But Parker was right. She was no longer a victim, and killing these men, no matter how disgusting they were, was not—and shouldn't have been—the solution.
There were plenty of people who could have helped her expose the Brotherhood for what it was, people who dedicated their lives to protecting girls like her. Emily had the choice to seek them out, but instead chose a different path. The wrong path. A path that had turned her into the kind of person who could target and set up an innocent woman for a murder she didn't commit. The kind of person who could fake her own death by setting fire to a motel, with no regard for its occupants—which included how many other girls?
When you're so blinded by your desire for vengeance that nothing and no one else matters, there's little hope for you.
You're a lost cause.
And you need to be stopped.
THIRTY-SIX
"Check this out," Parker said.
He was across the room now, throwing open a door. Behind it was a small closet, but there were no clothes inside. Instead, the walls were lined with guns. The kind of collection you'd see in one of those Terminator movies. Gleaming black and silver weapons carefully mounted on brackets. Pistols, rifles, knives…
"Still having doubts?" he asked.
"No," I said. "But none of this gets us any closer to finding her."
Parker gestured to the white board. "Which brings us back to Grigory Ivanov. The last name on the list."
"How does that help us? If he's some Brotherhood big shot halfway across the world, and she's going after him next, we're done."
"I know I've heard the name before," Parker said. "I just can't…"
He paused, and I could see that he was working his way through his mental file cabinet, looking for something he'd stored there.
"What is it?" I asked.
"I remember now. His name isn't Ivanov anymore. It's Ivan. Gregory Ivan. He anglicized it."
"Okay, so who is he?"
"A Ukrainian immigrant. He came to the U.S. in his mid-teens and changed the name when he registered for school. He already spoke English fluently and figured he'd get less flak if people thought he was born here."
"How do you know all this?"
"I read his bio awhile back in a law enforcement newsletter. He's a self-made guy, moved to Austin when he was twenty-one and joined the police force. And over the next three decades he worked his way up the ranks to Deputy Chief." He paused. "No wonder Tevis was afraid of the police. And it only gets worse."
"What do you mean? How?"
"Greg Ivan retired from the Austin PD last year. He's running for the state senate. That's why they wrote the article. And if he's elected, the Brotherhood will have a man right inside the corridors of power. And who knows where he'll go from there."
"Jesus," I murmured.
"My thoughts exactly."
I looked at him. "Then maybe what Emily's doing is a good thing."
Parker shook his head. "No. Not like this. And if we don't try to stop her, that makes us a party to murder."
"But what about all the lives he's ruined? All the girls like Emily and her friend?"
"You don't know if he's part of any of that and neither do I." He gestured to the white board. "All we have is a list written by a woman with questionable mental health. But even if the guy is scum, he deserves due process like anyone else."
I couldn't argue with his logic. I did, after all, work part-time for a law firm that strongly believed in the legal standard of innocent until proven guilty. We're too often willing to condemn someone based solely on an accusation and little else. And I didn't want to be one of those people any more than Parker did.
"So what should we do?" I asked. "Warn him?"
"And say what? Hey, Greg, we think you might be a Ukrainian mobster and someone's out to get you?"
"Okay, so what's the alternative?"
Parker turned to the bulletin board. "Like I said, the whole story is here. We just have to figure out when and where she plans to strike and stop her before she can."
"Good luck with that," I said.
"We don't have much choice."
We spent the next several minutes searching the board, checking each newspaper article for any mention of Gregory Ivan, but the clippings were all written about past events, Emily's triumphs in taking down the Brotherhood, one by one.
Frustrated, I turned and scanned the room, not sure what I was looking for. I don't know if it was serendipity or my heightened sense of awareness that drew my gaze to a trash can near her work table, but I saw a folded newspaper inside and moved to retrieve it.
"What've you got?" Parker asked as I pulled it from the can.
"I'm not sure. Might be nothing."
But I soon realized it wasn't. It was very far from nothing.
The newspaper was folded to the Politics section, featuring a brief article that read, in part:
CANDIDATE DEDICATES CHILDREN'S CENTER
Gregory Ivan, former Austin, Texas deputy police chief and candidate for the State Senate, will be cutting the ribbon at the newly built Raymond T. Atherton Child Protection Center.
Parker studied it over my shoulder.
"Wow," he said. "Nothing ironic in that, is there?"
Innocent until proven guilty, I told myself. Innocent until proven guilty.
There was a photo of Ivan, a crisply dressed man in his fifties who wore a smile that had undoubtedly charmed—and disarmed—many people. If the Brotherhood needed a face to sell their corruption, this was the one to do it.
Innocent until proven guilty…
Parker pointed to the text. "This is happening today." He checked the clock on his cell phone. "In a little less than an hour."
He turned to the work table and looked at the map of Houston spread out atop it, his gaze zeroing in on the center of the city. He tapped a circle made with a blue highlighter.
"There's no address in the article, but what do you bet this is it?"
"There'll be kids there," I said. "A church choir. You think she'd pick such a public event?"
"I think it's a pretty good bet, yeah. But if Ivan is mobbed up, he's well protected, and after Papanov, they're bound to be on the alert."
"So how will she do it? Someone who goes to all this trouble to hide her identity isn't gonna just walk up and shoot the guy."
He gestured to the closet. "There are a couple weapons missing in there. One of them could be a sniper rifle."
"Oh, my God, I didn't even think of that. What if she misses and one of the children get hurt?"
"I'm guessing that's a chance she's willing to take."
He moved back to the closet and removed a handgun from a bracket, checked to make sure the cartridge was full and held it out to me.
I stared at it. "I don't know the first thing about guns."
"Just point it and pull the trigger."
I hesitated, and I was sure he could see the dismay in my face.
"This is exactly why I wanted you to stay out of this," he said. "But now it's too late. That area is surrounded by buildings and she could be in any one of them. I need your eyes. But I also need you to have protection."
I hesitated another moment, then took it from him. It was heavier than it looked.
He checked the clock on his phone. "We'd better get moving. The ceremony'll be starting soon."
We left the bunker, moved through the closet and found ourselves in Emily's living room again. Parker went to the door, checked the hall, then signaled for me to follow.
When we stepped into the hallway, he started for the elevators and I grabbed his arm. "Shouldn't we take the stairs?"
"Every second counts," he said. "We can ride down to the parking garage and borrow a car. Hopefully a fast one."
We moved together to the elevator and Parker hit the down button. A moment later, the bell rang and the doors rolled open…
…And standing inside was Taggart.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I try, as ofte
n as I can, not to use hackneyed phrases like "all hell broke loose." But I'm human, and because I am, and because I grew up with a father who regularly peppered his speech with such cliches, I often go with what I know.
I'm not trying to win a ribbon from the purple prose society or convince some self-important literary critic that I'm worthy of praise. I'm simply trying to tell you a story.
And in that spirit, I just have to say it:
The moment we saw Taggart—or maybe I should say the moment he saw us—all hell broke loose.
He wasn't on the elevator alone. Two of the Ukrainians were with him (surprise! surprise!), and before Parker and I had time to react, guns were produced and bodies were moving. One of the Ukrainians slammed me against the wall, yanked my pistol away and pinned me there, as Taggart and the other thug took turns punching Parker and finally threw him to the floor.
"You shoulda stayed dead," Taggart told him, then pointed his pistol at Parker's temple.
"Wait! Wait!" I shouted.
Taggart whirled on me. "What—you wanna go first?"
"You're wasting valuable time on us. I already told you, this is a mistake. I'm not the woman you're looking for. I'm not Mia Duncan."
"You don't give up, do you?"
"She's telling you the truth," Parker said.
Taggart turned. "I'm supposed to believe a dead man?"
"Why would I lie? I want Duncan as bad as you do, but pinning this on Kelsey was nothing more than a move to cover her tracks. She's fooled us all."
"I don't know what angle you're playing, Zachy Boy, but if you think this is gonna—"
"Gregory Ivan," I said.
He looked at me again. "What?"
"That's who her next target is. You can check down the hall in her apartment. It's all there. In the panic room behind her closet. Her own personal command center."
"Nothing you've just said convinces me you aren't her."
"What about Anastasia Brantov? Does that name ring a bell?"
"Not in the least." He looked at the Ukrainians and they both shrugged, making it clear they'd never heard of her, either.
"That's Duncan's real name," I said. "She was brought here by the Brotherhood and worked as a sex slave, but managed to escape after she set fire to the motel they were housed in."
"Big fuckin' deal. You still aren't convincing me."
"All right, then think about this: What did the guards downstairs say when you showed up? That they thought I might be an impostor, right? Somebody posing as Natalie Tevis to gain entry to the building."
"What of it?"
"Don't you see? Tevis is Duncan. Tevis is Anastsia Brantov. Not me. And she wasn't hired by anyone, she's doing this on her own. She's targeted the Brotherhood and Gregory Ivan is next."
I could see that Taggart was trying to puzzle it out, but he looked confused.
"Just check the room," I said. "It's all there. There's even a picture of her, and a list of her greatest hits. Ivan's the only one left."
Taggart thought about this, then turned to the Ukrainian next to him, who in turn nodded to the one who was holding me. The guy let me go and went down the hall into Tevis's apartment as the second one stepped up to take over, pointing his gun at my head.
"If not truth," he said softly. "You die."
"Really? Thanks for the news flash."
I should have been shaking uncontrollably, but something inside of me refused to give into my fear. Maybe I was growing immune to being threatened. Or maybe I was too tired and numb and strung out to care that I had a gun in my face.
Whatever happened from here on out, if I managed to survive, I wouldn't come away from this the same girl I was yesterday. The girl whose biggest concern was being late for class or my feeling of inadequacy because my knob of a boyfriend had dumped me.
Those were first world problems that I could no longer be bothered with.
Then there was Parker, who had been uncharacteristically quiet as I'd made my case. Even though he was currently occupying the real estate at our feet, I'd been with him long enough to know he wasn't a guy who gave up easily. If I couldn't convince these idiots I wasn't Mia Duncan, then I had faith he'd find a way to get us out of this.
We exchanged a glance and I thought I saw reassurance in his eyes, a look that said, Don't worry, I've got this.
And I sure as hell hoped he did.
The second Ukrainian finally came back, nodding as he approached.
"She speaks truth about photograph," he said, and held up the printout of Emily and her wild-haired friend. "And I see list on wall."
Taggart reached out to take the photo from him. "Let me see that."
And that was all the distraction Parker needed.
He launched himself from the floor, kicked Taggart's legs out from under him as he went, and tackled the Ukrainian holding his pistol on me.
The second one dropped the photo and reached for his gun, but I lunged forward before he could pull it free and slammed him against the opposite wall.
I won't pretend that this did much. The guy was at least twice my size. But it put him off balance long enough for Parker to knock his friend out with a couple punches to the head and return his attention to Taggart, who was already climbing to his feet.
The only problem with my strategy—if you could call it that—was that it made the second Ukrainian really, really, really angry. He threw me off him with a shrug of the shoulders, then swung out hard, swatting me away.
I can't swear to it, but I think I may have been airborne for a moment before I landed in a heap on the floor, my head spinning, and saw the Ukrainian get his hand on the gun in his belt and finally pull it free.
But Parker was finished with Taggart and already turning, and even though his opponent was a good three inches taller and wider than him, Parker was fearless. He moved with a speed and agility I'd never before witnessed, proving that he was good with his hands in more ways than one.
I can't say that I enjoy violence, but there was something viscerally satisfying in seeing Parker outmaneuver this clod. In a quick motion, he disarmed the guy, then hit him smack in the face with his own gun. The thug howled in rage as blood poured from his broken nose.
Parker shouted for me to "Run!" and hit him again, then a third time, knocking him to his knees. He finished the guy off and turned to me, repeating his command as he motioned me toward the stairwell.
But as I scrambled to my feet, a shot rang out. Parker grunted and stumbled forward and I saw Taggart sitting up behind him, gun in hand.
Parker whirled and returned fire and Taggart dove around a corner as Parker urged me forward, "Go! Go! Go!"
I turned and ran and heard more shots and hoped that Parker wasn't too far behind me as I slammed through the stairwell door and started down. I was a flight below when the door above flew open again and Parker came barreling in, a patch of blood on the side of his neck.
"Don't slow down!" he shouted, as he clamped a hand to the wound. "I'm right behind you."
I did as I was told, and for the next couple minutes the only sound I heard was the echo of our footsteps on cement as we wound our way down to the first floor. Then we burst through the doorway, hit the street at a run, and Parker motioned me toward Taggart's cruiser parked at the curb.
The black SUV sat several feet behind it, and when the driver saw us coming, he threw his door open, got out and started firing. Parker let loose on him, returning fire with a single-mind ferocity that's impossible to describe, knocking the guy down with two shots to the middle of his chest.
He shouted for me to get in the cruiser, which was sitting there with its engine idling, just like it had back in the warehouse when Taggart first grabbed me. I didn't know if this was common practice with cops, but Parker seemed to have anticipated this gift and I wasn't going to question it.
We climbed inside and he put the car in gear. I was trying to catch my breath, when he suddenly swiveled his head in my direction and shouted, "Down!"
I chanced a look over the seat and saw Taggart running to the SUV and knew this was far from over.
"What time is it?" Parker asked. He was holding his neck again. Blood seeped between his fingers.
"You're hurt," I said.
"I'm fine, it's just a graze. The time. Check the time."
I fumbled for my cell phone and told him.
"That gives us less than ten minutes to get there." He flipped a switch on the dash. "Hold on."
And as the siren came to life, I strapped myself in and watched the traffic in front of us part like the Red Sea.
THIRTY-EIGHT
We were a block from our destination when Parker cut the siren. We knew that Taggart was behind us, and hoped the speed of our travel had put some distance between us.
But we couldn't worry about that now. We had to stop Emily before someone else got hurt. Even if that someone was a depraved, ruthless creep.
Innocent until proven guilty, I again told myself. Innocent until proven guilty.
The newly built Raymond T. Atherton Child Protection Center was located in Carriage Square, a once thriving retail hub that had fallen on hard times during the recession. The square was an open air court, dotted with trees and park benches, surrounded on three sides by tall buildings.
The Atherton Center was housed in the building at the rear of the square, facing the street. As Parker pulled up and double parked, we saw that a crowd had gathered in front of the building, a mix of onlookers and local dignitaries—judging by the limos and Town Cars that lined the street.
Stretched across the front of the building's entrance was a fat pink and blue ribbon. Several of the dignitaries—Gregory Ivan among them—sat watching from a row of folding chairs set off to the left side. A children's choral group, ranging in ages from five to fifteen, were in the midst of singing a song that I'd heard before but couldn't place. An upbeat, happy tune that reminded me of my own childhood.
Identity Unknown (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 1) Page 11
