Leverage (The Mistaken Series)

by Nancy S Thompson

  “What have you done?” I hissed.

  Greg just shrugged with his mouth turned down in feigned ignorance, and I knew then, intuitively, that Agents O’Day and Ford were in serious jeopardy. Without thinking it through, I yanked open my office door and sprinted back up the hall and out the front doors. Neither man was visible, so I called their names into the night but received no reply. I spun in a circle with my hands atop my head, unsure of what to do, where to look… Until I spied the Crown Vic still parked out front. I walked around the back of the car and whimpered when I saw both men sprawled, unmoving, on the pavement, O’Day on his back and Liam face down.

  “Oh fuck!” I wailed, a wave of bile surging up from my gut. I scrubbed my hands down my face and twirled around, searching the area, but, at nearly one a.m., no one was about. “Shit, shit!” I swore, then, with a glance back toward the front door, I whispered, “Oh God, Conner!” and, in a brand new panic, ran back inside.

  I was panting when I burst back through my office door, but stopped short with a breathless gulp when I saw Conner standing sandwiched between Greg on his right, and an easily three-hundred-pound goon on his left, his large, black handgun and silencer jabbing sharply into Conner’s ribs. The boy’s eyes swam with terror as he held his heavily casted arm in his uninjured hand. Gently, he shook his head from side to side.

  Greg took a bold step forward and smiled. “I think it’s time, Mr. Karras.”

  I swallowed hard over the lump in my throat. “Time for what?” I asked.

  His brow rose high. “To get your wife back.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Tyler

  Stuffed into the middle row of Greg’s black Escalade, I experienced an odd sense of déjà vu as I recalled our ride to West Seattle with Maks just eight hours earlier. But this situation was different, far more dangerous, and exceptionally dire. This time, we were prisoners. This time, there would be no one to pull us to safety. There was no cavalry left to call. Our security detail had been struck down and left to die in a darkened parking lot. And, once again, I was responsible. Two more notches to add to my kill list, those who’d died because of me. I think I was up to eight innocent lives now, but the tally was now so high, I could no longer be sure. Their faces were becoming a blur, and I was starting to grow numb. I sat in my seat, as still as a mountain. To my left, however, Conner’s body shivered in cold, hard fear as he struggled to breathe normally.

  Our driver cruised the vehicle down the freeway at a law-abiding rate. Little did those speeding past know the horror we’d seen and were likely about to experience first hand. My stomach clenched with the thought of it, with the fear I might be forced to witness my stepson’s torture, perhaps even his murder. Next to the driver sat Greg, half-turned in his seat as he chattered incessantly, directing his caustic words back at me, but I couldn’t make out a single one, just his casual tone, like this was all a game to him, and we were but his pawns.

  “…is all rather cozy, is it not?” Greg asked as he swatted a rolled-up newspaper against my knee, unhappy he didn’t have my undivided attention.

  He waved a hand before my dazed face, snapping his fingers to get me to focus. And when I wouldn’t, he tipped his chin at the goon sitting behind me in the third row. The man whacked me on the back of my head with what felt like his elbow. I simply rocked back in my seat and dropped my eyes to my lap, while Greg continued to prattle on.

  “Well, I think it’s a stunning coincidence that we all know each other, that we’ve all met before. Do you not?” he asked.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Conner glance my way. I remained still, quiet, unresponsive. So Greg pushed even harder.

  “Did you know, Mr. Maguire, that I’ve known your stepdaddy here for quite some time, long before your mother ever married him?”

  I lifted my chin, my gaze hard yet confused. Greg tilted his head to the side as he stared me in the eye, his mouth stretching into a knowing grin. I’d finally taken his bait. And although he spoke to Conner, he kept his eyes riveted on me.

  “Has your stepdaddy ever told you the story of his baby brother, Nick?” he asked, and my blood—already rushing through my ears—started to boil. “He’s dead now, of course, but, back in the day, Nick worked for a very important man down in San Francisco, a man of great power and influence and even greater wealth,” he explained then paused, his eyes searching deep into mine. “That man’s name was Dmitri Chernov. He was head of the Solntsevskaya Bratva. And I was his most-trusted lieutenant,” he announced proudly.

  I remained still, but my jaw ached with the amount of effort it took to restrain myself from climbing over the seat and beating Greg to death, not that I’d have that much time, but with the rage burning through me at that moment, I doubt his men would have been able to pull me off before I inflicted serious damage. I was positive Greg could see that in my eyes and was laughing inside knowing, with Conner’s life in the balance, I would never attempt it.

  His grin returned with one brow arched high. “Ty here didn’t approve of his brother’s scandalous connections or his extracurricular activities. Yet, as much as he despised it, as hard as he tried to break Nick free, in the end, when Big Brother needed a leg up, it was Nick and his affiliation with the Bratva that helped him.”

  I shook my head ever so slightly, warning Greg to back off. He just grinned even wider, his eyes never faltering from mine. I leaned forward, no more than an inch, but enough to let him know I wasn’t about to let him continue unchallenged. Greg cleared his throat, and I felt a sudden tap at the base of my skull, then cold metal as Greg’s thug slid the barrel of his handgun under the sharp edge of my jaw then down my neck.

  “Ty, don’t, please,” Conner begged, his voice a quivering jumble of anxiety.

  My lips pressed into a thin, rigid line. Greg’s split, wide and toothy.

  “Ty’s story is such a sad one, Mr. Maguire. His poor first wife was duped by a rapacious woman, the same woman your father was cheating with behind your dear mother’s back. Erin Anderson, I believe her name was. Deliciously incestuous, is it not?” He shivered animatedly. “Anyway, Ty’s pregnant wife, already a teensy bit mad, went a bit more so and got herself killed chasing after your dad’s hot little whore.”

  “You goddamn piece of shit,” I seethed and lunged for Greg’s face, but the gorilla behind me wrapped his arm around my neck and squeezed until I stopped struggling.

  “That’s enough,” Greg said as he batted his man’s thick arm away. “I want to finish telling Mr. Maguire my story.” His fingers tapping along the side of his seat, Greg waited until I could breathe again then dug right back in. “The untimely demise of his wife and unborn child threw your stepdaddy into quite the tailspin. He fell apart—and I mean completely—turned into a raging drunk and drug addict, and—”

  “I was never addicted to drugs,” I objected.

  Greg rolled his eyes. “Details,” he countered then resumed where he’d left off. “Afterwards, it seems Ty spent a great deal of time fantasizing about getting even with your father’s little whore, although he was too cowardly to act on any of it himself—that is, until Nick came up with an idea. Now there was a man on a mission.” He turned to look at Conner. “Seems young Nick fancied his brother’s wife and was out for a little blood of his own.”

  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I bristled, denying his words.

  “Oh, don’t I?” he replied, his attention back on me. “I know about the plan Nick hatched and you agreed on, to kidnap Ms. Anderson and essentially sell her—”

  “To your boss!”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I did it to secure my brother’s freedom.”

  “He didn’t want his freedom! He made that deal of his own accord.”

  “Because he felt he had to protect me.”

  “Which he wouldn’t have had to do had it not been for your father’s treachery!”

 
“Upholding the law isn’t treachery! Chernov’s brother was a common crim—”

  “Why wasn’t revenge enough for you? Why not turn that girl over and be done with it? Why antagonize and continue to play a dangerous game you’d lost once already, you arrogant prick? You not only bartered your brother’s life in the name of vengeance, you did it in some sanctimonious need to prove you were the white knight come to rescue his wayward brother.”

  “From a monster!”

  “From my father!” he screamed, leaning forward with his teeth gnashed together.

  I pitched back in my seat and stared as my mind reeled. I sat open-mouthed, too stunned to speak. This was it, the connection that linked us all together.

  My God...Greg was Chernov’s son!

  “Didn’t see that one coming, now, did you?” he remarked, seemingly relieved he’d finally exposed the truth, but still, not quite satisfied, not yet, not until every kernel was revealed and my deepest secrets were laid bare. Greg turned toward Conner, who sat white-faced and mute, his eyes darting back and forth between Greg and me.

  “Do you understand what I’m telling you, Mr. Maguire? Your do-good stepfather here structured a deal with the Russian Mafia to sell your father’s lover into sexual slavery. But alas,” he relaxed back into his seat, “the drunken Tyler mistook your poor mum for Ms. Anderson, because dear old Dad had a thing for leggy, green-eyed redheads, and Ms. Anderson is a dead-ringer for your mum, albeit a dash younger, but still, it’s a little sick if you ask me.” Greg shook his head and smirked. “Your dad, though, he sure has a good eye. Yes, he does.

  “But Ty, here,” he said, glancing at me, “as drunk as he was, his eye wasn’t quite so good. He broke your mum’s door down and knocked her ‘round a bit, as Nick told it. Thought, before the trade, he might teach her a lesson or two, huh, Ty?”

  A flash streaked from the corner of my eye as Conner charged forward and smashed his good hand into Greg’s nose, but the goon sitting next to him reacted quickly and pulled Conner back against his chest in a headlock. But even restrained, Conner lashed out at me, as well.

  “You lying sack of shit!” Tears streamed down his face as he kicked and clawed at me.

  “Calm down, Conner, please!” I hissed and grabbed his good arm by the wrist.

  “The thug behind me leaned over the seatback and shoved his enormous body between us, screaming, “Knock it off!”

  “Don’t touch me, you fuck!” Conner wailed.

  “Shut the hell up, all of you!” Greg shrieked above it all, grasping for the handkerchief his stoic driver held out to him. He pressed the linen under his bloodied nose and glared daggers at Conner. “Don’t blame the messenger, you impetuous fool!”

  “You fucking lie,” Conner cried. “My mother would never hook up with someone who’d done that to her. Never!” His body went limp against the guard at his back while he drew his casted arm in front of his eyes to hide his sobbing.

  Greg dabbed at his nose, examining the blood soaked into the handkerchief. “I assure you, she did, Mr. Maguire. Though he gave your mum little choice, they grew quite close. Isn’t that right, Tyler, on the run, close quarters, your pathetic little sob story about your dead family to sway her to your side? Talk about Stockholm syndrome. She was putty in your hands.”

  I shut my eyes, exhausted, tired of the fear, of not knowing what was going to happen next. “What’s the point of all this?” I asked Greg. “What is it you want from us?”

  “I want Mr. Maguire here to know the truth about his new papa.”

  “Fine. You’ve told him; he knows. Now tell me how can I get my wife back.”

  Greg turned forward and looked out the windshield as the driver parked the Escalade near a light industrial warehouse. Greg popped his door open then turned around. “I’m so glad you asked, dear chap. You see, I have something you want, and you have the means to give back to me something I want, something that was taken from me, stolen, if you will.”

  With a feeling of dread sinking deep into me, I shook my head at him. “How can I possibly help you? I have nothing.”

  “Oh, but you do,” he assured me. “You have motivation.”

  “For what?”

  “I am my father’s son, Mr. Karras,” he answered coolly, his arms spread wide. “I want my kingdom back. And you’re going to get it for me.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Tyler

  Greg hopped down from the SUV. “Everyone out,” he ordered.

  His men pulled Conner and me from the backseat and pushed us toward the building’s side door. Greg unlocked it and passed through, throwing on a long row of light switches as we followed in after him. Two dozen large industrial pendant lights sprang to life, each shining a harsh spot from twenty-five feet above our heads down onto the concrete warehouse floor.

  Greg moved to another circuit box and began flipping even more switches, this time connected to an assortment of electronic and mechanical arcade and carnival-style games. Small lights of various shape and every color of the rainbow lit up around the warehouse, each punctuated by dings, chimes, sirens, and buzzers, all designed to attract fair-goers to play.

  Conner and I exchanged confused glances as Greg strolled casually around the space.

  “Aren’t they beautiful?” he asked no one in particular. “Each one restored to pristine condition.” He smoothed his hand lovingly over the booths’ glossy surfaces. “I love games,” he said then slid me a withering look when I snickered. “Always have, ever since I was a young lad. Street games, board games, video games. I love them all. But not nearly as much as the arcade. Did your folks ever take you to the Fun Forest at Seattle Center, Mr. Maguire?” he asked without waiting for a reply. “My father brought me there several times. The rides were grand—bumper cars and the carousel, the rollercoaster and log ride, and oh, that giant swinging pirate ship,” he recalled excitedly. “But still, I spent most of my time at the Pavilion, playing skee ball, the baseball pitch, throwing hoops, and shooting metal ducks. Now those are games.

  “Sadly, the city closed down the Fun Forest and dismantled everything, but I couldn’t let it all go to scrap, so I bought a few and set up my own arcade, much like my father and his sport-fighting, but far less gruesome. Yet…there is a certain relevance between what my father enjoyed in his gladiators and what I do in my games.”

  I snorted. “How do you figure that? Your games are harmless, while your father was responsible for countless deaths, all in the name of sport, and for what? To make a few bucks, like he didn’t have enough already? That’s like comparing Forrest Gump to Hannibal Lector.”

  Greg’s face twisted with the insult. “You’d think, right? But it’s rather like that old adage about the apple not falling far from the tree. I just exercise more…I don’t know…”

  “Intimidation?” I finished.

  “Manipulation,” he countered as he moved to the shooting gallery. “My father, bless his soul, was effective, but I have a taste for a bit more finesse, if you will.”

  He picked up an old pellet rifle and shot at a series of metal ducks as they tracked from one side of the game booth to the other, missing all but three before he ran out of ammunition. He lowered the weapon and looked on. He refilled the chamber then spun toward me and held out the gun. I raised both hands in refusal. I didn’t trust whatever trick he had up his sleeve. But Greg tipped his chin, and I suddenly felt the barrel of a real gun poke me in the back.

  The man behind it pushed me in Greg’s direction. I stole a glance at Conner and saw he had his own goon shoving a gun into his side. I raised my hands as the guard at my back grabbed me by the collar and marched me over to face Greg. He held the pellet rifle out to me again. I eyed him with caution but took the gun.

  Greg nodded at the remaining ducks zipping by. “Go ahead. Give it your best shot.”

  I stared at him. “Why? What’s the point?”

  “You’ll see soon enough. Just go ahead and
shoot.”

  With a sigh, I raised the gun and shot at the moving targets, missing every single one.

  “You have to line up the two sights on the barrel,” Greg interjected.

  I huffed impatiently. “I know how to shoot.”

  Greg shrugged and said, “Sorry,” then raised his arm, directing me to try again.

  I took several more shots, but only hit three out of ten.

  He rocked his head from side to side. “Better, but perhaps you need some motivation.”

  My blood ran cold. The last time someone said that to me, Alexi had taken Nick and was using him to force me to give up Hannah.

  “I don’t need any coercion,” I replied.

  So Greg asked me to try again, but my nerves were so frayed, I missed all but two ducks. He shook his head in disappointment. “Obviously, you’re wrong, and I’m going to pose a little experiment to prove it.”

  I panicked, convinced Greg was about to use Conner. Dropping the gun, I screamed, “No, wait!” and held up my hands as I rushed toward the boy. But one of Greg’s men stepped in front of me and landed a punch to my jaw. I tumbled to the floor in a heap, stunned. Conner strained against the guard holding him back while I fingered my jaw and shook my head. I crawled to my feet as Greg raised a hand.

  “Calm down, everyone, take it down a notch.” He stepped up to me and smacked me along the side of my arm. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt your boy.” He turned and walked away then looked over his shoulder at me, motioning with his head for me to follow. I glanced back over at Conner as one of his thugs pushed me toward Greg.

  “Bring the boy, too,” Greg ordered, and Conner was directed toward our host, as well.

  Greg sauntered up to a portable table with a laptop sitting in the middle. He flipped it open and hit a few keys then grinned when a video feed popped up on the screen. He turned the device around so the screen faced me straight on. I trained my eyes on him instead, suspicious.