Cat's Paw (Veritas Book 1)

by Chandler Steele

  “No. I don’t owe Buryshkin a thing, but I do owe a friend in prison. If it gets the bad dope off the streets, win-win.”

  Not if you die, you moron.

  Morgan understood loyalty—she was that way with Crispin. She would do anything to save his life, because, in his own way, he’d saved hers. But to make such a deal with the Russian . . .

  She closed her eyes, desperately looking for some reason this might actually work.

  “We’ll get it done,” Alex said. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes. One of the Russians was on the phone, talking to someone in a clipped tone. Once the call ended, he said something to the driver, who shot a quick glance over the seats at them. Then they began to talk to one another in a lowered tone.

  Morgan’s skin twitched. Something felt wrong. “Alex?”

  “Just stay cool, no matter what happens,” he said.

  They headed north and half an hour later, they turned onto a side road, one that led toward the water. When the car stopped, men approached from both sides. Morgan was hauled out at gunpoint, as well as Alex. Something had changed between Buryshkin’s place and here. Had the crime boss decided to renege on their deal?

  Alex’s expression remained neutral as he studied an approaching figure: the one woman Morgan would gladly kill if she ever had a chance.

  “Anya!” Alex called out. “Long time no see. How goes it?”

  He knew she was going to be here. Had that been what the Russians were talking about on the drive over? But why would Buryshkin send them here? Maybe he didn’t. That would mean that this woman had her own people buried inside his organization. That made sense. Though Anya was reportedly crazy, she was cunning. Perhaps even more cunning than her dear old dad.

  Morgan had only seen her once before—she’d had the balls to come to Wayne’s graveside service—but hadn’t known who Anya was until later. Schooled in both Moscow and Paris, she’d been married, and was now a widow. Rumor had it that she’d killed her husband, and Daddy had hushed it all up. That was all Veritas knew, other than the fact that more than one person claimed she was a sociopath.

  Anya walked up to Vasily and spoke with him briefly, keeping her voice low. Her eyes flicked to Alex, then Morgan.

  “Thank you. I have no further need of your services,” she said.

  Vasily returned to the car, and as the driver began to back up, Anya gestured to one of her men. He took a position in front of the vehicle, raised his AK-47, and sprayed it with gunfire before the two occupants could react. Morgan looked away, her heart lurching.

  Once the gunfire ceased and the stench of fresh blood rose, Alex sighed. “So how are you going to spin that with your father? He’s going to know that you killed them.”

  “No, he will believe that it was Veritas’s doing. I will make sure of that.”

  She wants a war between Crispin and her old man.

  It was a slick move; Veritas would destroy Buryshkin’s organization, while she set up her own little mob. But in the long run, it wouldn’t work even if Alex had to kill this bitch himself.

  I could save Wilder the trouble.

  “Why Vasily? What’d he do to piss you off?” Alex asked.

  “He was thinking of double-crossing me. Now he won’t.”

  Morgan turned her back on the bullet-ridden car as Buryshkin’s daughter circled her like a shark.

  “You are the lawyer’s wife,” Anya said. “The one who could not keep him in her bed.” She ran a hand down Morgan’s cheek, letting her nails dig into the flesh. “Your husband, he did not have that problem with me. He begged to fuck me.”

  Morgan didn’t hesitate, her fist landing a vicious blow to the woman’s chin. Anya collapsed to the ground, blood running down her face. As she struggled to her feet, she screamed in Russian. Curiously, none of Anya’s men had stepped in to help her.

  They hate her as much as I do.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that,” Alex said, shaking his head. “But damn, that was sweet.”

  It was, even if it got her dead.

  Anya pulled a switchblade and waved it in front of Morgan. “I will cut out your heart.”

  “And that’s supposed to frighten me?” Morgan asked. Because it didn’t. Anya’s madness was a weakness, and she was eager to exploit it.

  Alex stepped in between them.

  “Get out of the way!” Anya snarled.

  “Really? A cat fight?” He looked at Anya, jutting a thumb toward Morgan. “Why mess with her? She’s a waste of time. I would think you’d be too busy trying to have Grigori killed.”

  Anya’s fury faded just as quickly as it had appeared. “Don’t worry. He will be dead soon, as well as his . . . lover.” She spat at the thought. “You sided with him. That was a mistake.”

  “I sided with whoever would keep me alive in prison. That happened to be Grigori. I didn’t see your ass offering to help me.”

  “Get out of my way, Alex. This bitch is mine,” Morgan demanded, shoving him.

  “Not this time, babe,” he said, keeping his back to her.

  You arrogant bastard.

  His distraction had worked: The woman had zeroed in on him now, as if Morgan didn’t exist. She cursed him out, but neither of them paid her any attention.

  “My father is a fool. He has no notion of what I have done,” Anya explained.

  “Like poisoning the cocaine and killing Dimitri?” Alex asked.

  “Da. We only poison some of the packages, just enough. My father will be blamed. And Dimitri? He was working for Wilder,” she said, turning her predatory eyes on Morgan now. “He deserved to die.”

  “That’s why you left his body in the warehouse? So the blame would fall on your father?” Alex asked.

  “Of course,” she said, folding the switchblade and tucking it away.

  “You sent Boris after my sister. Had him kill her cat.”

  “You needed to be sent a message, and he wanted her as his whore. So I let him have her. She was not giving him proper respect, so he killed something she loved. Why not? She is of no concern.”

  Alex growled under his breath.

  “Except I got in the way,” Morgan said.

  Anya looked past Alex to her. “That was my mistake. I should have sent two men, not just one. Then you would have died when they were through with you and the girl.”

  Morgan buried the shiver. “Why do you hate Grigori so much?”

  “He is pee-da-rahss.” Anya spat again, as if being homosexual was a sickness. Then she smiled, and a feral light came to her eyes. When she issued a series of orders in Russian, Alex tensed.

  “I want their deaths on video. Every minute. Every scream. That way, I can enjoy it whenever I am bored.”

  She walked up to him now, pushing at his chest with a finger. “You thought to betray me to my father. You do not understand—he is dead man walking. Now so are you.”

  She whirled away. “Get them out of here. The alligators need feeding.”

  “Anya,” Alex said, “you don’t want to do this.”

  “Do what you wish to either of them.” Her eyes tracked back to Morgan. “Anything . . . you wish. Make sure I get the video.” She smiled now. “I will send a copy to Wilder. Perhaps even put it on the internet for all to see. People pay for those kind of things, you know? You could be making me money for years after after you are dead.”

  Anya’s laugh engulfed them now, a brittle sound that reminded Morgan of expensive glass shattering on tile. The sound of a broken mind that no longer harbored any sanity.

  God help us.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  There were three guards on the boat as it headed into the bayou for what promised to be a one-way trip, at least for Alex and Morgan. One of the Russians was drinking, and of course, it wasn’t tea. He had a video camera set up on a tripod, but had yet to begin recording. The quality of that video wasn’t going to be Academy Award-worthy, but Alex doubted that the goon’s crazy boss would care. The thought that Cris
pin or his sister would ever see this snuff film made him sick.

  The trio talked back and forth about what they intended to do to both of them, especially Morgan. After some knife work on Alex, he was going overboard first, so they wouldn’t have to worry about him interfering with their plans for his companion. From the worry on her face, she’d guessed most of the conversation as well, though she did not speak the language. The seething fire in her eyes was reserved for him.

  They sat huddled on the deck, backs against the starboard side of the boat.

  “Sorry,” he murmured, hoping she could hear him over the boat’s engine and that the others could not.

  “For selling us out to Buryshkin?”

  He knew she’d be furious, but still, her words felt like acid dripping on his skin.

  “I didn’t sell your people out to Buryshkin. And I’m sorry for what I said at the camp.”

  “Save it. You can plead your case to the devil. My bet is that you’ll be meeting up with him soon enough.”

  The Russians were sharing jokes and the bottle. With their attention diverted, now was the time.

  “I was wrong to put the blame on you. The problem was between Wayne and me. I said things I never should have said. I am truly sorry.”

  No reply.

  He’d tried. “My phone recorded what Anya said about her father and Grigori. I’d hoped to send the recording to Buryshkin and let her own words hang her, rather than us, but it’s unlikely they’re going to let me do that.”

  Morgan turned away, her cheeks red again. “I believed in you. I”—she lowered her voice—“slept with you. How the hell can I trust you now?”

  “You have to. I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe, but this isn’t looking good.”

  Her eyes met his now. “Yeah, I don’t need to speak Russian to know what they’ve got in mind.”

  “Then we need to make sure they don’t get a chance to hurt you. When it’s time, I’ll ask for one last kiss. Be sure to go along with it so I can get my phone to you.”

  Their phones had been returned to them when they left Buryshkin’s and his was in the front pocket of his jeans. There was no way he could pull it out now, or they’d know something was up. Frankly, he’d been surprised they’d been allowed to keep them. Yet another indication that Anya wasn’t as smart as her father.

  “You know there’s no way they’re leaving me alive after they’re done with me,” Morgan said. “I’ll be over the side of the boat, just like you.”

  “You have to stay alive. I’m going to try to give you a chance to survive. Take it, no matter what happens to me, okay?”

  Morgan grimaced, then looked away. “Alex . . . ” She blinked away tears. “I . . . ”

  His attention went back to the men and what they were saying. He couldn’t catch all of it, not with the engine’s drone, but one of them was bitching about how, once they were done with this, he still had to ferry a load of coke to New Orleans tonight. Which meant Veritas had been wrong: The shipment wasn’t hidden in the city. Alex quietly relayed what he’d learned to Morgan. She frowned, but nodded.

  “Hey!” he called out. “Got anything to drink on this garbage scow?”

  One of the Russians laughed, the one not drinking. The other two didn’t seem to understand, which led Alex to believe they didn’t speak English. The guy piloting the boat gestured for his buddy, who ignored Alex. Instead he staggered over to Morgan and offered her the bottle.

  She eyed him, then took it. A swift swig, and it came back to him. Alex waited for her to react, but she didn’t. Like she drank straight vodka every day.

  Okay, then. His respect for her edged up another notch.

  The tipsy Russian accepted the bottle, then gestured for Morgan to come to him. As she rose to her feet, the man leered, his eyes raking down her body. Alex’s blood began to boil.

  Fortunately, she didn’t understand the names he was calling her, or she would have ripped off his balls. As she leaned into the guy, letting him grope her, no doubt trying to find just the right moment to cripple him, the boat’s motor cut out.

  “My zdes,” the pilot said. We are here.

  Morgan’s guard grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the way. She looked at Alex, panicked.

  Let her get out of this alive and unhurt. That’s all I ask.

  The pilot gestured to him, like he was supposed to be a good little boy and let them kill him without a fight.

  “Ah, no. I don’t think so. Not my kind of thing. I’m allergic to drowning.”

  The guy laughed, then pulled a gun. “You first!” he ordered, gesturing toward the rear of the boat. The third Russian stood watch, hands on his hips.

  Alex rose slowly, buying time. “Can’t I give the ice babe a kiss goodbye?” he asked. When that was translated, it provoked laughter, and he was shoved toward Morgan. He pulled her out of her guard’s grip, then he kissed her like it would be the last one they ever shared. His blood sang, bringing back vivid memories of their only night together. How that might be all they’d ever have.

  “Stay alive, no matter what,” he whispered in her ear as he pushed his phone into her front jeans pocket. “I’m sorry we didn’t have more time. You are the most amazing woman I have ever met.”

  As her eyes widened, Alex pushed her away.

  “No, still cold as a dead fish,” he announced, playing to his audience. “I’d just toss her overboard. You’ll be wasting your time.”

  More laughter, along with crude suggestions of how to warm her up. Using their distraction as a weakness, Alex dove at the closest guard, ramming him to the deck. His element of surprise ended quickly as the other guard waded in. They battered at him until he fell to his knees. Swearing, the pilot of the boat encased him in a heavy log chain, winding it around him like a spider would to secure a helpless fly. Alex struggled, but had no leverage.

  When he looked up, blinking, he found Morgan on her knees as well, a gun aimed at the back of her head. Her eyes were wild with fear and a trickle blood ran down the side of her face. She’d fought and lost as well.

  Alex opened his mouth to say something, anything, but a blow silenced him. He tried to fight, but his movements were uncoordinated with the heavy chain, his balance off. He felt his legs bump the side of the boat.

  The second guard was in his face now, waving a knife. It appeared they were going to carve on him, then toss him overboard. The pilot bellowed something, and abruptly, the man backed off, sheathing the blade. Instead he headed for the video camera. The time had come, and Alex looked into Morgan’s deep, green eyes one last time.

  “Wish I’d met you years before,” he said. Then he rammed into the pilot, managing to get his hand around the man’s throat, and they toppled overboard.

  “Alex!”

  As he sank into the murky water with his captor, he thought of Morgan and prayed that he’d given her a fighting chance. It was his final gesture to a woman he could have loved if given more time.

  Even before the beefier of the two guards shouted for help to rescue their friend, Morgan was on her feet. She rammed her elbow into her captor’s breastbone. As he reeled back, she brought his arm down on her leg, snapping the wrist, the gun dropping as he shrieked in agony. Still, he came back with a knife from his boot. Waving it around, he cursed her in his own language, but he was at a disadvantage—she’d broken his dominant hand.

  Morgan skittered backward, grabbed the gun, then put two slugs in the center of his chest. The man stared at her in stark surprise. He stumbled a few steps, then slumped against the side of the boat, blood covering his shirt.

  “You’re outta here,” she said, kicking him overboard, generating a huge splash.

  Morgan had barely turned when the man who’d been manning the video camera tackled her, and she went down hard. As he clawed for the weapon, she kneed him in the chin. Two shots echoed in the midmorning air, and the final Russian sank onto the deck, dead.

  Her head dizzy from the blow it’d
taken, Morgan forced herself to her feet. “Alex.” She sprinted to the rear of the boat. The chain that was imprisoning him was attached to a cleat on the stern. Apparently they used it over and over, victim after victim.

  Maybe he still had a chance.

  Setting the gun aside, Morgan tugged on the chain, but it didn’t move. She tried again, but realized the metal was too wet for her to get a good grip. She stripped off her T-shirt, wrapped it around the chain, and this time she was able to pull it up a few links. Putting every bit of strength she had into the effort, she kept hauling away, praying as each link dug into the gunwale. Some distance away from the boat, a face surfaced, the pilot who’d gone overboard with Alex. He splashed frantically, trying to swim to safety. Suddenly he disappeared underwater, and when he came back up, his voice erupted in a bloodcurdling scream.

  An alligator surfaced next to him, its muzzle bloody.

  “Oh Jesus, no!” Morgan kept hauling, her muscles burning and shaking. “Come on, Alex! Help me!”

  A patch of brown hair appeared on the surface. She kept pulling, her hands cramping, bloodstained now. Finally his face appeared, then his shoulders. As she grabbed onto his shoulders and pulled him up, her back convulsing, she feared she was too late.

  Finally, both of them flopped onto the deck in a tangle of chains. Her hands were numb, but she climbed to her knees and rolled him over to his side.

  He was unresponsive, even as she shook him. Rolling him back over, Morgan whacked him hard in the center of the back. She repeated it, crying now. “Come on, damn you, don’t give up!”

  The third blow caused a thick cough, and then Alex gasped for air. He spewed water onto the deck. Then, finally, he opened his eyes.

  “Oh God, yes!” she said.

  Her joy was cut short by a scream.

  “Don’t let him—” Alex began, but was cut off by a bout of coughing.

  Morgan understood. She picked up the gun and walked to the back of the boat where the Russian flailed in the water, begging God for mercy as two alligators fought over him.

  A single bullet in the forehead ended his torment.

  Alex heard the shot, then no more screams. For a time, he’d thought those screams were coming from him, but that couldn’t be right. He’d been under the water for so long, even felt one of the gators bump him, no doubt trying to figure out if he was food. Instead it had gone after the other man, the one who had panicked and was not covered in chains. But there wasn’t only one of the beasts down there. In time, one of the others would have come for him.