferred their stuff to the Audi. Both listened for any sign of traffic on the road.
The night was still and quiet. No one drove down the long lane they were now on. John walked up. “Can I ask why the hell you never took the GPS out of this bloody car?” He wiped at a trickle of blood that ran from the cut on his cheek. “Fucking bastards.”
Ian looked at him. “You think I’d ever drive a vehicle that had an active GPS?”
John frowned. “No.”
Ian pulled the lining of the trunk away, ignoring the bullet holes that now pierced the trunk lid. He’d raised the bottom of the trunk when he’d first purchased the car. Always paid to plan ahead. He quickly opened the compartment that had been hidden. He handed the four handguns, ammo and tear gas off to John, who only shook his head. “And to think I thought I could leave this business.”
Next he grabbed the duffle bag that contained extra clothing, hair color, new passports and money. He double-checked the car, noting they’d taken everything traceable from it. He’d rubbed all the ID numbers off when he’d installed the compartment in the trunk.
Satisfied, he slung the duffle over his shoulder and walked back to the car. The woman, Lenora, could, without doubt, handle herself.
Now he needed to talk her into his next plan
. Of course, that was all on the idea that the child had nowhere to go. Either way, he’d need her help and they had plenty of work to do before dawn.
• • •
She looked out at the night. Dark, dark was the night. She didn’t like the dark. The dark held monsters. And monsters were bad. Monsters hurt. They had big hands, claws, and didn’t care when you cried. They stuck you with their claws and then you went to the fog.
She didn’t like the fog.
But this man didn’t have claws. And he hadn’t poked her arm.
So tired. Where was Zoy? She blinked and sucked her thumb.
Her head hurt.
Zoy?
The monsters.
She shivered again, cold. So cold. She pulled her legs up inside the big warm coat. Sucking her thumb, she fingered the ends of her hair.
The monsters were everywhere.
Maybe if she stayed really, really quiet, they’d leave her alone.
She closed her eyes. She wanted to be a bird.
A bird that could fly. Away. In the night. To the moon.
She opened her eyes and looked to the sky, but there was no moon. Did the monsters steal it too?
They took her sister.
No. No.
She shivered.
Where was Zoy?
The man, big, his eyes dark, his mouth mean, walked to the car. She shivered in the blanket. He’d picked her up. Let her out of the room.
Why didn’t they take Zoy too?
Maybe they’d go back and get her sister.
She listened as they talked, but didn’t understand them. He’d spoken to her. Told her hello and that he’d help her.
But he was big. And big people became monsters.
She closed her eyes and pretended to be a bird. Fly, fly away . . .
Chapter 8
Ian drove the car, talking to both John and Lenora as they decided their best bet was Karlovy Vary, the spa town of the Czechs. It would be dawn in a couple of hours and there wasn’t much any of them could do about that.
The team called in to clean up his apartments in Prague had checked in. There had been two casualties, neither of which were Snake and Tanner. The two men Ian had worked with before. Gar was busy in Paris getting them a passport contact here.
