“Yes.” Volkov never looked away from Rocco as he spoke. “He tried to come here, but I knew what he had done. I had suspicions for long time but did not want to believe. Now there is no question. I told him he could have one day to run, out of respect for our long friendship.”
Hopefully Radich wouldn’t get far, but that couldn’t be Levi’s main concern right now. “Sergei Volkov, I have a warrant for your arrest.”
“No,” Rocco breathed.
“You want to toss me your cuffs?” Dominic said.
Levi dismissed the idea immediately. “I have to be the one to cuff him. If you do it, a defense attorney will challenge the arrest as false imprisonment and it could jeopardize the entire case—”
Before Levi registered what was happening, Rocco slipped his head forward and smacked the back of his hand against the gun, shifting it away from his temple. One hand clamped down on the butt of the gun, the other on Levi’s wrist, and he disarmed Levi with a quick twisting motion before kicking Levi in the stomach.
Levi was knocked on his ass. He stayed on the floor, more due to utter astonishment than because Rocco was now aiming a gun at him.
“You idiots,” Rocco said.
“Rocco, what are you doing?” Jessica cried.
Rocco’s body language had done a complete one-eighty. He stood straighter, his shoulders squared, and there wasn’t a trace of fear on his face—in fact, he mostly looked annoyed. Judging by the ease with which he’d disarmed Levi and his current stance, he was no stranger to violence.
“Oh my God.” Dominic’s voice was pitched low with shock. “It’s him. He’s the undercover agent.”
“Wow, what a genius.” Rocco dug an object out of his back pocket one-handed and flashed an FBI badge. “I had a feeling I’d be needing this tonight.”
Levi glanced at Volkov, who was gaping at Rocco with uncomprehending eyes.
“You two have done everything you possibly could to fuck up my operation,” Rocco said. “Between your clumsy undercover work and your asinine idea to wander into a den of criminals and just hope that nobody recognized you, it’s a miracle the two of you can walk down the street without killing yourselves.”
“Rocco,” Volkov said shakily, “radost moya—”
“Jesus Christ, that’s not my name!” Rocco snapped. “Who the fuck is actually named Rocco?”
If Levi had ever wondered what it would look like to see a human being’s soul crushed right in front of him—well, now he knew. Volkov said nothing more, just knelt there in numb silence.
Dominic had moved his gun to cover Rocco instead of Volkov. “I don’t know what kind of operation you’re running here, whatever-your-name-is—”
“Calvin. Calvin Walker.”
“Fine,” Dominic said. “Jessica only needed a few days inside this compound to bring the LVMDP enough information to put away dozens of criminals. What the hell have you been doing?”
Calvin snorted a contemptuous laugh. “You think I’m interested in the puny local branch of the Slavic Collective? It’s an international organization. Volkov may be the big dog here, but he’s got bosses and those bosses have bosses. They’re what I was after, and you ruined everything!”
“And in the meanwhile you were willing to let the city tear itself apart in a gang war you could have stopped?”
“I just . . .” Calvin looked sideways at Volkov, a flicker of something unnameable and intriguing crossing his face. “I just needed more time.”
“For what?” Dominic asked.
But Levi knew. “To convince Volkov to turn state’s evidence on his superiors so he wouldn’t have to go to prison.”
Calvin flinched, his eyes closing for the briefest of moments.
“You love him.” Levi rose slowly to his feet.
“Stop!” Calvin firmed his grip on Levi’s gun. It wasn’t clear if he meant for Levi to stop talking or moving or both.
Levi lifted his hands. “Would you really shoot me to protect him?” It wasn’t a challenge—Levi was genuinely curious.
“I don’t know,” Calvin whispered. “Maybe.” His throat bobbed with a harsh swallow as Volkov made a soft, heartbroken noise.
“You’ve gone native?” Dominic said incredulously.
“No. I’m as determined to dismantle the Collective now as I’ve ever been, and I’ve spent years sacrificing everything for that goal. But . . .” Calvin drew a shuddering breath. “Sergei could have delivered the worst of the Collective to the FBI wrapped up with a bow. They’d have put him in witness protection and he’d have been free and safe. He’s not like the others, you don’t understand—”
“I think I do,” said Dominic. “I’ve seen the way he treats you. I can understand how you might fall in love with him even knowing what he’s done.”
“Radost moya,” Volkov said in hushed tones. “You must know I would never betray my comrades.”
For the first time since he’d revealed his identity, Calvin met Volkov’s eyes straight on. “Not even for me?”
Volkov opened his mouth but no sound came out.
Taking advantage of Calvin’s distraction, Levi moved closer. Calvin stiffened and backed up a step.
“I can make sure he makes it through this night alive,” Levi said. “Can you do the same?” When Calvin hesitated, Levi pushed harder. “I give you my word that I’ll get him out of here safely, but I can only do that if I take him into custody. Would you rather have him in jail or dead?”
Calvin groaned, his shoulders slumping. He handed Levi his gun back, then crossed the room and knelt in front of Volkov. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Volkov bent to press his forehead to Calvin’s. He didn’t react as Levi cuffed him and read him his rights. Levi kept his gun in one hand just in case either of them decided to do something stupid, but they were too wrapped up in their private anguish to cause trouble.
“Are you going to arrest Walker too?” Dominic asked under his breath once Levi stepped away.
“For what?”
“Assaulting a police officer, for starters.”
“No.” Levi looked at Calvin, who was murmuring into Volkov’s ear. “This isn’t over yet. We still need to get out of here, and it’ll be easier to do that with Walker as an ally instead of a prisoner.”
“Good point.”
Running feet pounded down the hallway outside. “They’re sending helicopters!” a man shouted. “They’re landing right in the backyard—”
He dashed into the room, absorbed the tableau with impressive speed, and snarled as he pointed his gun at Dominic. His finger was already tensing around the trigger.
Levi shot him twice in the chest without blinking.
The man’s gun still fired, but the shot went wide and shattered a lamp instead. He staggered backward, hit the wall, and slid to the floor.
It was only then that Levi realized what he’d done. He slowly lowered his arms, blinking at the man bleeding out on the plush carpet.
He could hear Dominic speaking, but the words didn’t register. He waited for the shock to dissipate and be replaced by what he’d felt after he killed Dale Slater—the crushing guilt, the self-loathing.
It didn’t come.
He felt nothing.
In the hours before dawn, Levi found himself in a car with Martine and Rohan on the way to Milo Radich’s house. He gazed dully out the passenger’s side window, watching the city flash by.
Thanks to air support, he and Dominic had extracted Volkov, Calvin, and Jessica safely from the compound. The siege had broken, the surviving combatants subdued with minimal losses to law enforcement. It had taken some smooth talking on Levi’s part to prevent Dominic being arrested as well, but in the end he’d been released with little more than a slap on the wrist.
The last Levi had heard, the man he’d shot was still alive.
His mind kept straying to what could have happened—what would have happened if he’d been a second too late. Dominic would be the one fighting for his life
in surgery, and that man . . . Levi would have ripped his fucking throat out. He would have smashed in the guy’s face, broken every bone in his body—
He exhaled shakily and ran a hand through his hair.
“You okay?” Martine asked from the driver’s seat.
“Fine.”
It was clear from her expression she knew that was bullshit but was choosing not to call him on it. Instead, she glanced at Rohan in the rearview mirror and said, “Any idea yet how the Seven of Spades managed to cut off Volkov’s power before the police?”
“Yes, actually.” Rohan had been alternating between his phone and tablet the entire drive, conducting several conversations Levi had largely ignored. “A bulldozer was stolen from a nearby construction site and rigged to smash into a utility pole. It downed a few particularly critical power lines and knocked out electricity to the whole neighborhood.”
“Great,” Martine muttered. “Next you’ll tell me the Seven of Spades snuck onto the grounds of Volkov’s compound to disable his generator.”
“They didn’t have to. Volkov had the generator replaced a couple of weeks ago; turns out it was installed incorrectly. We’ll follow up with the technician responsible and see if the Seven of Spades got to him.”
Levi closed his eyes.
“As for the fireworks, they were set up on timers and detonated remotely. That gives us a solid lead. They couldn’t have been purchased in Clark County, so we’ll check with the closest retailers and see if anyone’s been purchasing in bulk.”
“How is it that the Seven of Spades always sees so many moves ahead?” Levi said.
“We don’t know that’s necessarily true,” Martine argued. “It’s possible that the Seven of Spades has plans in place for dozens of contingencies we’ve never considered, and we don’t learn about most of them because they never need to be used. What looks like prescience to us could just be obsessive thoroughness.”
Levi shrugged. “In the end, what’s the difference?”
Several uniformed officers had been dispatched ahead of them to Radich’s place. Levi hadn’t held out much hope that they’d catch Radich before he fled the city, but when they arrived on the scene, it was to the news that Radich had been found—dead.
“Collective or the Parks?” Levi asked the officer at the front door.
“Neither,” she said as she ushered them to the living room.
Radich lolled brokenly on his sofa, soaked in the blood that had gushed from his slit throat. The seven of spades was shoved into his open mouth, which was still swollen and bloody from Volkov’s earlier blow.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Martine said.
Levi took a moment to breathe through his mounting anxiety and frustration. He felt like the walls were closing in on him, squeezing tighter and tighter. This was a game to the Seven of Spades, and they were playing it so much better than Levi that they weren’t even in the same league.
The house was in disarray—Radich had taken time to pack for his escape, which had turned out to be a fatal error. Yet the area around his body was pristine and uncluttered. The only objects on the coffee table in front of the sofa were three portraits displayed in ornate metal frames. On each, a numeral seven had been smeared on the glass in blood—barred sevens, same as at the human traffickers’ warehouse.
“Judas Iscariot,” Martine said, studying the portrait on the right.
Levi checked out the one in the center. “This is Benedict Arnold. But who are these guys in the last one?”
“Cassius and Brutus,” Rohan said of the two toga-clad men in the final portrait. “The Roman senators who betrayed Julius Caesar.”
“I guess the Seven of Spades hates traitors no matter who they double-cross,” said Martine. “But I don’t care how harmless this nutjob can make themselves appear—there is no way they caught Radich off guard or lulled him into complacency. Not tonight.”
“You’re right.” Levi had moved closer to the body to get a better look. “There are burns on his neck from a stun gun. And here . . .” He pointed to Radich’s bare forearm. “A clumsy needle mark. He was injected with something, and not gently.” As he saw the scene play out in his head, Levi added, “The Seven of Spades incapacitated Radich with a stun gun and then shot him up with ketamine instead of tricking him into drinking it.”
“The deviation from the MO, the escalation in violence . . .” Rohan clenched his jaw. “This is a troubling sign.”
“They got a taste for it,” said Levi. “When they went after those human traffickers, the Seven of Spades learned what it felt like to use more active violence, and they enjoyed it.”
“That would be my assessment as well. It happens with serial killers on occasion—circumstance introduces a new element into one of their crimes, and they begin to incorporate it deliberately. Serial killers evolve and grow like everyone else—”
Rohan cut himself off and stared into space. After several moments passed without a word from him, Levi and Martine exchanged a glance.
“Something you’d like to share?” Martine asked.
“The Seven of Spades is evolving,” Rohan mumbled, more like he was talking to himself than to them. “The first murder, Billy Campbell . . . The scene was flawless. The perfect dose of ketamine to immobilize without overdosing, no hesitation marks on the wound to the throat, every trace of evidence removed. No mistakes. Skill, luck—or growth?”
The nape of Levi’s neck prickled. “What are you saying?”
Rohan met his eyes. “What if Billy Campbell wasn’t the Seven of Spades’s first victim?”
McBride slammed both hands onto the surface of her desk, looming over it while she glowered at Dominic. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t fire your ass right this second.”
Seated in the chair in front of her, he kept his face clear of any emotional reaction. “I can’t. My judgment was compromised and I made a series of bad mistakes. There’s no excuse for that.”
His immediate acquiescence seemed to knock the wind out of her sails. She opened her mouth, drawing herself up like she was going to continue yelling, but then heaved a massive sigh and dropped into her own chair.
“This is the second time your addiction has interfered with a case. The first time wasn’t too bad, but this—you put an innocent woman in danger for weeks.”
“I thought I was doing the right thing.”
“Did you? Because I gotta tell you, from the perspective of someone who knows about your issues, it looks like you got sidetracked by an excuse to gamble again.”
He said nothing. What could he say to that?
“I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Jessica has been reunited with her parents,” McBride said after a moment. “They’ll be moving to an undisclosed location for the time being, at least until the futures of John Williams, Sergei Volkov, and their cronies are more certain.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” One of the tense knots in Dominic’s stomach loosened.
“Before they left, Jessica spoke quite highly of you. Her tale of your exploits was so glowing, in fact, that her parents cut the firm a generous bonus check.”
He blinked. “Really?”
“Yes.” Until that point, McBride had been so angry with him she’d actually set her e-cigarette aside for once; now she picked it up and refilled the cartridge. “I also just got off the phone with a Sergeant James Wen of the LVMPD. He told me that although many of your actions on Friday night were unquestionably illegal, your presence ensured the success of their operation, and the information you obtained through Jessica led to the arrests of dozens of high-level criminals over the weekend.”
He couldn’t tell if she was pleased by that or not. She regarded him in silence as she took a few puffs of her e-cigarette and exhaled streams of piña colada–scented vapor.
“I want to make sure you understand that the only reason this situation had a happy ending is sheer dumb luck.”
Bowing his head, he said, “I know.”
Stung by her not-unfair assessment, he remained silent.
“I should kick your ass to the curb. But between the Millers’ satisfaction and accolades from the LVMPD, that wouldn’t be very politic of me.”
He raised his head, hope glimmering in his chest. “You mean . . .”
“You can stay. On probation. If I see any more antics like what you pulled over the past two weeks, I’ll send you packing. Try to prove you can behave like a professional adult instead of a testosterone-poisoned adrenaline junkie.”
“I will,” he said, leaning forward in his earnestness. “Thank you. I swear you won’t regret giving me a second chance.”
“I’d better not. Get out.”
He was halfway to the door when she called his name. He looked over his shoulder.
“Get your gambling under control,” she said.
Dominic kept his head down for the rest of the day, holed up in his office and diligently applying himself to whatever scut work McBride saw fit to assign him. It would be a struggle to find a way back into her good graces, but he was fine with that. If she fired him, no other PI firm in Vegas would touch him. Knowing he’d come within a hair’s breadth of losing his entire career only two weeks in was intensely humbling.
He’d put his phone in airplane mode last night and hadn’t taken it off since. He was too raw from recent events to deal with the well-meaning concern of family and friends—but mostly, he didn’t want to face the reality that Levi hadn’t called or texted him.
They hadn’t spoken in two days. Dominic had called Levi repeatedly on Saturday morning; Levi had ignored the first three calls before finally picking up the fourth.
Cash Plays Page 27
