Hunted

by Clark, Jaycee

  “Where are we going?” she finally asked into the silence, realizing Lincoln was no longer on his phone.

  Lincoln turned in his front seat and looked at her in the back. “I thought you said you wanted to go home. Might be a great Christmas surprise for your brothers.”

  She frowned. Christmas surprise? It was late in the afternoon. She looked out at the traffic, at the hazy city, as clichéd as it sounded. London was a gray city to her, hazy.

  “You don’t want to go home?” he pressed.

  She licked her lips. “What day is it?”

  “December twenty-third, why?”

  She shrugged. December twenty-third. She could be home by Christmas. Christmas with her family. On the ranch.

  Home.

  She shuddered. Did she want to go home? A new fear trickled through her, mixing with the old.

  Not looking at him, she whispered, “I’d love to go home. But can I?” A car passed them as they exited. Would she honestly get to go home? “What game are you playing? Why would you let me go home?”

  He huffed out a breath. “Several things. One, I’m ordered to see you safely Stateside and get you settled where I think best. Two, the agents that took on the identity of John Reyer and the woman with him were found dead in Amsterdam.”

  She saw the way his face tightened, didn’t need to ask who, or how. Visions dark and bloody danced through her imagination, knowing what Mikhail was capable of.

  “The busboy, waiter, from the hotel in Berlin was also found dead.”

  She crossed her arms, holding her elbows, hoping. Berlin, Amsterdam. Who they were supposed to be, where they’d been. Next?

  “They’ll find out we took the rail to London, won’t they?” she asked, searching his gaze, looking in the rearview mirror at Shadow’s eyes.

  For a moment, no one answered her, then Lincoln said, “Yes. Probably. It’s only a matter of time, which is why I’m ordered to see you to safety and then lay low for a bit.” He shrugged and tried to smile, but she saw it didn’t reach his eyes. “Time I get back to other business anyway.”

  And what other business might that be?

  In no time, they were at the airport. Somehow she had a new passport, in her own name.

  She stared at it for a moment, Morgan Gaelord. Shaking off the odd feeling, she walked beside Lincoln, tensing only slightly as he put his arm around her and carried both their bags.

  “What if they learn my name through the airport? Can’t they do that?”

  He shook his head. “It’s a lot harder to get a tape from Heathrow with all the new laws than it would be to obtain a security tape from, say, a Czech border. Security is slightly different.”

  So it was. She took a deep breath.

  He leaned down and whispered, “If anyone asks, we’re traveling to New York to visit family and to enjoy a small vacation.”

  “And I’m what? Your secretary?” she asked just as softly.

  His chuckle was low. “No, the woman I’m going to ask to marry me. We’ve been seeing each other for a few months. So look besotted, all right, love?”

  Husband, wives, mistresses for the night, soon-to-be fiancées. Couldn’t the man come up with another cover?

  “I’d rather have been your secretary,” she muttered.

  “Of that I’m sure. But this is safer.”

  They bought tickets and boarded Air Canada. They had a long flight ahead.

  She’d tried not to dart looks around the airport, but knew she couldn’t stop searching altogether when Lincoln had slapped Shadow on the back and said, “If I can get her to quit looking around, we might get out of here in one piece.” For anyone else looking at the smiling men, they looked like friends parting.

  But she saw the forced smiles, the wary eyes, and dropped hers to the floor.

  Now they were waiting to take off. First class. She leaned back and sighed as the airplane taxied down the runway.

  London dropped away as the plane rose, pushing her back against the seat.

  She was going home. Home. Sighing, she kept her gaze on the land disappearing below and then the water as it flew beneath them.

  “At JFK, we board a flight to Chicago,” he told her.

  “At the last minute?” she asked, smiling at the flight attendant.

  “You’re worrying needlessly. We’ve already obtained the tickets.”

  They ordered drinks. She only wanted coffee, same for Lincoln. She never seemed to get warm anymore.

  “Don’t worry, luv. We’ll make it work.” He turned his head, smiled and wiggled his brows. “You trust me to make it work and that’s what I do best.”

  Morgan stared at him, believing. Almost.

  Actually, some part of her believed for the first time that everything, might, just might be all right. His grin was entirely too charming.

  “Once upon a time . . . ” she started then trailed off.

  “Once upon a time what?” he asked.

  She shook her head and kept the thought to herself. Why hadn’t she met a man like him before Simon Dixon? Then she wouldn’t be in the mess she was in. The last several months of hell never would have happened and . . .

  And?

  Who the hell knew.

  She felt the stirrings of hope.

  Home. But the hope was caged in fear and suddenly she wished they were still at the safe house.

  Chapter 13

  Amsterdam, Netherlands; December 23, 5:00 p.m.

  Antonio Calsonone stood at the terrace doors overlooking the canal and blew a stream of smoke from the cigar. The heathen city bustled with holiday life. He wanted none of it. He was only here for the meeting. He’d contacted those he needed to, making certain those bosses, the smaller ones, in Eastern Europe who in turned answered to his contemporaries would be in attendance.

  He sighed and dropped the smoldering cigar into a nearby ashtray, turning his attention back outside to the cold gray day.

  “Don?” his man, Giovanni, asked, setting a glass of wine on the side table.

  Antonio waved the man away without turning from the window. He hated this place. He wanted to be at the villa in Italy. Normally, this time of year it bustled and rolled with life, with laughter, with spirit.

  But not this year. He was chilled and wished they’d turned the heater up in the room. He was staying at the Grand, as he always did when traveling here, and he stayed in the same suite as he always did. The window overlooked the canal, as he preferred, rather than the courtyard view, but he saw none of that.

  Dread set heavy in his gut.

  He was searching. Searching for his daughter.

  The hand at his side fisted, and he checked his watch, flexing his fingers. Not long now until the meeting.

  His wife and daughters would be at mass. His sons were married and busy with their own families, at least until tomorrow, when they all descended for the holidays. And it would be subdued as it never had been before.

  One of them was missing. He took a deep breath. “Giovanni, is the conference room prepared?”

  His suite had a long table that sat sixteen. There were only thirteen main players in Eastern Europe. Thirteen. An unlucky number. The men, for whatever reason, had formed an alliance that the rest in the business called a devil’s pack. Their main enforcer was even referred to as the Devil’s Advocate.

  Minchionis the lot of them.

  If he learned, for certain, ever, that his Teresa Maria had been a part of them, he’d kill each and every one.

  He glanced over to the side table that held the framed photograph he’d brought with him. The shot was candid, taken at the beach this June when all the kids were at home with the exception of Michael, who had been at school at Oxford, and Giorgio, who was in New York.

  Teresa Maria grinned up at him impishly, her dark eyes dancing with that inner sparkle she’d always possessed.

  She’d left not two weeks later, having graduated from the academy. How she’d begged and pleaded to go on the trip wi
th her friends. He hadn’t wanted her to go. He knew what predators hunted out there. He knew.

  Caro Dio, he knew . . .

  Many still whispered the word Camorra behind their hands when others said the name Calsonone. He knew what his father had done, for what his grandfather had been responsible. He was raised on stories of blood. He himself had carried out vendettas. He sighed. Times changed. There were still things that had to be seen to, positions that must be kept, but the new world was not the same as the old. After the fracture within La Cosa Nostra in recent years, he’d encouraged his children into other avenues of life. He’d wanted more for his sons, for his daughters.

  The photo seemed to laugh up at him and he could all but hear Teresa chide, “Now, Papa, I am grown. I want to see the world. You can’t hide me forever.”

  Oh, but he should have. He should have.

  The feelings of grief, of pain and fury—of the unknown, of the fears, of the suspicions—pulsed through him again.

  His wife, his dear Bella, still held hope that their Teresa would return, that she’d simply run away. He’d asked his wife what their daughter would run away from. She’d said it was his high-handedness. His domination in their house.

  He was the father, the husband. Was he to let his children do as they would with no thought to them? To their futures? To their safeties?

  Bella, his vivacious wife, was no more—wan and pale, she cried herself to sleep every night.

  Something in him knew, even as he denied, that his precious Teresa Maria was not coming home, yet he hoped. Every day he hoped. He’d listed her as missing months ago. In September, when her friends had called him, worried because they couldn’t find her. He, of course, had immediately flown to Prague, but no one knew anything, no one saw anything. Her friend, Angelina, called once a week to see if they had heard anything. Angelina and Teresa had been friends for years.

  And now . . .

  He rubbed a hand over his face.

  September to December. So many days . . . where was she?

  He sniffed and realized he was crying. Biting down, he tossed back more of the wine. As he had since he’d learned of her disappearance, he traced the scar on his thumb. The one he’d sliced when something in him warned she wouldn’t come home. As his father before him, and his father before him, and as many before, he used the family dagger to swear a blood oath.

  If it was the last thing he ever did, he would find his daughter and make those who took her away from him pay. Pay very, very dearly.

  He knew, some part of him knew that the only way his daughter would come back would be to be put in the family plot.

  “Don Calsonone. The men have arrived,” Giovanni’s voice floated across the room.

  He touched the frame, traced the upturned nose that was so dear to him. Someone would pay.

  * * *

  5:06 p.m.

  Mikhail Jezek followed Mr. Ivan Romanovsky into the room. More of the bosses shuffled in behind them. Each had at least one guard. Thirteen in all. They had all attended.

  Mikhail looked around the room and wondered what the hell was going on. Why were they all here? Why had he been ordered to attend? He and Luther had arrived just two hours ago. He hadn’t even had a chance to eat a decent meal, damn it.

  The thirteen sat. He didn’t presume to do so. He knew his place. Instead, he leaned against the wall, near the head of the long mahogany table, and straightened his dark blue Gucci tie. How long would this take? He didn’t sigh, didn’t look at his watch.

  Mikhail knew better. He hadn’t made it this far up the ladder and into confidences to screw up now.

  The others muttered among themselves; several acknowledged him with a tilt of head or smile, a few waved and said hello.

  He gave all the appropriate responses and acted as the other guards. He might be trusted, might be their enforcer, but he was not—at least at present—a boss. One day, but that day was not today. So he acted accordingly.

  They were left waiting for another five minutes before a door at the far end of the room opened and a man, swarthy in complexion, dark hair and eyes, angular bone structure, strode across the room. His suit was fine dark wool and a Caraceni unless Mikhail was mistaken, and he wasn’t—not when it came to important things.

  Another man stood beside him, smaller, well built, fair hair and in his forties.

  What was this about?

  Mikhail bit back his sigh. Perhaps there was a new alliance about to be made. That could open all sorts of possibilities and—

  “Gentlemen,” the dark-haired man said, “thank you for coming.” His voice was heavily accented with the flavors of Italy. What would an Italian boss, who obviously controlled more than those here, want with them?

  Mikhail’s bosses had all jumped to do this man’s bidding. Why?

  “For those who may not know, I am Don Calsonone.” Dark eyes sliced around the room, leaving not a single man unscathed. “I am in need of your services.”

  No one said a word as Don Calsonone sat at the head of the table and motioned to the man beside him. “This is my assistant, Giovanni.” Giovanni started to pass out dark blue folders. “Giovanni is giving each of you a detailed account of why I seek your assistance today.” He waited, patiently, his hands stacked atop each other.

  Giovanni finally made it around the table and to him. Mikhail took the last packet, surprised he’d been given one.

  Don Calsonone’s dark eyes skewered him and the man motioned to the seat just to his left. “Please be seated, Mr. Jezek. I have a feeling you could help, perhaps more than anyone else here.”

  Needles tickled inside his stomach. He hated that feeling. As if at any moment everything was going to go horribly wrong. Taking a deep breath, he walked to the table and sat, placing the folder on the glossy tabletop.

  Don Calsonone nodded and everyone opened their folders. It was pure instinct that kept all expression from Mikhail’s face.

  At least he hoped to hell it was.

  Inside was a photograph.

  A photograph of a dark-haired young woman.

  Ebony. The needles no longer danced, they pricked and stabbed.

  “Gentlemen, I asked you here today to aid me in search of my beloved daughter, Teresa Maria Calsonone.” The don’s voice was deep, yet edged. Waiting like a predator to pounce.

  Mikhail wanted to shift, to swallow. Instead he left the folder open and gave Calsonone his undivided attention, noting from his peripheral vision that the other bosses did as well. He also knew Giovanni stood just to the side of him and a bit behind.

  Bloody fucking hell.

  He stayed still, not twitching, not even moving a finger. Instead he concentrated on keeping his breathing even.

  “Don Calsonone, you’ll excuse me for asking, but why have you come to us?” Sergi Nickola asked.

  The don took a deep breath and motioned to the folders. “I’ve included the pertinent information. My daughter took a holiday with friends. She was going to attend university in the fall, in Milan. However, one evening she was separated from her friends in a club in Prague. As they were all partying and having a good time, none are exactly certain at which specific club they last remember seeing her. However, sources . . . ” He let the implication hang for a moment, “revealed she was later seen in Prague, in one of the brothels.”

  No one said a word. Several shifted.

  “That is a serious allegation, Don Calsonone,” another boss, Kulik, said. “Do you have any proof?”

  Mikhail watched as those cold dark eyes simply stared down the long table. The silence stretched. He heard a car down below on the street, the faint blare of a horn.

  “If I had proof,” Don Calsonone started, his eyes never wavering, “I assure you, this meeting would not be taking place and someone would not be worrying about holiday shopping.”

  Again more shifted, the slide of pants on leather chairs, the hush of shoes over the rug, fingers thrumming on the table. Pages shuffled as the bosse
s flipped through them.

  One of the bosses, Mikhail didn’t look up to see which, said, “I do not remember her in any of my clubs, but I will inquire and get back with you. As any of us with family know, this cannot be an easy thing for you or your family.”

  Mikhail studied the photo, forcing himself to slowly flip to the next page and look at a series of dates, clubs, places and searches. Police officers Calsonone’s people contacted. Page after page of information.

  Fuck. If this man ever learned . . .

  “And if you do learn something?” Don Calsonone asked, drawing Mikhail’s attention back to him.

  “We will personally see to the matter,” Kulik, based primarily out of Moscow, answered.

  Don Calsonone shook his head. “No, you won’t. This is family.” He thumped the photograph of his daughter. “This is mine. Any information you learn, you will share with me and I will see to the matter . . . ” His eyes scanned each and every one of them. “Personally.”

  “As you wish,” Romanovsky said from the other end of the table.

  Then those black shrewd eyes met Mikhail’s own. “Mr. Jezek. As the enforcer—I believe they call you Devil’s Advocate, yes?”

  Mikhail cleared his throat. “Yes, Don Calsonone.”

  The don nodded. “And as such, you are virtually in charge of running the clubs, of making certain the new . . . merchandise is sorted and placed properly, yes?”

  Mikhail held that gaze. “Yes.”

  “At any time, did you see my daughter?”

  He started to automatically deny it, then he glanced back down at the smiling photo. Another image glanced over the top, of her chained and screaming in the basement in Cheb. Of the graveyard.

  He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I don’t believe so, Don Calsonone.” Meeting the man’s eyes again, he added, “For, I would remember her.”

  Those eyes held his for a moment longer and Mikhail ignored the urge to swallow.

  Finally, the don looked back down at the folder before him. “You will check and report back to me, yes?”