Irina beat her to it. She grabbed the pistol, scrambled to her feet.
Before she could aim it, Miranda rushed her and grabbed her wrist, pushing the weapon’s barrel away from her face.
Irina let out a screech. “Let go, suka.”
“No, you let go.”
“You will never defeat me. I have a stronger will. You are weak and neurotic.”
She must have been reading up on her. “What are you, a psychologist?”
Irina’s red lips turned up in a grisly smile while her dark eyes took on a strange glow. “I am a vampire.”
And she bent down and sank her teeth into Miranda’s neck.
“Yow.” Miranda tried to hold on to Irina’s wrist, but she couldn’t.
She let go and jammed her palm into Irina’s nose until her jaws relaxed and she was free.
Relatively speaking.
Irina stood before her, holding the gun in both hands and pointing it straight at her heart.
“Sergei,” she shouted over her shoulder. “Take her now. We can still play our games.”
But instead of Sergei, Parker answered.
“Miranda,” he shouted. “Back away!”
She knew what he meant. She took two steps back, caught sight of Parker with Sergei’s weapon in his hand.
Behind him, Sergei lay in the corner, his face covered with blood.
But Parker’s focus was on Irina.
As she turned to face him and shoot first, he took aim, fired once.
The shot hit Irina dead center. She dropped to the floor and her gun clattered onto the concrete.
Heart pounding in her chest, Miranda stared down at her. She was gone.
Then she heard a noise. A growl came from the other side of the room.
Sergei had revived and was on his feet. He reached for the metal chair and held it up, about to slam it on top of Parker’s head. There wasn’t enough time for Parker to react.
As fast as she could, Miranda lunged for Irina’s weapon and scooped it up. She turned and squeezed the trigger just as Parker stepped out of the line of fire.
Her aim was just as good as Parker’s.
The giant who had been Irina’s right-hand man crumpled to the floor the same way his boss had a few seconds ago.
Gasping for breath, blood rushing through her veins, Miranda stared at Parker in the now silent room.
They were alive. She could hardly believe it.
He stared at her in amazement, then he said, “We have to get out of here.”
He was right. All she wanted was to throw her arms around him and kiss him, but there wasn’t time.
Turning around, she found the recess where the door she’d seen earlier was. She picked up the chain and padlock wound through the heavy iron handle.
“How are we going to get through this?”
“Stand back.”
She did, and Parker gave the door a few hard kicks.
It didn’t budge.
She raised her palms in disgust. “We don’t even know where we are.”
“We’re not far from the stadium. I wasn’t out long, but I pretended to be.”
She’d figured as much. But that still wouldn’t get them out of here.
She started to scratch her head then thought better of it. It was too sore. “There has to be a key to that padlock somewhere.”
Parker crossed the room and bent down to search Sergei’s pockets. Miranda did the same with Irina.
They came up empty.
She looked around. The room was about thirty by twenty. Solid concrete walls with no furniture other than the old roll top desk.
“It’s got to be in here.” She hurried over to the desk and had just pulled out a drawer when shouts and banging came from outside.
The chained door began to shiver.
Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.
She heard Gurka’s voice shouting in Ukrainian. Then Oleg’s.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
“It’s the police.”
“With a battering ram.” Parker pulled her back as the door shattered, and a squadron of SWAT uniforms rushed into the room.
Gurka’s men.
Eyes wide, Officer Oleg, who was at the front took in the two bodies on the floor. “What happened?” he asked.
Miranda glanced at Parker. “It’s a long story.”
But she was glad Oleg was okay.
Then she heard Gurka’s voice, and a wave of relief went through her as the Inspector stepped into the room, making his way through his officers.
Amazement on his gnarled face, Gurka put his hands on Parker, then on Miranda. “You are both safe. Thank Heaven for that.”
“We’re very happy to see you alive, as well, Inspector,” Parker said.
Miranda gave him a smile. “I told you we could take care of ourselves.”
Without answering he turned to stare down at the two lifeless bodies on the floor. “You took care of them, too. You are heroes.” His voice was filled with emotion.
Then Gurka turned to his men and began barking orders at them. Several of them left, and others came in to begin processing the scene.
Miranda gestured at Irina. “She said you were dead.”
Gurka scowled. “She was lying. We managed to take down the delivery van and the Audi. We confiscated all two hundred and forty kilograms of the cargo.”
“Wow.” Miranda eyed the strip of fabric bound around the Inspector’s upper arm where he’d taken a bullet. Gurka was something of a hero himself.
“Irina told us everything,” she said. “All the names in the spreadsheet are fake except the left-hand column. Each row corresponds to a recruit and his aliases. A lot of them were young men they got off the streets.”
Gurka nodded and rubbed his mustache as he watched his men deal with the bodies. “You put a stop to the people who were responsible for Rinat’s death. This will give my sister closure.”
Knowing Vlad’s killer was gone would be a comfort to Olga, his fiancée, too.
Both Vlad and Gurka’s nephew were finally avenged. The evil rein of Udar in his city was over.
The Inspector turned to Miranda. “And your Sasha? Did you learn the truth about him?”
“I think we did.” Though it wasn’t good news.
“We have some questions about that matter,” Parker said. “But we will handle that ourselves.”
Miranda wondered what he had in mind.
“Very well.” Gurka shook hands with both of them. “Thank you for your help. Ms. Steele, Mr. Parker, you two have raised my opinion of American private investigators.”
Miranda laughed. “Glad to be able to do that.”
He smiled back at her with sudden tears in his eyes. “Good work. And good luck to you.”
Chapter Forty-Six
The next morning Miranda stood at the gilded mirror in the fancy bathroom of their Kiev hotel suite, dabbing makeup on her swollen cheek. Not much she could do for the lip. What a mess.
Dressed in a handsome traveling suit and looking none the worse for wear, Parker came to the door and stood watching her a moment.
She turned to him with a painful grin. “I’m ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille.”
Parker’s reply was a scowl.
“Heck, Parker. I only know that quote from watching old movies as a kid.” When her mother used to leave her alone in the evenings to go to her job as a cleaning woman in a local hospital.
Parker stepped inside the bathroom and gently took her chin in her hand. “I’m so sorry, Miranda.”
So it was guilt that had him in a foul mood.
She touched his cheek. “It’s part of the job.”
“How’s your head?”
She touched the back of it and winched. Then she shook her head at his look of concern. “I’ll be okay.” She glanced in the mirror at her neck where Irina had bitten her. “I might need a rabies shot, though.”
“I’ll make an appointment for you with Jackson when we get home.”
; Dr. Jackson Taggart, Parker’s childhood friend and Chief of Staff at Saint Benedictine Hospital. He saw patients only rarely now.
Parker didn’t need to bother. “I think I’ll be fine.”
He inhaled, deciding not to make an issue of it. “I assume you’re feeling well enough to travel, then?”
“Am I ever.” This time they were going home for real.
She gave him a kiss on the cheek, which only hurt a little, grabbed her makeup bag, and took it into the bedroom where her suitcase was open on the bed for her. She’d already dressed in jeans and a comfortable T-shirt for the flight.
She tossed in the pouch and zipped it up.
Parker took her suitcase into the living area and put it near the door with the rest of the bags he’d already packed. “I’ve called for the bellhop. He’ll be here soon.”
“Okay.” She sank into one of the fancy chairs feeling empty.
Absently, she stared at the little room service table where an hour ago they’d shared their last breakfast in Ukraine. Her thoughts went back to the things she’d learned yesterday. Her brain was still reeling from them.
“Did you hear what Irina told me about Sasha yesterday?”
“I did.”
“Do you think she was telling the truth? Is he really Anatoly Tamarkin?”
Parker took a seat in the opposite chair. “I don’t know.”
“And she said Yakiv Doroshenko was his alias now. And that he works for the man in America who runs Udar.”
He nodded. “The man in Boston. Though he doesn’t run Udar any longer.”
No, he didn’t They’d destroyed Udar. A chill went down her spine. “Parker, do you think—?” she could barely bring herself to utter the words.
“What?”
He was going to make her say it. “That we’ve found the head of Group 141? The guy who’s been after us all this time?”
“I don’t know.” His expression was unreadable.
The bellhop came and took their bags. They rode down the elevator, and headed out the lobby door and onto the busy sidewalk. The sun was shining on the classical buildings and the golden cupolas in the distance, giving the ancient city a magical glow.
Today the nippy air didn’t seem quite as cold.
Parker tipped the bellhop after he loaded the bags, and then ushered her into the BMW. He came around, climbed inside, and took off for the airport.
Miranda sat back and let out a long breath of relief. “We’re on our way home at last.”
Parker made a turn onto a highway with a street sign she still couldn’t read.
“Not exactly,” he said quietly.
She sat up and turned to him. “What do you mean?”
Yesterday he told Inspector Gurka they had unanswered questions and would take care of them. Was that what he was talking about?
He slowed for a traffic light. “I’ve already contacted my father. He and Tatiana are meeting us. If you feel well enough for a detour.”
She spun around in her seat to face him. “Well enough? I’m great.”
The sneaky PI had been going behind her back again. He’d done more than pack this morning.
“Where? Where are we going?”
The light turned and they were halfway down the next block before he answered.
“New York.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Simon Sloan stood at the two-way mirror of the Metropolitan Correctional Center in New York and watched Anatoly Tamarkin being interrogated.
He was a beast of a man. A brute. An animal with the stature of an ox, and a shaved head and tattoos meant to intimidate anyone who got in his way. And he was as uncooperative as ever.
Dressed in his orange jumpsuit, the prisoner leaned back in his chair. His thick inky arms folded over his massive chest, he looked as if he were about to fall asleep.
Sloan felt his blood pressure rising. In all his years with the FBI, he had never hated anyone more. He loathed this man with every fiber of his being.
Tamarkin.
The man who had killed his agent in Atlanta. The man who slaughtered his poor sweet sister-in-law in one of the most gruesome murders Sloan had ever seen. And though he blamed himself for both of their deaths, if it were lawful, he would rush into that interrogation room and strangle the man with his bare hands right now.
But it wasn’t lawful. And they needed information from the thug.
Sloan ran a hand over his face. He was exhausted. After spending the last month racing all over the country on a shoestring budget, chasing worthless leads with nothing to show for it, he was drained.
But tonight he had to be alert. This interview was important.
Sloan had O’Cleary doing preliminary questioning, but though his man was good at extracting information from unwilling prisoners, Sloan didn’t expect much.
So far, there had been three attempts on Tamarkin’s life staged as suicides. Someone didn’t want him to talk. Tamarkin had fought off his attackers, but he still didn’t crack under interrogation. The organization was wasting their time. They didn’t need to shut him up.
Tamarkin was the most tight-lipped prisoner Sloan had ever dealt with.
But after what happened in Los Angeles last month, Sloan knew they had to get something out of him.
Tamarkin had information on Group 141. And Group 141 was turning out to be much bigger than just a few criminal enterprises scattered throughout the southeast. It stretched all the way across the country.
Maybe beyond.
Again Sloan rubbed his palm over his eyes and reached for his paper cup. The prison coffee was eating at his stomach lining, but he needed it to stay awake. He’d hardly slept last night.
He thought of the flame-haired beauty who had occupied his thoughts far too often over the past weeks.
She had such a pretty name. Janelle. It sounded like “Jewel,” and it made his heart sparkle at the sound of it.
Back in LA, while hunting down members of a human trafficking gang, he’d kissed her. And what a kiss it was. He’d kissed other women before, though never anyone who made him want to settle down.
But this kiss. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Like a jolt of electricity. Like a lightning bolt from the sky. He could have sworn he’d heard angels singing. That woman did something to his heart he’d never felt before. And it wasn’t just that kiss.
It was her.
He thought of her courage, her clear headed dead-on aim when she fired the shot that had saved O’Cleary’s life. And saved Sloan from the heavy guilt of another loss.
She was a wonder. A downright miracle.
She was a distraction.
Over and over he told himself it was no good thinking about her. He’d probably never see her again.
The last thing he’d expected was a call from her last night at two in the morning.
At the request of her boss, she’d contacted him on the secure phone Sloan had given the man. It seemed Wade Parker and Miranda Steele had been at it again. In Ukraine, of all places. But what Janelle told him they’d discovered had made his head spin. They’d been involved in a twenty-four million dollar drug bust and had broken up a place that had been exporting criminals to the US for years. And now, they had more information.
It could be what he needed to bring down Group 141 once and for all.
That was what he had to focus on now. Not Janelle Wesson. He had work to do.
His phone buzzed. He checked the message. His guests were here.
He downed the rest of his coffee, tossed the cup in the trash, and hurried out of the room.
Chapter Forty-Eight
With Parker beside her, Miranda sat in the less than inviting waiting room of the high-rise holding facility in Lower Manhattan that housed everything from Ponzi scheme fraudsters to international terrorists.
Her stomach churned with nerves.
Beside her, Tatiana fidgeted, her arms around her waist while she rocked back and forth in the chair that di
dn’t rock.
Mr. P was on his feet, pacing back and forth across the plain linoleum floor. “Where is he, Russell?”
“He’ll be here in a moment,” Parker told him with little emotion.
“How can he put my wife through all this waiting? Isn’t this hard on her enough?” Mr. P was used to getting his way.
After the long flight from Kiev, she and Parker had landed at JFK that afternoon and gone to the ritzy hotel suite nearby that Parker had booked for the night.
There they’d grabbed a shower, a quick nap, and a change of clothes. Then they’d met Mr. P and Tatiana in the restaurant for an early dinner and to go over the details of their trip to Kiev, which Tatiana was still reeling from.
The poor woman looked haggard and tired. She’d been up most of the night after Parker called his father and Mr. P woke her up to confess what he’d asked his son to do behind her back.
And that he hadn’t gotten the result he was after.
Mr. P stood staring absently at the vending machine across the room and muttering quietly to himself. “All I wanted was to reunite her family. I wanted to make her happy.”
Miranda dug her fingers into her forehead and pretended to study the poor excuse for an abstract print on the wall. Like Mr. P, she was brokenhearted she couldn’t make that happen.
Was it worse to think your brother was dead or to know he’d become a violent criminal?
Miranda couldn’t say, but they still weren’t completely sure the man in FBI custody was Sasha Pavlovych. They needed Tatiana to verify that.
Or not.
She reached for Parker’s hand. He gave it a squeeze but was otherwise unresponsive. No doubt he was reliving some of their recent experiences. Or maybe the bad memories from his childhood. Arguments and disagreements with his father over his mother, over Parker’s career choice.
Surely Mr. P didn’t blame his son for what had happened to Tatiana’s brother. Did he? She’d rather he blamed her.
The door opened and Simon Sloan himself entered the room.
The wiry dark-haired agent with the movie star looks stood surveying his guests as if they were prisoners. He had on his usual dark suit, his badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck, and he looked just the same as when she’d last seen him in Los Angeles. Except for the dark lines under his eyes.
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