“Then you know more about this than I do.”
Ian decided to trust Martinez, if for no other reason than he had no choice. “If you aren’t working with Nikolai Mateev, it brings up an interesting question. How does Rick Albright know his name?”
Ian’s question was followed by silence. The answer was simple and obvious. Rick Albright had been the key all along. He was the one who had attacked Joe Owens, and then Petra in her own home. Rick Albright was in league with Nikolai Mateev, one of the most dangerous men in the world. And now he had Petra.
* * *
Nikolai Mateev lay on the bed with an IV attached to his arm. A bag of fluid was held up by a pole and clear medication dripped through the tube. His veins filled with warmth. It flooded his body, returning his strength and vitality and washing away his exhaustion.
Rick Albright, the doctor Mateev had bought and paid for, stood next to the IV and checked the tubing. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Better than I have in years,” said Nikolai. “Although that’s not saying much.”
The doctor, clad in a golf shirt and jeans, removed the needle from his arm and taped a gauze pad over the open puncture mark. He stripped off a pair of latex gloves and threw them into a nearby wastebasket. “Just remember that the energy you’re feeling from the treatment will last for seven to eight days. It will slowly begin to fade, and you’ll grow weaker as that happens. Then in a month, you can have another session.”
Nikolai nodded. He knew that this treatment was experimental, temporary and illegal. Yet none of that mattered. He’d heard that some of his heroin was being used as a performance-enhancing drug in Colorado. Desperate for relief, Mateev wondered what the performance enhancer might do to someone who was ill.
He had traveled to the US to find out.
In order to avoid the authorities, Nikolai had changed everything about his life. He lived in modest homes and was driven in cheap cars. It was far from the palace he owned outside of Saint Petersburg or the high-rise penthouse in Moscow. He missed his old life of wealth and power.
Then again, what was luxury to a corpse?
For the most part, Mateev had been able to move about the state without raising any suspicion. And all the hardships had been worth it. The medication, developed by Dr. Albright to make athletes stronger, faster and more agile, was truly magical. These past eight weeks, Nikolai had more energy than he’d had five years prior—even before his diagnosis.
Like Lazarus, he had risen from the grave.
“What do you plan to do with her?” the doctor asked. He flipped a hand to the motionless woman on the floor.
Nikolai’s hospital bed had been placed in the middle of a warehouse. High windows were covered with years of grime and let in scant sun. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling. The artificial light was insufficient for such a large space, and the woman, who was less than twenty feet from the bed, was all but lost in the gloom.
Ilya and Anatoly sat on folding chairs at a plastic table. Each held a hand of cards, and the rest of the deck was between them.
Mateev looked at the woman. Her long hair fanned out on the floor. Even with her head turned to the side, he knew she was the person who had found his last apartment. “Wake her,” Mateev said to the doctor. “I need to find out what she knows about Ian Wallace and what he knows about me.”
Albright looked away. “I don’t think it’s much. Petra only hired him to help her find out what happened at Joe Owens’s house.”
Nikolai read the doctor’s hesitancy as an emotional attachment to the woman. He sniffed. An ache shot through his abdomen. He gritted his teeth and ignored the pain, ignored the tumor that grew inside his body, ignored the burning in his veins.
“The woman was staying at Ian’s house. She is hardly a sluchaynyy kliyent.” He translated for the American. “Random client. Besides, what happens when her memories return? She’ll know that she didn’t attack Joe Owens, and could very well remember your presence.” Nikolai continued, “Now that I’ve gotten my treatment, we can leave Denver and return to Moscow.”
“Suit yourself,” said Albright. “I need to get back to the stadium. There’s a staff meeting.”
“You misunderstand, my doctor friend. You’ll be coming to Russia with me. Now, in fact.”
Albright blanched. “This wasn’t part of our agreement.”
“It wasn’t,” agreed Mateev. He didn’t know how long he could stay hidden from Ian Wallace in America, which meant he had to return to Russia. “But the situation has changed and our agreement must change, as well.”
“No way, no how,” said Albright.
“You don’t want to disappoint me, Doctor. I don’t take well to being turned down.”
“You can threaten me all you want. I’m not giving up my life in Colorado to go to Russia with you.”
“You understand that your other option is to lose your life altogether,” said Mateev.
Ilya looked up from his game of cards and placed a gun on the table—the threat made clear.
“You think you scare me?” Albright’s voice rose two octaves, becoming a schoolgirl shrill.
“I terrify you,” said Mateev. “Or at least I should. Nobody gets a chance to say no to me twice.”
The doctor separated the IV pole into four sections and tucked them into an open medical kit at his feet. He wrapped the tubing around one hand and slipped it into the brown leather case, as well. The silence was bravado, Albright’s way of retaining some control of the situation. It mattered only a little to Mateev. In the end, the doctor would agree.
“My services won’t be cheap,” he finally said. “Giving up a home, a job, a life, in order to help you will cost a pretty penny.”
“I have several pennies,” said Mateev, “pretty and otherwise. Name your price.”
“Seven million in US dollars per year,” said Albright. “I also want a nice apartment in Moscow.”
Mateev would have paid ten times that amount without hesitation. He was amazed at the naïveté of the doctor—and was happy to take advantage of him. “Done,” he said. “We leave after I speak to the woman. Wake her up.”
Albright crouched before his medical bag and snapped the closure shut. “I can’t do that. I used chloroform. It needs time to wear off.”
“How long?”
Albright shrugged. “Every patient is different. Another hour. Maybe two.”
“We could bring her with us,” Anatoly suggested. “She can be questioned on a plane as easily as she can be questioned in this warehouse.”
“There are too many things that can go wrong with transporting a hostage. I want to know everything that she knows and then I want her dead before we leave,” Mateev stated coldly.
Albright gave a strangled, gurgling sound. “Dead? Why kill her? If we’re gone, then she’s no longer a threat.”
“Now you care for her well-being? Where was your concern when you framed her for a crime that you committed?”
“I took an oath to heal. I just don’t like the idea of having more blood on my hands, that’s all.”
“You also took a good amount of my money. I fear that you have mistaken my generosity for kindness,” said Mateev. “Let us make something plain. I own you.”
The doctor crouched in front of his bag and rewrapped the tubing before tucking it in tight.
“Nothing to say?” Mateev asked. “No clever retort?”
Albright had the sense to silently tend to his medical kit.
Nikolai mumbled, “Chto za pridurok.” What a jerk.
With his question of how he would continue to receive his medical treatments answered, he was ready to leave. Not just the warehouse or the state, but the entire country. America was no friend of his.
It had taken the life of his only son, kept him from his grandson and much of his busine
ss was left in tatters. Once he was back in Russia, Nikolai could begin rebuilding his empire.
Still, he felt like a wounded animal and wanted to return to his den and lick his wounds. Remaining in America for even another hour stretched out like a year.
“Get a jet here,” he said.
“Sure thing,” said Ilya. “When do you want to leave?”
“Now,” said Nikolai.
“What about the woman?”
Back to that tiresome question. Maybe it was best to kill her before she even woke. Even on a private jet, Nikolai didn’t want to deal with transporting a prisoner or disposing of a corpse while traveling. At the same time, he refused to sit and wait for her to come to. Then again, would Ian Wallace follow him to Russia?
“We have no choice,” he said. “Bring her with us.”
He sat up and dropped his feet to the floor. He stood. A coating of cold sweat covered his skin. The floor underfoot seemed to tilt. Pinpricks of light danced in his vision. He gripped the side of the bed, waiting for his eyesight to return. When it did, he wiped a shaking hand across his damp brow.
Dr. Albright was on his feet and at Nikolai’s side. He placed his hand on Nikolai’s elbow. “Maybe you should sit back down and let the medication take effect. This is a new dosage and we don’t know how you’ll react.”
Nikolai brushed him away. “Don’t presume to touch me,” he said. “Do what you need to do so we can leave.” He looked at his bodyguard and driver, both still at the table with the card game between them. “All of you,” he snarled, “now.”
* * *
A map of Denver filled the computer screen. Ian placed his finger over a pulsating green dot. A spark warmed his skin, as if he was really touching Petra. “That’s where she is.”
He sat back and changed the aspect, compressing the picture until the street names came into view.
Martinez gave a low whistle. “Hell, that’s out of the city and halfway to Greeley. Nothing’s there but an abandoned industrial park. No one around to get suspicious. Sounds like the perfect place to take a kidnapping victim.”
Bile rose in the back of Ian’s throat. He’d been on the job too long to hope that things were going well for Petra. In fact, he might even be too late to save her. That thought landed in his brain like an exploding bomb. The pain stole his breath. Ian pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, until there was nothing for him to see other than darkness and circulating blood.
He stood. His chair rolled back, hitting the wall. “I’m going after her,” he said to himself.
Still, Martinez answered, “We should get in touch with your contact from the Feds.”
Ian tried to image that phone call to Special Agent Jones. It would take hours to convince Jones to act—that was, if Ian wasn’t arrested first. “You call your people and see what you can make happen. Someone will need to clean up afterward.”
“You can’t be saying that you’re going after Nikolai Mateev alone?”
Ian shook his head. “I don’t care about Mateev anymore. I’m going to rescue Petra.”
“It might be a recovery,” said Martinez.
Ian had thought the same thing, yet to hear someone confirm his worst fears made his stomach churn. His mouth filled with acid. He clenched his teeth. “She’s not dead.”
“Either way, you can’t go after her alone.”
Ian opened his mouth, ready to argue. But just then the computer screen went black and a two-word command appeared: Program Complete. The contents he’d copied from the laptop recovered from the Comrades’ safe house had finally been opened.
Dropping into the chair, Ian unlocked the program. A list of files appeared on the screen. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Dare he guess a thousand? Bank accounts. Routes for the drug trade. The home addresses of other gangsters. All of it was here, and now Ian knew everything there was to know about Mateev.
But he couldn’t just leave it sitting on his computer, doing nothing. And if he took his time to analyze the data, he’d never find Petra. He’d been a fool to fire everyone at RMJ. Now more than ever he needed his team. His family.
And yet he did have Martinez.
“This—” Ian pointed to the screen “—is all the information you’ll ever need to bring down the entire Russian mob, and the American mob, and who knows what else. Copy it to a flash drive. Say it came to you from an anonymous source and then give it to Special Agent Jones. You’ll be the most famous cop in the country.”
“No way,” said Martinez. “If this Rick Albright guy killed Joe Owens, then I’m going after him. Joe was my friend and I owe him whatever justice I can deliver.”
Ian didn’t have time to argue. At least there was one person left in the RMJ offices. He placed a call. “Katarina,” he said as soon as the ringing stopped. His fingers danced along the keys as he sent all the documents to Katarina. “I’m emailing you something now. Copy it to a flash drive and get it to Jones.”
He hit Send.
“I’m on the computer now.” Her words were drawn out, hesitant. “I got it. Anything else?”
“Sure,” said Ian. “Wish me luck. I’m going to need it.”
“Good luck,” she said, without asking anything more.
Ian ended the call and strode to the hallway, Martinez at his side. “If you come with me,” said Ian, “we’re going in alone. I don’t have time for police procedures or intel gathering or any of that.”
“I get it,” said the detective.
Growing up in England was vastly different than growing up in America for many reasons—and one of them was guns. In England, your fists and your wits got you both into and out of trouble. And using a gun during a crime got you sent to jail for the better part of your life. In fact, MI5 didn’t even give agents guns and Ian had never learned to rely on them.
But today was different. Today, he would use any weapon he had.
Ian had his personal Walther, which he slid into a shoulder holster and covered as he donned a leather jacket. He wished like hell that he had more firepower. But going to another RMJ safehouse to raid the arsenal would take more time than he was willing to expend.
He could call Roman and Cody and Julia, ask them to collect some guns and then meet him at the warehouse. And yet he had treated them all poorly. Would they be willing to help after he had lied to them?
Chapter 14
Petra’s head throbbed. It was a more intense pain than she’d ever experienced. Her lips were dry, her tongue felt like cotton in her mouth. She tried to open her eyes and look around, but her lids felt as if they’d been glued shut. She could tell that it was dark. Was it night? Or was she simply in a room with no lights? She lay without moving and reached for any memories. They floated in a mist, just out of her grasp.
She took inventory of her body. She hurt everywhere, and yet nothing was unbearable. Petra took that as a good sign. The stench of gasoline and motor oil and rot hung about her like a fog. She lay on something hard and cold. A cement floor.
Had she had another migraine and passed out?
She inhaled. One. Two. Three.
As she exhaled, Petra remembered everything. Joe mysteriously dying overnight in the hospital. Martinez showing up at Ian’s with an arrest warrant in hand. Rick’s texts, luring her to apparent safety—and his attack.
It was all Rick Albright. He’d done this to her. But why?
Petra’s ears began buzzing. Then the noise morphed into words. She heard two distinct male voices. Yet for some reason—one she couldn’t explain—Petra felt that there were more than two men nearby.
“Sure thing,” said one man. He had an Eastern European accent. Russian? “When do you want to leave?”
“Now,” said the other man. He had a similar accent, yet it wasn’t as heavy as the first. His voice was deeper. Slower. From his intonation, she guessed that
he was the older of the two.
“What about the woman?”
The woman? Did he mean her? Petra gasped and the men fell silent. She didn’t want them to know she was awake, not until she had time to assess the situation. Had they heard her? Panic gripped her chest, forcing the breath from her lungs.
The older man spoke again. “We have no choice. Bring her with us.”
She began to breathe again as a thousand questions flooded her thoughts. Take her with them where? And what did they plan to do with her?
She had to get out of here. But where was she? And how could she get help?
She opened her eyes a fraction. A single bulb hung from the ceiling above her, illuminating a hospital bed and a table with folding chairs. Four men stood about fifteen feet away. Too far for her to see them clearly, and hopefully, vice versa.
Both Petra’s arms were splayed out at her sides. She moved one slowly, inch by inch, to her back pocket, where she’d put her phone, but found nothing there. Then she recalled it slipping from her grasp as she fought Rick in his sedan. That meant she was on her own, and if she wanted to escape, she had to do it herself.
She opened her eyes further. The men—two younger, one older, and Rick—stood around the bed. One of the younger men had a phone to his ear. “We can get a plane into the private terminal at Denver International Airport by seven o’clock.”
“Too long,” said the older man. He stood with his back to Petra, yet something about him looked familiar.
“We need the right people on staff to avoid customs...” the first man said.
“Find the right people.”
The man returned to his call, speaking in a language Petra didn’t understand but was almost certain was Russian. “If we can get to Colorado Springs in ninety minutes, there’s a supervisor that won’t look too closely at passports.”
“How much?” asked the older man.
“He wants twenty thousand US dollars, Nikolai.”
Nikolai? As in Nikolai Mateev? Petra’s stomach bucked and threatened to empty. If Nikolai Mateev had arranged her kidnapping, Petra was as good as dead. Unless she could get away.
Rocky Mountain Valor Page 16
