She donned a friendly air. “Hi there. What’s your name?”
He turned to her as if he didn’t like being interrupted. His eyes were as dull as his clothes and he wore the I-dare-you-to-hit-me air of a cocky amateur. “Why do you want to know that?”
“Just being friendly. Hey, you speak English.”
“Most do here. I do not like the language.” He turned his attention back to the fight.
One of the fighters was in blue board-shorts, the other in black. The one in black seemed to be chasing the one in blue.
“You come here a lot?”
“Be quiet.”
“Just making small talk. Are you a fighter? I am. Or at least, I’m trying to be.”
He didn’t reply.
Black Shorts got in a kick to the thigh, eliciting a few cheers from the onlookers.
“How long have you been training?”
“A good while,” he said, as if he hoped the answer would make her go away.
“Are you from around here? How did you hear about Udar?”
“You are a very nosey American.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to find out if this is a good place to train.”
He turned to face her, eyes narrowed. “If I were you, I would not come back here.”
A chill went down her spine. Something about the way he said it made her think he meant more than just because she’d lose a bout.
Blue Shorts shot out a punch and missed. Black Shorts took his opponent down to the ground and started pounding on him.
Everyone shouted cheers and instructions.
Suddenly a woman appeared at the far side of the cage. In a tight black rash guard with the Udar logo and black leggings, she started yelling louder than anyone else. She looked like she was about to climb into the cage with the fighters.
The only other female in the place, she was of average height, but thin and muscular. Her long straight black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she had sharp angular features. Her thin lips were colored with blood red lipstick, and even from this distance Miranda could see rage in her dark eyes.
She screamed at the fighters at the top of her lungs.
“Who is that?” Miranda said to her unwilling companion.
He let out a sneer. “That is Irina Voloshyna. She is the manager. She is very intense.”
That was an understatement. “She runs this place?”
“That is what I said.”
That woman was in charge of this club? Was she a criminal or just a hothead? Hard to tell.
She was just about to ask her good buddy what else he thought of her, when the woman turned her head and caught sight of Miranda across the cage.
Irina’s gaze locked on her in a long sharp glare that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
At the same time Miranda’s blood started to boil in a deep-seated rage. She didn’t have any logical reason to feel that way. Not yet. There was no evidence of anything.
But she did.
In fact, for an instant she wanted to pull the woman into the ring and pound the daylights out of her.
Just then, Blue Shorts wrapped his legs around Black Shorts’ neck and began to squeeze. Black Shorts struggled to his feet, dragging Blue Shorts with him, upside down. He got his bearings and slammed Blue Shorts down to the mat.
Blue Shorts tapped out and the crowd erupted in a loud hubub.
At that moment Miranda spotted Parker and Sergei across the floor making their way toward her. Good time to make a break for it.
Without saying goodbye to the friendly dude, she trotted up to them.
“We’re very impressed with your facility,” Parker was saying as she reached his side.
Sergei gave them both more of his salesman smile. “I am happy to hear that. Will we see you tomorrow?”
“Most likely.”
Sergei handed Miranda two tickets. “These are two three-day passes. Feel free to come when you can. Our Sambo trainer is here from ten to five.”
“Thanks. Looking forward to it.” Miranda looked down at the tickets.
With them was a brochure. A card with the Udar logo was stapled to it, but the text was in Cyrillic.
“Thank you for your help. Good evening.” With that, Parker put a hand on the small of Miranda’s back and led her to the stairs.
They descended quickly, donned their coats, said good-night to the smiling receptionist, and stepped outside.
“I was able to take a peek down one of the halls,” Parker murmured in her ear as they hurried away from the place.
“What did you find?”
“Lockers and shower rooms, supply closets.”
That wasn’t all. “And?”
“And offices. I saw Sergei follow a dark-haired woman into one of them.”
“That was Irina Voloshyna, a guy at the cage told me her name when she came out to watch the practice bout. She’s in charge of the place.”
“So I assumed. She and Sergei seemed to be having a rather intense discussion.”
“That was the word he used for her. Intense.”
Parker nodded darkly as he slowed his pace.
“Do you think they were talking about us?”
“If our hunch is right, it would be the natural thing to do.”
She thought about that a moment. They hadn’t really learned anything concrete. “We could be off. That place was clean as a whistle.”
“Physically.”
“Yes, that’s what I meant. Plus they have a lot of expensive equipment.”
“That costs a lot of money.”
That could be funded from drug sales or human trafficking. Or they just did a lot of business.
“Are we going back there tomorrow?”
Parker came to a halt and watched several couples moving along the sidewalk around them. A man opened a nearby door, and music spilled out into the air. Neon lights in the windows indicated a drinking establishment.
He nodded toward the entrance. “Let’s see if we can talk to some of the locals in the area. Maybe someone else will recognize Sasha’s photo.
“I’m up for that.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The bar was crowded, noisy, and smoky.
Miranda hit up the bartender first, but the busy dude didn’t recognize the photo of Sasha on her phone. He did tell her many of Udar’s customers were regulars, though.
With a Ukrainian version of Whiskey Sours in hand, Miranda and Parker made their way through the crowd, chatting up the revelers over the loud music, asking how long they had lived in the area, what they knew about Udar, and if they had ever seen the boy in the photo who would now be thirty-two.
Everyone said Udar was a great place to train and keep fit. None of them knew anything about Sasha or any shady dealings going on at the MMA club.
After an hour and a half, Miranda wanted to drown her disappointment in about six more Whiskey Sours. Instead, she left the club with Parker.
“We’re getting nowhere, Parker,” she complained as she donned her furry hat against the chilly air.
“It’s a difficult case.” His tone was weary.
How long were they going to keep at it? They could spend years trying to find Sasha.
Reading her thoughts, Parker gave her a tender look. “It’s late and we’re tired. Let’s go back to the hotel and get a fresh start in the morning.”
“Good idea.” They had been at it since early this morning.
He took her arm and led her across the street to the sidewalk. In silence they started back toward the spot where they’d left the car. It seemed like a longer distance than when they came. The snow had stopped, but the temperature had dropped again.
As they made their way down the snowy walkway, under the iron filigree balconies on the second and third stories of the classical style buildings, Miranda wondered what it would be like to be a tourist here. She thought of Parker’s comment about retiring. What would it be like to travel around with him with nothing
to do?
With Parker, it would be fun. But what about her destiny? The call to help victims and stop vicious criminals was in her blood. She’d always have to answer it. And she knew that call was in Parker’s blood, too.
Their fate was sealed.
They rounded the corner and entered the strip of road where they’d parked the BMW. The lower part of the building, with the bars on the windows and its Ukrainian graffiti, looked more run down than it had before. The street seemed darker and more deserted.
There was an open space on their left, the bricks forming a semi-circular shape in some Roman style archway, leading off into darkness. As they neared it, Miranda thought she saw a shadow on a nearby snowdrift.
Suddenly, a thick woolen-clad arm flew around her, grabbing for her throat.
What the heck?
Her instincts came to life. She blocked the arm with one hand, shot her elbow up in a backward spin, and connected with her attacker’s jaw.
As she spun, from the corner of her eye, she saw two things. First, someone was going after Parker at the same time. Her heart sank, but just like in the basement earlier, there was nothing she could do about it.
Second, she saw her attacker was wearing a black woolen ski mask.
For an instant, the sight plunged her back into her past. That cold dark February night in Chicago when she had been attacked by a man with his face covered like that. Fear and panic and helplessness swam through her.
But she knew that face now. And she knew the man in Chicago was dead. She’d taken care of him. She’d take care of this one, too.
Shaking off the ghosts from the past, Miranda grabbed her attacker’s outstretched wrist, pressed his shoulder back with her free hand, and began throwing knee strikes. She got him in the hip, the gut with the other knee, the kidney.
He jerked out of her grasp, escaping, and recoiled for another punch.
As he moved back, Miranda saw Parker crouch, grab his assailant around the legs, and lift him over his shoulder. The next instant he’d tossed the dude to the ground. She thought she heard ice crack.
The word “mistake” flashed through her brain. She’d let herself get distracted.
She turned her head just in time to see the big man’s knuckles coming at her like a locomotive. He struck her jaw and down she went.
Stars danced in her eyes. The buildings around her seemed to swirl. Through the haze she heard Parker’s grunts and shouts.
“Miranda! The mask.”
The mask. Right. The last thing this guy wanted was for her to see his face.
She struggled to lift her hand to his throat, began pulling at the material. At the same time her knee jabbed at his groin. He punched at her ribs, adding pain to her already aching back. Then he tried to go for her coat. She knew what he was trying to do. Right here in the street.
Not on your life, buddy.
After what seemed like an eternity, she had her fingers under the wool of his ski mask. Almost there. She caught a glimpse of the guy’s jaw. It reminded her of Sergei. She knew it. These dudes were from Udar.
Suddenly a jolting sound pierced the air.
The whine of a siren. Police.
The man jerked up and got to his feet. Parker’s attacker did the same.
They started to run, heading through the shadowy archway.
“Hey, assholes,” she called out. “You can’t get off that easy.”
She looked at Parker and saw his lip was bleeding. She started after the men.
“Don’t,” he barked.
Loud Ukrainian came from a voice behind them.
Miranda turned and saw a tall young policeman getting out of his car and coming for them.
She looked back. The two men had disappeared.
She shook a hand toward the archway. “There,” she said to the policeman. “They went through there.”
“Americans?”
“I don’t think they were. But if you hurry—”
“No. You two.” He pointed at her and Parker.
She glared at the officer. “Yeah, we’re Americans. Americans who were just attacked by two men in black ski masks. You have to catch them.”
He ignored her. “May I see your passports?”
What? “Passports? We’re the victims here.”
Parker came over and touched her shoulder. “Officer, I apologize for fighting in the streets of your fair city, but I can assure you we were defending ourselves.”
The policeman acted as if he were deaf. “Passports, please.”
Miranda stared at Parker. His face was grim. They had no choice but to comply.
While Parker reached inside his coat, she dug into her pocket for her passport and handed it to the cop.
Ukrainian cop.
He was dressed in a heavy black uniform, including a thick jacket and a cap with the typical fur earflaps. The thick sandy blonde curls peeking out from the cap reminded her of Officer Chambers back home. He had an ego, too. They were all alike the world over.
The officer took their passports and opened the back door of his squad car.
Miranda’s mouth flew open. “You want us to get inside?”
“Please. It is too cold to stand out here.”
Yeah, right. She wanted to make a run for it, but Parker’s soothing tone calmed her nerves.
“We’ll be all right,” he said to her quietly. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”
Didn’t they used to send innocent people to the gulag around here? But this was modern Ukraine. Parker was right. They’d be okay.
She slid into the police car. Parker did the same, and the officer shut the door.
He came around the front, climbed in and began to study their documents.
After several long minutes, the officer picked up the microphone on his dash and jabbered into it. A female voice jabbered back. The dispatcher, Miranda assumed.
He said something else, put down their passports, put the car in gear, and started to turn into the road. It was a one-way city street, and they were heading away from the BMW.
A streak of panic shot through Miranda. Where was he taking them?
Parker leaned forward. “Officer, again I apologize, but we’re here on business.”
“Street fighting is a serious offense, Mr. Parker.” He’d gotten their names from the papers.
“I realize that, but I can assure you we aren’t here to make trouble.”
Without replying, the officer turned at a red light, and drove down a passage to the street that went in the opposite direction.
Was he taking them to their vehicle? Nope. He rolled right past the yellow classical building with the bars and graffiti.
Parker’s scowl was grim. “Officer, we’re private investigators from Atlanta, Georgia. The United States. We were hired to find a young man who left home fourteen years ago and never returned. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to hinder our work.”
The officer slowed and made another turn onto a street she didn’t recognize. Not that she recognized any of them.
With a tired sigh, he said, “You can tell all that to the Inspector, Mr. Parker.”
Miranda felt Parker tense beside her. In the dim light they stared at each other.
Inspector? That didn’t sound good.
Not good at all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The police officer cruised through the city streets, turning this way and that, rounding curves, gliding over hills, until they reached a large open area that served as a square.
There he came to a stop and put on his blinker to turn.
Some time back the road had turned to bumpy red brick and Miranda was glad for the break from the jolts.
They were in another historical section of the city. Across the space, a constellation of golden church onion domes gleamed. At the square’s center, clusters of street lanterns were artfully arranged around a statue of a guy on a horse.
Some Ukrainian hero, she supposed.
Along the walkway tr
ees had been planted and their ice encased branches glistened in the street lights. If they had been tourists, this Slavic winter wonderland would have been fun to explore. But right now, the Old-World architecture was setting her nerves on edge.
The officer made his turn and in the distance loomed a large peach-colored building bathed in light. A fancy edifice with four stories and a multitude of arched windows, it exuded power and authority. It had probably been built in the time of the Tsars.
The car rumbled over the brick pavement as the officer headed for a small parking lot near the building.
This was the police station? No, it had to be headquarters.
That didn’t bode well. Suddenly Miranda felt small and vulnerable.
The officer brought the patrol car to a halt and turned off the engine. He got out of the car and opened the back door.
“Come with me, please.”
No use to argue.
With Parker’s comforting hand at her back, she followed the patrolman down the walkway, up a set of stairs, and through a fancy carved door.
He led them down a wide echoing hall dotted with marble columns, up a broad wooden staircase with a carved railing, to a room on the second floor.
The room was long and narrow. It contained a wooden table, padded chairs, and curtains on the windows. The Ukrainian flag stood in one corner.
More like a conference room than a place for police interrogation, Miranda thought as she took a seat.
“The Inspector will be with you shortly,” the officer said. And with a pretentious bow he turned and left, closing the door behind him.
As soon as he was gone, Miranda spun around. “What have we gotten ourselves into, Parker?”
Parker strolled to the tall window and looked out. “I’m not sure we can determine that yet.”
She sat back and closed her eyes, trying not to panic. “They can’t think we’re criminals. If they lock us up, wouldn’t that cause some sort of international incident?”
“Perhaps.” He sounded distant.
“They didn’t take our fingerprints or photos. Yet.”
“True.”
Vanishing Act Page 10
