He’d only accepted the post in Taiwan for his son’s sake. And now, he’d have to clean up the boy’s mess.
And what was worse, Curtiss was good. Too good. Kwan been looking for him for days, and the man showed up right under his nose, during a meal of boiled tilapia. Kwan had lost his appetite right then.
The pencil Kwan held snapped within his grip, and graphite spilled onto his silk shirt. He stifled a curse and threw the shards down on his desk.
They’d have to kill Curtiss.
Only then would he—and his legacy—be safe.
3
“This is crazy, Yanna, and I’m not letting you do this.” Roman leaned past her, grabbed the leather jacket she’d just added to her duffel bag, and threw it across the room. If the frustration in his voice left any room for doubt, the abuse of her jacket clearly displayed exactly how he felt about her little undercover op. The jacket fell across her desk where her computer worked away, steadily retrieving all of Elena’s email and internet correspondence over the past three months. Anything that had to do with Zhenshini & Lubov, the mail-order service Elena used to find “Bob.”
“Hey, what if it’s cold where I’m going—” Yanna retrieved the jacket.
“Which is exactly my point,” Roman snapped, now taking out her jeans from the bag. “You don’t have the faintest idea where Elena is.”
Yanna picked up her jeans and held them with her jacket to her chest, hating the accuracy of his words.
Elena’s “Bob” didn’t exist. Or rather he did exist—a lot of him, in the form of a long list of aliases, including Katya’s New Jersey boyfriend. Hence why, when Yanna had done her initial background check on Bob, he’d turned up wealthy and healthy and a good churchgoing man. He probably fit the criteria for every prospective bride registered on Zhenshini & Lubov.
She had never felt so thankful for Vicktor’s fascination with America—and the fact that he’d done an internship in Seattle a couple years prior with the police force—as when he’d picked up the phone and pulled in favors across the ocean. The Seattle detectives tracked down “Bob’s” address and found a vacant lot. So much for the swanky beach house.
Which only turned the ball of pain inside Yanna to living fire. The address listed for the bridal service in Moscow also turned out to be phony—the only link to actual, live people she could squeeze information from being the webmaster who hosted the site from a tiny two-room office in St. Petersburg. And after Roman’s fellow mafia-fighting FSB/COBRA pals in St. Pete had wrung the webmaster dry of information, she’d learned roughly…nil, nada, nichevo.
Which led her back to Elena’s university friends and a thin brunette named Olga, fellow subscriber to Zhenshini & Lubov, recently—and conveniently—engaged. With Yanna’s credentials and a little brutal reality, Olga handed over her airline ticket to America.
“I’m an idiot,” Roman said, making a grab for her duffel bag to—what, toss it off her third-story balcony? She hip-checked him, a skill learned from their days playing street hockey. He banged into her closet, his hazel-green eyes sparking. “I should have known you were up to something when you issued yourself a new passport. You used Olga’s name, didn’t you? You’re hoping that whatever happened to Elena will happen to you.”
“Is this why you woke up all my neighbors in the middle of the night trying to break down my door?” Darkness pressed like coal smoke against her windows.
“I would have taken it off at the hinges with a blowtorch if you didn’t open it. And if you don’t listen to reason, I’ll call in reinforcements. I’ll tell Sarai to bring enough sedatives to knock out a tiger. By the way—” He scooped up the passport lying on the bed. “You do realize that you’re at least ten years older than the age listed for Olga, right?”
“I’ll pass for her. Just you wait until you see what I’m wearing.”
“You had to say that, didn’t you?” He tossed the passport back onto the bed. “I hate everything about this.”
“I have no choice, Roman. My sister has vanished.” Yanna rolled her jacket into a ball and shoved it again into the bag. “Apparently you’ve forgotten that when you went running off to a province under martial law to rescue Sarai—against orders, I might add—I was the one to drive you to the airport.” She grabbed her makeup bag and tucked it in next to her jeans.
Roman just stood there, hands on his hips, glaring at her. He looked a bit ragged, even dangerous, in his black jeans and matching T-shirt, his tawny-brown hair tousled beyond repair. If he got serious, he could keep her from leaving. One of those wide, muscled arms across her door and—well, she just hadn’t kept up the hand-to-hand combat skills she’d learned in the military. Besides, Roman not only worked out every day, he had a passion about him that never said quit. It used to scare her. Today it only made her angry. “I’m going, Roma. End of conversation.”
“Then I’ll go with you—”
“You don’t have a ticket, and the flight is full—”
“I’ll drag someone off or bribe them, or maybe I’ll just tell the pilot that a crazy woman is on the flight who needs constant medical attention.”
Yanna grabbed her lipstick from her purse, refusing to be baited. “I’ll be fine. I have a weapon—see?” She uncapped the tube and turned the base. A knife protruded.
“That is not a weapon. That’s a Barbie toy.” He made to snatch it from her, but she pulled away.
“I probably won’t even use it.”
“You’d better use it. Especially if someone tries to grab you.” Roman raised his hands in the air in a gesture of frustration, turned, and stared out the window. He was visibly shaking, and for a second, the concern in his posture muted her.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Maybe, in fact, she should wait for Roman or Vicktor to go with her. Or even David, to whom she’d written after returning from the morgue.
Seeing pictures of Katya’s battered body had nearly made her retch, but the relief that poured through her that it wasn’t Elena kept her from going right over the edge and into the comfort of a pint of vodka.
But she wasn’t her mother. Not yet. Hopefully not ever. And the hope that Elena might still be alive galvanized Yanna. Kept her upright and thinking. Believing that she could find her.
Yanna had written to David—three times, in fact—over the last few days since her sister disappeared. And not a word. She tried not to be angry. Really. He was probably deep undercover. But the truth felt hard and glaring—the first time she’d ever needed the famous Preach, his wisdom, and perhaps his prayers…well, he wasn’t there.
However, Roman filled David’s shoes well and at the moment was probably voicing David’s exact words. “Yanna, you’re not a field agent. You’re a computer whiz. Let Vicktor and me find her.”
“I need to find her now, Roma.” Yanna sank down on the bed, feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly exhausted. “Every second matters. If she’s still alive,”—her throat hitched on those words—”the window for opportunity to locate her closes with every day. I think she’s been trafficked and, worse, by the Twin Serpents—the Chinese mafia operation. Apparently, people in your department, I might add, have been watching this group for years. It’s been almost one week since she got on that plane. I need to leave on tomorrow’s flight.”
Roman turned back, and she saw the tension in his bloodshot eyes. “I hate this. Everything inside me is screaming that I should drag you down to HQ and lock you in a holding cell until we find her.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” she said, her voice shaky.
He sighed, his shoulders falling. “I might. I should.” He ran his fingers into his eyes, rubbing them. “No. I wouldn’t.”
She rose and came over to him, putting her hands on his broad shoulders. Once upon a time, she’d crushed on the dashing Mr. Charm. But then again, so did half of Moscow and three-fourths of Khabarovsk. Every single woman her age she knew had entertained fantasies about Roman Novik. But he’d only ever had eyes for
the girl who got away. The girl for whom he’d surrendered everything. The girl who helped him find himself—David’s kid sister, Sarai.
“Roman, listen. I’ll have my cell phone. You know it has global GPS. And I’m wearing my new earrings…see?” She touched her ears, the tiny faux diamonds that Artyom had made. “They not only have GPS, but one-way transmission abilities and a panic button. You can find me anywhere on the planet.”
“But I can’t get to you if I’m in Russia.”
“Then follow me. But I’m leaving on tomorrow morning’s flight to Korea. And I’m going to find Elena and bring her home.”
Roman took her into his arms, held her, and she felt his heart thumping. “I’ll be praying for you, Yanna. But you be careful. Please.”
Yanna nodded. “I’ll be fine, Roma. I promise.”
David sat in one of the deep plush seats of Kwan’s thirty-six-foot, high performance Gladiator speedboat, the wind parting his hair, his face against the salty seawater, his hands gripping the gunwales. Kwan had expensive toys, and David knew that by having him motored out to his yacht, Kwan hoped to impress him, Ripley the gunrunner. But David’s mind couldn’t stay fixed on the hundred-twenty-foot yacht looming on the horizon. Worry edged his thoughts, his focus. Yanna had never answered his message, and he hadn’t been able to return to the internet café. But something in his gut didn’t feel right.
Lord, wherever she is, please watch over her. David lifted his gaze to the sky, the twilight sending fire across the dark water. Glancing back at his chauffeur, he also raised a prayer for himself.
After a week since he’d shot Chet, David was finally going to meet Kwan. David wore a digital recorder sewn into the lapel of his leather jacket, and with twenty-four hours of recording time, he hoped to nail Kwan through his own words. Somehow he had to stay in character, reinforce the fact that Chet had been a rat, and that Ripley lived to make as much cash as fast as possible, any way he could, no questions asked.
There were times, like now, when he wished his life, his job, might be simpler. Like that of his sister, Sarai. Save lives—that felt like a pretty decent job description. The things he did and the choices he made felt so far from the side of good that at times he wondered if he cost lives rather than saved them.
By the time he calculated the cost, he usually found himself already neck-deep in trouble. Like the night he’d met Yanna Andrevka.
“Pomegetye!” David should have known from her terrified scream for help that found its way to his soul that he’d never quite get over meeting her.
Sometimes he went back to that night. Heard his and Roman’s footsteps as they walked toward Red Square. Felt the screams ignite his adrenaline as he dove into the shadows and found a lithe girl wrestling with a man twice her size. He tasted the fury as he tackled the man, who kicked him, wrenched free, and took off running. David’s legs reacted on pure instinct. His pal Roman followed him, but he’d nearly had his hands on the attacker twice before the guy ditched him in the alleys off Prospect Pushkina.
He’d returned to find Roman being decked by a second attacker, and he’d leaped on the man, locking his hands behind him. Roman got a lick in just as Yanna turned to David, digging her fingers into his arms.
“Please, let him go,“ she’d said. Although her voice shook, he saw in her demeanor a strength and a concern that reached past her own terror to stop a brawl. It turned out that the second man he’d tackled had been her date and a hockey buddy of Roman’s. And after raking her date—Vicktor—over good, he and Vicktor had parted allies and soon after became friends.
David pinpointed that moment in Red Square as the precise second Yanna knocked the wind out of him. And he’d never really recovered. It wasn’t just those beautiful brown eyes, or her feisty, independent spirit, or even her femininity that made him just a little breathless.
It was the fact that she trusted him. At least over email. Face-to-face, well, it wasn’t quite that easy. The last time he’d seen her, he couldn’t escape the sense that Yanna was hiding something. Holding back.
Which meant that maybe she didn’t really trust him, despite her words.
The boat bounced over choppy waves, jarring his teeth, turning David’s attention back to his mission. After waiting for far too long for Yanna to check into their chat room, he’d finally returned to his flat—a two-room dive above the Anchor, a grocery store/CIA front. From the shop below, the putrid scent of tea eggs—eggs boiled in soy sauce and tea for a zillion decades—destroyed his appetite. Especially when Kwan’s contact tracked him down and invited him for a rendezvous on his yacht.
The chauffeur cut the speed, and David felt the boat settle into the water, slowing as it motored toward the silver-and-black yacht. Keep your eye on the ball, Preach. David found his expressionless look that gave him one of his few advantages. Besides, after shooting Chet, well, nothing that Kwan threw at him would faze him.
They glided up smoothly next to the aft deck, and the boats nudged each other as the ocean rolled them. Tying the boats together, the chauffeur nodded to David. The man had already patted him down and searched for weapons, coming up empty. David wasn’t that stupid.
David climbed across the seats, glancing at the sleek dual console with its gauges and padded steering wheel. In another life…
But he didn’t have another life. This was his life. Mingling with murderers…only being honest via email with a person he could neither touch nor see.
Head in the game, David. He couldn’t keep living in the what-ifs. Not if he wanted to stay alive and unearth Kwan.
Not if he wanted to be the soldier he’d dedicated his life to being.
He followed the chauffeur up the stairs and stopped obediently, waiting, finding his sea legs as the man disappeared into a compartment.
David recognized the two thugs who appeared along the rail. They’d had a bonding experience in a dark container on the wharf in Kaohsiung. He gave them a dark nod, noting again the shiny Makarov pistols they carried. Sometimes he wondered at the love-hate relationship China had with Russia. Because, he’d noticed they shared their toys well.
He walked between them along the starboard deck until they reached a door. Again he waited as Kwan’s muscle introduced him. As if Kwan might be royalty. King Kwan. David barely hid a smirk, evidence again that his head still wasn’t quite in the game.
From this vantage, Taiwan appeared as a smudge on the horizon. David wondered how far Kwan parked from mainland China and if this location might be under the protection of certain Red Guard patrols.
His escort reappeared and gestured him into the office. A man in his late twenties sat behind his desk, his eyes cool and dark. He wore a silk shirt and a pair of black leather pants, a flash of silver at his neck and in a bar that ran through a pierce in his left eyebrow. David hid his surprise and a spurt of anger. Clearly, he’d been duped again. This man was too young. The Twin Serpents’ reign of terror began in the eighties. This Kwan hadn’t been shaving long enough to helm an organization like the Twin Serpents.
David approached him with a swagger that he hoped spoke confidence. Across from “Kwan,” he saw a thin brunette who’d clearly had an ugly twenty-four hours sitting slumped in a chair, her head down, her hair tangled and hanging over her face, her hands cuffed behind her. She wore the attire of a working girl—stiletto boots, a short skirt, see-through blouse—and David refused to let his thoughts untangle the scenario. Taking down Kwan would also dismantle his human trafficking business—the third largest moneymaker for organized crime around the globe. An added benefit would be if they caught his suppliers, from Russia, across Asia, and even into America. Human trafficking had no geographic bias.
He ignored the woman and the pulse of pity inside and faced the Kwan imposter.
“I was told I was meeting Kwan.”
The man said nothing. Raised the pierced eyebrow. Then smiled. “I am Kwan.”
David didn’t react, didn’t betray his frustration. Instead, he
folded his hands over his chest. “Why did you make me wait? I have other buyers, if you’re not interested.” David watched the so-called Kwan, weighing his reaction.
Kwan let his eyes run over him. Then he lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I have other sources also.”
David said nothing.
Kwan smiled slowly. “But none at your price.”
David nodded. “Then let’s do this. I say where, you say when.”
“No. We’ll go right now, today.”
David narrowed his eyes. Shook his head. “How do I know you’re Kwan and not someone—”
Behind him, he heard a slap. The woman cried out and David turned, fighting his reflexes. He didn’t care who the woman was, he wouldn’t stand here—
Ice flushed through him even as she looked away. His breath actually left his body, and for a long, painful second, he couldn’t move.
Yanna.
Yanna?
He felt sick, staring at the welt across her face. Sickened and just short of launching himself at the man who’d hit her. “What is she doing here?” He’d had to wrestle every emotion back to its starting pad to manage the cool, somewhat annoyed tone and not sound as if the world had just slid out from under him. What was she doing here?
Her gaze snapped up to his, and for one raw, awful moment, he knew. She recognized him. Even under his long, dyed-black hair, his mafia garb. She now knew exactly what he’d been doing the last three months. An odd hint of shame rose, right alongside the nearly rabid panic that swilled through his veins. Yanna…
“You like her?” Kwan asked, standing.
Yanna looked away, and something inside David broke. “I do,” he said, painfully aware at how real those words felt. Real and terrifying.
Run to You Page 5
