by D. V. Berkom
The report was deafening.
Her ears rang, the muffled sound like that of sand particles shifting underwater. His other hand closed around her throat in an attempt to crush her windpipe. Focused only on survival, Leine gripped the gun barrel with her left hand and tried to pry his fingers off her neck with the numb one. She managed to bend his hand far enough the wrong way to put pressure on his trigger finger and loosen his hold on the gun. In response, he let go of her neck and moved away to retain the grip, creating space between them. Recognizing her razor-thin advantage, she wrenched the gun from his grasp and thrust her knee into his groin. She was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.
His face a grimace, the man grabbed her neck with both hands and squeezed. She pushed hard against him with her left hand and knee, creating enough room to maneuver the gun between them. Dark spots appeared in her periphery and her eyesight dimmed as oxygen deprivation threatened to overtake her. Summoning a last surge of strength, she willed her right hand to respond, rammed the forty-five into his solar plexus, and pulled the trigger.
Eyes wide, his mouth open in an O, he gripped his stomach where the bullet entered his abdomen. A dark red stain appeared and spread across his shirt. He glanced at his hand, now covered in blood, and then at Leine. It was the first time she'd gotten a good look at him. She'd seen him somewhere before.
Leine shoved him backward and he crumpled onto his side. Coughing, she winced as she struggled to her feet. She tried to take a breath and doubled over from the searing-hot pain that arced across her ribcage. She took a moment to recover, then staggered to the SUV, hand gripping her side. After reassuring herself that no one else waited for her inside the truck, she returned to search the man's clothes for identification.
His pockets were empty. Leine wasn't surprised. Memories swam their way to the surface as she studied his face. It didn't take long before she realized how she knew him. Startled, she stepped away from the body, the implication clear. She shook it off and opened the passenger door to search the interior of the truck.
On the console was a manila folder marked Confidential with her picture clipped to the front. She skimmed its contents then closed the folder and tucked it under her arm as she searched the rest of the vehicle, ice-cold awareness creeping up her spine.
Finding nothing else of value except the keys in the ignition, Leine exited the truck to assess the damage to her car. The rear end was severely impacted, but if she could uncouple it from the SUV and push it off the median, it would be drivable. As she skirted the side of the car she realized Yuri was no longer hiding on the floor. In fact, he was no longer in the car. She scanned the street in both directions, but there was no sign of him. Her struggle with the assailant had been the perfect distraction for his escape.
She climbed into the SUV and gingerly leaned against the seat as she started the engine and shifted into low gear. The sound of metal against metal set Leine's teeth on edge. An agony in time passed as she braced herself and tried to find a comfortable position while she pushed her car off the curb. As soon as all four wheels hit asphalt, and the SUV disengaged from the back bumper, she returned to her car. She pulled out of the lot and turned right onto the busy boulevard. The new evidence chilled her as the realization spread.
The left side of the folder bore a familiar stamp.
The Agency.
CHAPTER THIRTY
GREG KIRCHNER GLANCED AT THE columns of numbers in front of him, not registering the massive profit listed at the bottom of the spreadsheet. He'd just received a phone call informing him of a skirmish at Baba Ganesh, where two of his best shooters had been gunned down. Yuri, the little weasel, had escaped. Greg had no idea how the stupid shit made it out alive, but word was he'd had help.
He'd made sure Ned wasn't having a drink with Yuri when he sent in his team. Ned proved to be worth much more in the brains department than Yuri could ever dream of being. Greg decided he'd given Yuri enough time to find the girl. With his discovery of Ned's value, he felt justified eliminating the idiot Ukrainian from the payroll.
And now he was on the run. Greg slammed his hand on the desk, making the stapler dance. His client was putting pressure on him to find the girl and tie up loose ends. Yuri was one of those loose ends, but now he couldn't even point to that little victory. At least the other play they'd put into place to find Mara was active, although they'd hit a snag there, too.
Greg rose from his chair and tossed the spreadsheet on the desk. Moving to the window, he gazed at the park below his office. If they didn't find Mara and deliver her to the client within the next twenty-four hours, he was finished. There was no way his reputation would recover from losing the fucking product. The client, Stone Ellison, had too much reach. In this business, word of mouth was everything.
Greg pivoted at the knock on the door. One of his employees, a barrel-chested man with a shaved head and muscular arms covered in tattoos stood in the doorway.
“What the fuck do you want?” Greg muttered as he proceeded to straighten the papers on his desk.
“We got some good news.”
Greg glanced up from the stack of spreadsheets and squinted. “Yeah?”
“Basso's history.”
“She's gone? Why? I thought Fournier was smitten.”
“Nope. She's number one on his shit list. Apparently, not only does Fournier think she scared the kid off at the restaurant, but she pulled a piece on Selena in the can and she played it like Basso was threatening to shoot her.”
“Good to know.” An interesting development. Selena had turned out to be surprisingly good at subterfuge. Greg smiled to himself. It had been a stroke of genius enlisting her help. The information he'd gotten from Fournier's agent made it easy to get the actor to believe her story about being his long-lost sister. He'd gambled that DNA testing would take longer than the amount of time he needed to get Mara back, and so far, he'd been right. He was running out of options, though. That's what made Saturday so important.
Greg was going to have to tweak the plan. The recent turn of events wasn't going to help with the new security contingent around Miles. On the other hand, he wouldn't have to worry about that LAPD dick, Santiago Jensen, showing up. He needed to make a phone call. Greg picked up his phone and looked pointedly at his employee.
“You mind?”
The man blinked a couple of times and stepped into the hall.
“Wait a minute.” Greg covered the phone with his hand. “You got the layout for Saturday?”
“Yeah. What do you need?”
“I need you to take care of Selena once we get the girl.”
The guy nodded and started to leave.
“One other thing. You know Yuri?”
“Yeah.”
“Do the same for him.”
***
Leine checked her watch and logged onto her computer. She ignored the high pitched screech as the barista foamed milk in a stainless container at the front of the café, and typed in the password for her email.
She'd taken to using the Wi-Fi at populated venues, and never used the same place twice. Even though she knew it wasn't fail-safe, it was better than establishing a routine and inviting her execution.
She scanned the subject line of her emails and opened the one that read “Your Inquiry” from a firm she'd used in the past to check into a target's history. She'd given them a glass she'd taken from Jean's room with a clear set of fingerprints. The investigators had encountered a problem with the information Leine had provided. She skimmed the rest of the message and double-clicked one of two attachments. A full arrest record appeared on the screen, but the name didn't match and the address wasn't in Nevada.
There must be some mistake. Leine scanned the report. A DUI from that past May was listed as well as several other alcohol-related misdemeanors spanning the last ten years. Everything dovetailed with what the first security check revealed, as well as what Jean had told them.
Leine clicked on the other attachment,
a .jpeg. The file opened and she stared at the photograph.
The mug shot showed Jean, but the name below the picture was the same as that on the arrest record: Selena Fullerton. Leine returned to the email from the investigative firm and read it more closely.
As soon as she was finished, she hit forward and typed in Miles' email address. This was incontrovertible proof that Jean/Selena had deceived him about everything from being related to being Mara's mother. Miles had to take action now. Leine added a note explaining the photograph's origins and hit send. She wasn't sure he'd open the email from her, much less an attachment. There had to be a way to get the picture to him before Jean/Selena did whatever it was she was determined to do.
Leine had argued with herself whether she should even try to change Miles' mind, and came up with the same answer repeatedly. She'd actually grown to like the guy, as frustrating as he was to deal with on a professional basis, and hated to see him being used for whatever purpose Selena had in mind. She also felt a deep connection to Mara and couldn't stand the thought of a young girl on the brink of adulthood, being thrust into a bleak life of misery and pain, only to be thrown away at some later date.
If Selena was actually working for the kidnappers, why hadn't they made their move already? Was it because Leine had been working for Miles? Were they waiting for her to leave? There'd been a couple of instances where she was off duty, but they were few and far between. Still, Selena could have contacted the kidnappers and told them Leine was out for the afternoon or evening. Leine hadn't exactly told them when she was going to be back, so that may have stopped their move.
But the theory wasn't logical. No one knew her background. To Selena and Miles, Leine was simply a security specialist, not an ex-assassin. Why would they wait until she was gone? Miles had immediately hired someone to take her place. Leine pushed the idea to the back of her mind. There had to be something else, some other reason for her lies.
Leine put her tablet into her purse and finished her cappuccino. She needed to talk to Miles, even if it meant physically putting the photo of Selena in his hand. She checked the date on her watch. Friday the sixteenth. Miles' premiere was the next day. She'd arrive early, take a chance he'd speak with her. At the same time, Leine would be there in case Mara tried to get to Miles again. This would be the girl's last chance to connect with the star; afterward, he was leaving on a three-week trip to promote the movie overseas.
Leine rose to leave and was walking out the door when it hit her. She hesitated, moving only when one of the café's customers walked around her in order to exit. Why hadn't she seen it before? Of course Selena was trying to get to Mara, but not because she was her mother.
She was working for the traffickers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MILES TOOK ONE LAST LOOK at himself in the mirror and adjusted his jacket. T-minus two hours before the big premiere. Jean stood behind him and smiled at his reflection.
“You look fantastic, Miles.”
“Thanks.”
Jean tilted her head to the side. “What's wrong? You seem distant.”
“Thinking about the premiere, is all.”
“And that we might finally find Mara? Oh, Miles,” she said, beaming. “Soon I'll be able to hold my baby in my arms again.”
Miles stared at her reflection, fighting the words he wanted to say. This wasn't the time or the place. He'd tried to ignore the results from the DNA test, but Leine's insistence that Jean was up to something more had wormed its way into his mind and settled like a chancre, eating away at the happiness he'd found knowing he had a family. He turned from the mirror and went to the kitchen where he opened the freezer and grabbed a pre-made container of tequila slushy.
“Shit.” He slammed the plastic bottle on the counter. The drink had frozen solid—he hadn't used enough tequila. He placed it in the microwave, hit thirty seconds and leaned against the counter to wait. He hated that Leine planted doubt about Jean in his mind. Now he scrutinized everything she did, searching for the lie in her statements. He'd quietly notified his security staff to watch her. They probably thought he was paranoid, but he didn't care. What was he going to do? Was Mara even her daughter? Why would Jean lie about getting her back?
Jean came up beside him and placed her hand on his arm. Miles jerked away and spun to face her, his anger roiling to the surface. Her eyes widened and she shrank back.
“Dammit, Jean. Why'd you lie to me?”
Jean looked as though he'd slapped her. “What do you mean? I never—”
Miles raised his hand. “Stop, Jean. Just stop. Everything you say sounds like a lie. Look,” he paused, fighting for control. “Before Leine left, she ran your DNA to verify you were who you said you were, but the results came back negative.” He crossed his arms. “There's no way in hell you're my sister.”
Jean's face drained of color with the exception of her cheeks, which were two bright pink spots. “That's a lie.” Her voice rose, matching the color in her face. “How dare you run a test without my permission?” She clasped her shaking hands together. “Where did you get the sample? How do you know it wasn't contaminated? Don't you have to have a swab or something?”
“It was hair from your brush.”
“No.” She appeared to deflate before him. “That can't be. I...I'm…my mother told me—” she stammered.
Miles' anger began to recede, replaced by a sorrow so deep, so cutting, he was sure he'd crack open and his insides would spill out. The sensation was new—he hadn't allowed himself to feel real emotion since his parents were killed. He became skilled at pretending by studying other people's responses to his actions, all the while keeping a part of himself locked away and unreachable. It's what made him a good actor. At least he thought so, until now.
Now, that part of him dropped like a curtain on the final night of a long-running show. Stripped bare, he realized he was experiencing raw, visceral emotion for the first time since the accident. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to stop the wave of despair threatening to overwhelm him. Taking a few deep breaths he opened his eyes. Jean watched him closely, a look of alarm on her face.
“Please, let me explain.” Jean reached for him, but Miles moved away. She pulled her hand back. “I wanted, no, needed, to be your sister. I thought it would help me find Mara. I was so afraid, Miles. You can't imagine. She was obsessed over you. You were…are…her favorite movie star. You have power and connections I don't. I didn’t have anywhere else to turn. You have to believe me—”
Miles stiffened at the desperation in her voice. “I can't trust you, Jean. You can't stay here anymore.” Her panicked look tore at his heart, but he continued. “I'll do what I can to help you find your daughter, but that's where our relationship ends. You'll have to find another…resource.”
“What about the premiere? I have to be there. You've got to let me go, Miles.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I need to find my baby. You don't understand—”
“You can come to the premiere, but that's the end of it. If she doesn't show up there, then you won't have any other choice but to call the police.”
“Miles…please, listen to me—”
He grabbed the container from the microwave and walked out of the kitchen, Jean's plea echoing in the hall behind him.
***
Yuri hurried through the parking garage beneath Greg's office. He didn't want to be late for this meeting. Greg had called and told him all was forgiven. That he needed him to stop by for a briefing about the girl. He smoothed his hair down with his hand before he opened the door and stepped into the emergency stairwell. The feel of his new gun snug against his back gave him more confidence than he normally would have in this situation.
Yuri knew he was taking a chance meeting with Greg, but he also knew he was fucked six ways to Sunday if he stayed in L.A. His uncle Vladimir had assured him of that. Even though he was family, Vladimir said, Yuri would no longer be able to enjoy the safety of his uncle's extensive criminal network.
Not if he was on the powerful trafficker's shit list. Those kinds of problems tended to bleed over into blood feuds and Vlad had no desire to go to war with the “shit-heel rat-fuck,” as he so delicately put it.
There was also the other, delusional problem of Yuri being unable to let go of his dream of living large in the City of Angels. It was his destiny, of that he was certain. Greg would listen to his side of the story and give him another chance. He had to.
Yuri took the first three flights of stairs two at a time. By the time he'd reached the fourth floor, he was considerably winded and slowed down to try and catch his breath. A door slammed above him and he jumped. He'd never known anyone to take the stairs. Not in this building.
He pulled his gun out of his waistband and warily climbed the stairs to the fifth floor, his eyes riveted above him on the stairwell. A shadow crossed the lone light bulb illuminating the sixth floor entry; the sound of footsteps accompanied by whistling echoed in the passageway. Yuri stopped and thought about heading back down as they drew closer.
He swiveled and placed his foot on the stair below him, intending to return to his car when he heard Ned's voice.
“Hey, Yuri. Long time no see.”
He turned to see him standing in the stairwell above him, a smile on his face. Yuri relaxed his death grip on the gun and shoved it back into his waistband. He started to climb toward him.
“Greg called me to come in today.”
“Yeah. About that. Remember when you said no one takes the stairs in L.A.?” Ned asked.
Yuri hesitated, his hand on the metal railing. “Yes?”
“Well, I mentioned that to Greg and he thought it would be a fitting place.” Ned had his hand behind his back.
