by Brett King
“A car?” Cori blinked. “Yeah. I can drive.”
“Good, ’cause I can’t. There’s this girl in my class. Dianne Callaghan? Her mom has lived in the city her whole life and she can’t drive.”
She hurried to a metal security door and swiped Dr. Resnick’s card.
Cori stared in disbelief. The kid was unbelievable.
Kind of like her dad.
She glanced at Dr. Resnick’s desk. Cori saw folders bulging with paperwork that looked like they contained confidential information on students at the Brandonstein Center. Maybe Shayna’s folder was in there. It might answer questions she had about the girl.
“C’mon,” Shayna called. The door opened into an adjacent office suite.
Cori ignored the folders and headed for the child. Shayna’s small hand pressed against the metal door to prevent it from closing.
Gunfire snapped in the hallway. A muffled sound came next, like a woman screaming. Glass shattered outside. The knob rattled. Gunfire again. Someone shot at the locked door.
Shayna screamed. Cori scrambled to join her, hugging her close.
A man kicked the office door. The sound rifled throughout the room. It burst open. The security door began to close with a soft metallic whoosh.
The door was an inch or two from shutting, and in that gap Cori saw the white gunman’s face. It was the driver. He glared and raised his gun.
No. God, no.
Cori reached for Shayna, grabbing the back of her shirt. The child was already headed to the floor. They both dropped.
Bullets sprayed the security door as it closed.
Chapter 7
Sofia, Bulgaria
10:55 p.m.
Rashmi Raja stared at the ribbon of blood trickling from the man’s neck. She hadn’t broken into this mansion with the intent to hurt anyone. Some nights, though, things never worked out the way she planned.
The mission tonight? Break into the mansion. Steal a relic. Break out. Collect the money. Simple as that. The plan had worked before.
It wasn’t working tonight.
Wearing a small backpack, Raja crouched over the security guard and checked his GPS monitor. Four additional guards were scattered around the home. Two blocked her path to the library on the second floor. She had to move fast.
As she pulled her war quoit from the guard’s throat, it made a soft wet sound. She had inherited the Sikh throwing weapon, a deadly but invaluable heirloom, from her grandfather. Wiping blood from the flat stainless-steel disk, she carefully folded the razor-sharp teeth inside the outer rim. Glancing down the first-floor hallway, she snapped the war quoit around her wrist like a bracelet.
In her early twenties, she wore black from head to toe with a fitted long-sleeved crewneck T-shirt, skintight leggings for easy mobility, and ankle socks paired with low-top Gucci sneakers. Her long black hair was pulled back in a tight ballerina-like bun and wrapped in the darkest scarf she could find in her wardrobe.
Raja crept inside the thousand-square-foot vaulted room, staying in the shadows. The mansion hinted at the triumph of the Bulgarian mafiya. During its reign, a surge of drug smuggling, prostitution, and racketeering had swept over the country after the collapse of the former Soviet government. Few benefited more from mafiya corruption than Georgi Paskalev.
He had been an Olympic wrestler when freedom had arrived in the former Eastern Bloc. As a down-and-out athlete, Paskalev had cut a deal with corrupt government officials who created insurance and security groups as a cover for illicit activity. When the Bulgarian government shut down the mafiya in the early twenty-first century, Paskalev found himself out of business, but not out of money. He was allowed to keep his mansion on the slopes of Mount Vitosha, a towering range on the outskirts of Sofia. When Paskalev died a few years ago, his son Nikola inherited everything.
Nikola Paskalev was a legitimate businessman with a high-end boutique on Vitosha Boulevard. Wealthy Bulgarians flocked to his store and so did foreigners like Raja’s own family. Two years ago, in fact, she had traveled with her mother, Harita Raja, from Chandigarh in northern India to purchase jewelry from Paskalev.
Would the man recognize her tonight?
Not an issue. Raja didn’t intend to be seen.
She had planned to take the stairs, but the patrolling guard had changed her strategy. She found another way. A two-story waterfall framed the south wall. Raja sprinted toward it.
Up close now, she saw the wall was an enormous slab of Vratsa marble. Mined from a local quarry, its gray surface was neither polished nor smooth, but marked with rough-hewn pockets. The marble wall reflected the personalities of the corrupt wrestler and his son—imposing and coarse, but with a hint of sophistication.
Looking up, she spied a balcony trimmed with wooden railing. Above it, a horizontal pole was anchored to the wall. Ivy encircled the decorative iron fixture. She needed to search up there.
Glancing at the splashing falls, she noticed water did not touch a margin of wall beneath the balcony. She started climbing.
Halfway up the marble wall, she heard a door close across the room. Snapping her head around, Raja glanced back. Beneath her, Paskalev’s guard strolled past the waterfall, heading toward a fireplace. With water roaring close to her ear, she almost hadn’t heard him. She remained motionless on the wall, poised like a spider on her web.
Down below, the guard called out a name. He was searching for someone named Stepan. Raja assumed that was the security guard with the slashed throat.
She held her breath, suspended against the wall. Her arm and leg muscles quivered. The guard ran his flashlight beam along the walls. Crossing the water, the shaft of light darted a meter or so beneath her foot. He chattered into his walkie-talkie, then took his time leaving the room. Raja began climbing again. Sooner or later, she knew, the guards would discover Stepan’s body.
Nikola Paskalev was a proud Bulgarian. Refined tapestries, historical emblems, and ornate crests reflected his patriotic fervor. The upper floor of his mansion displayed even greater elegance than anything downstairs. Priceless artwork and antique furniture adorned every room.
Making her way down the hallway, Raja peeked inside a library graced with custom bookshelves. She covered her mouth in surprise. He’s here. Reading a newspaper, Paskalev reclined behind a carved mahogany desk. Smoke curled around his wavy brown hair as he tapped cigar ash into a tray.
Back in his prime as an Olympic wrestler, Georgi Paskalev had measured in at six foot two with a girth that put him north of 250 pounds. Watching now, she could tell Nikola Paskalev had another two inches and an additional hundred pounds on his father.
Finding Paskalev here put her in a bad mood. A century before, his great-grandfather had collected relics from the Roman Empire. She spied an oval box on his desk. Maybe it contained a section from a Roman helmet.
Footsteps plodded in the hallway.
Raja suspected a guard, coming to warn about Stepan.
She opened the door to a nearby room and ducked inside. Raja formulated the plan in her head, thinking through alternatives. She had to take out the guard before bursting into the library, an action requiring more force than her ancestral bracelet could provide. Reaching into her leg holster, she brought out a Beretta PX4. Despite India’s strict gun laws, she had learned to shoot a firearm by age six.
Raja braced herself against the door, ready to hit the guard. She made a quick look into the hallway. The footsteps had not come from security personnel as she had suspected. Instead, a woman lingered outside the library door.
Paskalev’s wife, Raja quickly realized.
As a family friend, Simona Bakalova had married Nikola Paskalev while both were in their early twenties. She was short and squat, her lifeless hair matching her shapeless gray dress. Balling her hands into fists, she stomped into the library.
“Nikola!” she yelle
d. She rattled a few more words, some of which Raja identified as profanity. She spoke fast, but there was no mistaking her emphasis on the Bulgarian word for whore.
Okay. Wow.
Georgi Paskalev had been passionate about collecting antiquities. His son was more interested in collecting mistresses. Judging from Simona’s tone, she had discovered her husband’s indiscretion. Nikola Paskalev had been cheating with a woman half his age, a former Miss Bulgaria who had competed in the Miss World Pageant. Raja knew all about this cheating prick.
Careful to remain hidden, she moved beside the door. She held steady on the gun, keeping it in a two-handed grip.
Paskalev waved his arms, his face turning red and purple in full bluster, a bull of a man. He slammed his fist against the desk. Simona responded with a dramatic scream.
Raja checked her watch. Bulgaria family drama wasn’t on her schedule. It was only a matter of time before a guard discovered Stepan’s body. In other words, only a matter of time before all hell broke loose in here.
Like it hadn’t already.
The argument escalated. Simona slapped her husband’s face. Paskalev erupted in a towering rage. He grabbed his wife’s wrists and yanked her across the desk. With the back of his hand, he slapped her cheek. Blood spurted over her lips.
Okay. Enough.
Raja stepped inside the door and raised the Beretta. Time to pit her black angel against Paskalev’s bulk.
The phone rang.
Holding Simona’s throat, Paskalev glanced at it. He shoved his wife off the desk.
Raja winced as the woman hit the floor, then pulled back, moving into shadows outside the library.
Paskalev answered the call. He said Stepan’s name. They had discovered the guard’s body.
Terrific.
Nikola Paskalev slammed down the phone. He told his wife about an intruder, urging her to hurry to the safe room.
Dropping back, Raja slipped into a nearby room. Perfect timing because Paskalev hurried past the door, wrenching his wife’s arm as she sobbed.
After they passed, she stepped back into the hallway. As they headed for the stairs, she brought out the Beretta. For fun, Raja posed both arms straight out from her body, capturing the big man in her sight. It would be easy to take a kill shot right now, nail the guy in the head. She had not been hired to murder Paskalev.
Still…
Chapter 8
Paris
9:37 p.m.
John Brynstone was standing in front of a massive door embedded in the cave wall. It was locked. And it was blue.
“Why blue?” Véronique asked.
“Maybe to scare off evil spirits.”
“I didn’t realize blue had such power.”
“Going back to ancient Egypt, people believed the color could ward off evil,” Brynstone explained. “Some speculate that’s the reason pharaohs often wore blue. After the rise of Christianity, the color became associated with the Virgin Mary and heaven.” He studied the door. “They painted it blue for a reason. Maybe something in here needed protection.”
Brynstone brought out the golden key that he had discovered inside the skull and lifted it into the light of his headlamp. It had an oval top, cast in the shape of an eye. He slid the key into the lock beneath the doorknob. The door clicked open.
“Allow me.” On impulse, Véronique pushed open the blue door on rusty hinges, unconcerned about possible danger waiting on the other side.
New York City
3:38 p.m.
A big and dusky parking garage stood adjacent to Shayna’s school, seemingly empty. Cori Cassidy patted the frightened girl clinging to her waist. Passing a row of cars, she held out the keychain Shayna had stolen from the school researcher’s office. Cori clicked the power-lock button. A silver BMW sedan parked against the back wall of the garage honked in response and its lights flashed.
Running to it, she opened the rear door. The girl scrambled onto the backseat. Cori hurried around and climbed in the driver’s side door.
She had to keep her cool and stay in control. Graduate students were used to stress and pressure, but nothing like this. She wasn’t alone in this situation. Shayna Brynstone depended on her.
Cori glanced at the keychain in her hand. “Shay, what’s that researcher’s name? The one who owns this car?”
“Dr. Resnick.”
“Know where she lives?”
“Um, nope. Sorry.”
Cori opened the glove compartment. She pulled out the registration and saw a Park Avenue address.
“Dr. Resnick married a businessman. She misses him ’cause he’s in Japan. She was gonna pick him up from the airplane after school. I don’t know where they live.”
“That’s okay,” Cori said, smiling. “I do.”
“This thing won’t work. The seat belt won’t buckle me right.”
Cori glanced in the rearview mirror. She pivoted with a stretch to reach Shay’s seat belt then decided it was faster just to climb out and buckle the child.
Moving outside, she opened the rear passenger door and reached for the belt. She heard footsteps and saw a man enter the parking garage. He wore a dark suit like the guys who had shot Kaylyn Brynstone, and he looked to be in his late twenties, but his thick black hair was scored with a white streak above his forehead. Turning his head slowly, he scanned the vehicles. Cori panicked when she spied a gun in his hand. If she climbed back in and started the Beemer now, the engine noise would rumble throughout the garage and the guy would hear. Even if she could drive past him, he could fire several shots before she made it to the exit. She didn’t think she could make a move like that.
The man dropped down to the floor. It looked like he was searching beneath a car in the next row.
With the door already open, Cori took Shay’s chin in her hand. She raised her finger to her lips. “Shh.”
The little girl got the message.
“Follow me. Be super quiet.”
The child nodded.
Cori eased the car door closed. She slid along the trunk, bringing the girl along as they edged around the BMW. The gunman didn’t hear, but he still headed their direction.
Cori and Shayna crawled along the back wall, trying to stay out of sight. The man came closer, his footsteps growing louder on the cement floor. Cori couldn’t see him. He huffed like he was disgusted. Or angry.
Crouching behind a yellow car with Shayna, Cori brought out her cell and turned off the ringer. A call would make too much noise, so she decided to text instead. She frowned as she stared at the touch-screen display. No service.
Seriously?
Putting away the phone, Cori dipped her head toward the concrete floor to look beneath a dented Nissan Sentra. Peering around the tires, she saw the man’s shoes. He pivoted, like he was noticing someone behind him.
“Any luck?” a voice called.
“Keep it down, okay?” the man with the white streak urged. “Stop waving that gun.”
Cori bit hard on her lip. Great. Now they were trapped in here with two killers.
“Can’t believe this bullshit,” the second man said. “They gotta be here somewhere. You see ’em yet?”
“Think I’d be standing here holding my dick if I did?”
“What about the BMW? That one there. See what I mean? Door’s open a little.”
Cori smothered a breath.
“So what? Somebody forgot to close it.”
“In New York City?”
“Big deal. What’re you doing?”
“Slashing the tires. Just in case it’s their car.”
Her shoulders sagged. Taking a chance on the distraction, Cori tugged on Shayna’s hand. Crouching, she pulled the child to the next vehicle. As they eased past the step bumper of an older Chevy Blazer, the hitch ball caught the girl’s shirt. Two or three
stitches ripped apart. Shayna unhooked the fabric and looked up, fear sparkling in her eyes. Taking a deep breath, Cori led Shayna around the back of another vehicle.
“Say we lose that little girl. Know how screwed we’ll be?”
“Shut up that talk. We’ll find her.”
“Yeah? Not so far we ain’t.”
“Do us both a favor. Be cool and keep looking.”
Cori spied a metal door at the far end of the garage. If they could sneak around a couple more cars then maybe they could escape through that door. Or maybe not. Two more cars and they would be at the exit.
White Streak guy was getting closer. He wasn’t far away now. If they made a move for the door, he’d hear. Shayna clutched Cori’s hand, the child’s soft fingers squeezing tight.
One more car to go. An Audi compact.
“We’re running out of time,” White Streak said.
Cori and Shayna squeezed around the car at the end. The driver had parked the vehicle close to the wall. It was a tighter squeeze than the others, but they made it to the door. Staying low, she ran her arm around the child, hugging her.
“Hey, man, how about that door? You check it?”
“What door?”
“One over there.”
They were talking about the door beside the Audi. Could she and the girl sneak out before the men checked? She couldn’t risk opening it without them hearing. Cori was in good shape. She could outrun the men, but what about Shayna? No way she could beat their size and speed. If she carried the child, they wouldn’t stand a chance.
A new and terrible thought hit her. What if the door was locked?
She pressed Shayna against her chest. She wanted to be brave for the kid. So far, she wasn’t succeeding.
“Think they went out that door?”
“Worth a shot,” the second man said.
“I’m on it.”
Cori nudged Shayna, moving her back from the door toward the black Audi. White Streak was walking again, coming closer. In a near panic, Cori motioned and the child joined her. They had no choice but to crawl under the vehicle. Moving to the ground, they slithered beneath the car, feeling the coarse bite of cement as it scraped their forearms.
