by Holly Hart
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Eight
54. CASSANDRA
Assess the threat. Analyze the options. Choose the outcome with the best chance of survival.
These concepts are all ingrained in me to the point of being second nature. But I’ve never been in a situation where someone I love is in the line of fire. Literally.
I scan the area on either side of the table, but I already know that there won’t be any heroic measures. The potential for catastrophe in such a crowded place is unacceptable. If there’s one reason I went into the CIA, it was to stop Americans getting hurt. I won’t have it happen on my watch.
There’s only one way out of this that I can see.
Tricia looks like she can’t decide between panic and fury. Her eyes are like a caged animal’s, but the snarl on her lips says she’d castrate this guy as soon as look at him if she could. My gut is in knots knowing that something I did put her in danger.
I approach the table head-on, giving the gunman plenty of time to see my red hair and recognize me. The last thing I want is to get close and startle him, for fear that he reflexively pulls the trigger.
Tricia sees me first, her eyes widening.
“Cassie, get out of here!” she calls. “It’s a set-up!”
The gunman looks up and sees me. My hands are raised to show him I’m not armed.
“It’s all right, Trish,” I say calmly. “This is all just a misunderstanding. We’ll get it sorted out.”
“Thank you for being so reasonable,” the guy says. His accent tags him as Albanian. “Your friend here was only meant to be a failsafe. Looks like my employers were right not to underestimate you.”
“Let her go,” I say. “It’s me you want.”
“Where is the winning contestant?”
“On the way to the emergency room, if he’s lucky.”
He frowns.
“That is unexpected.”
He pulls out a phone and hits a speed-dial number. Then a conversation in Russian. I’m not an expert, but I have a working familiarity. I make out references to compensation and a cleanup crew, as well as the Hotel James. All in all, it doesn’t sound promising.
“Da,” he says, then ends the call.
“You piece of shit,” Tricia spits. “My friend Maks is connected with some powerful Russians. When he finds out what you’re doing –”
“The people behind this are those powerful Russians,” I say. “Sorry, sweetie, I didn’t know this would happen.”
Tricia’s eyes are wild, looking from me to the gunman and back again.
“What the hell is going on here, Cass?”
“I’ll explain later. Right now I have to go with this gentleman here. As soon as he lets you go.”
He stands up, and I see that he’s draped a nylon running jacket over his clasped hands, hiding the gun.
“Actually, you are both coming with me,” he says.
I shake my head.
“Uh-uh. Me only.”
A black Lincoln pulls up beside us and the gunman opens the back door.
“Both of you get in,” he says. “Or both of you die right here and I jump in this car and speed away.”
Shit.
“I’m so sorry, Trish,” I say, taking her by the shoulder and pulling her into the car.
“What do you mean about Maks? He’s not involved in this, is he? Cassie, what is going on?”
“It’s a long story,” I sigh as the Albanian closes the door and gets in the front with the driver.
55. CARSON
The elevator doors open and I drag Maks out by the collar.
“Come with me,” I say, leading him down the hall to the computer room.
“I’m not getting what is happening,” he yelps as I toss him onto the sofa. “What is going on with Cassie? Why are you being so angry?”
I take a deep breath and sit down opposite him, fixing him with a glare that I hope conveys just how serious the situation is.
“Long story short,” I say. “Your uncle and whoever else in involved in running the Chase have Cassie. They’re going to hurt her.”
“Bozhe moi,” he breathes. “But why?”
“Cassie was the quarry in the Chase. I caught her. But your uncle thinks we cheated and that we’re somehow conspiring against him.”
He blinks rapidly, staring at nothing.
“I looked up your family while you were on your way here,” I say, calling up the screen on the window. It fills with a grainy shot of a man in his sixties, with a brush cut and deep pouches under his eyes.
“I know your uncle is Alexei Ivchenko. Except that’s an alias – I can’t find any record of him before 2004. You would have been seventeen at the time, so you obviously know his real name. What is it?”
Maksim looks at the floor in silence for a moment, and I have to combat the urge to reach out and throttle him.
“Bogdan,” he says finally. “His name was Bogdan Nabatov.”
My fingers fly over the keyboard as I boot up my own personal hacking software. Code runs by on the window as I kick down back doors in the NKVD, Russia’s security and law enforcement division.
The program doesn’t work quickly enough for my brain, and I feel the kind of frustration I used to experience as a toddler, when my language skills weren’t yet up to expressing what was going on in my head.
“I am sorry, tovarishch,” Maks says, still staring at the floor. “For everything. I should never have been telling you about the Chase.”
“Your uncle should never have been doing the Chase,” I mumble as I scan the data on the screen.
Who am I trying to bullshit? I should never have been doing the Chase!
I fight off a wave of shame that threatens to take my attention away from the matter at hand. Names and faces begin to run across the screen as I access the NKVD’s watchlist files.
“I knew why we left Russia,” Maks says. “I was old enough. I listened to the talking at family dinners. But I try to ignore it all. Party all the time. That way I don’t think about it.”
“I’m not your therapist, Maks,” I say, eyes on the screen.
Finally, a file: Bogdan Nabatov, brother of Maksim’s mother, Ilyanna. Indicted in the early days of Putin’s first term for trafficking in sex slaves, importing heroin from Albania and several counts of murder.
And he’s got Cassie.
“My father bought us out of Russia after Uncle Bogdan was arrested,” says Maks. “We all got new names in America, and Papa hid all of his money. He is a good man, not like Bogdan.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” I mutter as I try to find anything new on Alexei Ivchenko. Nothing. He’s learned how to hide very well in his new homeland.
Wait a minute…
“Maks, you said all of your father’s money,” I say. “Does that mean Alexei doesn’t have any of his own?”
“I think Bogdan had to leave all his own money in Russia,” he says. “Papa runs the business and pays him salary.”
“So his money is all underground…”
Maks looks confused. “He does not bury his money, Carson.”
“Forget it,” I say. “I need you to call him and set up a meeting. Right now.”
He seems conflicted for a moment, but before I can say anything, he pulls his phone from his pocket and dials a number. There’s a brief conversation in Russian. Maks looks on the verge of throwing up the whole time.
Finally he ends the call.
“One hour,” he says. “At gentleman’s club in Brighton Beach. I am to take you there.”
That’s good. We’re making progress.
“What about Cassie?” I ask. “Is she all right?”
“For now. He is waiting to see what you will be saying.”
I breathe deeply, let it out slowly. There’s still hope, if my plan works.
My eyes meet Maksim’s and I see tears there.
“I am so sorry, my friend,” he whispers. “I never would be wanting anyone to be hur
t, especially Cassie.”
My heart sinks. He’s a victim in this too, and I’ve been treating him like a criminal for the last hour. I wrap an arm around his neck and squeeze.
“I know that, buddy. And thanks to what you just did, I think we’ll be able to get her out of this.”
Even if it costs me everything I have.
I take a last glance at the screen, only to see another pop up from behind that one.
Match found, it reads.
Holy shit! I totally forgot I left the facial recognition program working in the background when I went for my run.
Up comes a photo of Red Dress, but no name. She’s wearing a black dress this time, but it’s definitely her. It’s from a dark web site that features photos of satanic rituals. What kind of sick person would be into this kind of shit?
The text posting alludes to an annual sacrifice at the height of summer. Reference to it being a female, and recently defiled…
Oh God, no.
“Maks!” I snap. “The Chase – is it always at this time of year?”
“I am not being sure exactly…”
“Is it always in summer?!”
“Yes! Always summertime. Why?”
My heart gallops in my chest as my stomach turns to ice.
“She’s going to kill Cassie,” I breathe. “That bitch is going to kill the woman I love.”
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Nine
55. CASSANDRA
The ride to Brighton Beach was awkward, to say the least.
“So all this was going on and you never told me any of it?” Tricia barks. “Great, now I feel like the dumb sidekick in a romantic comedy!”
We’re sitting in the parlor of a vast Victorian mansion. It appears to be a gentleman’s club of sorts, judging by the photos of old men sitting around the place smoking cigars and drinking. None of those gentlemen is here right now, though.
The room is beautiful. In any other circumstances, I’m sure it would be enchanting.
As it is, it makes me want to vomit.
“How many times can I say I’m sorry, Trish?”
“I don’t know. How about you keep going and I tell you when to stop?”
“Be quiet,” our Albanian friend says from the corner of the room.
If it was just him guarding us, I might try to make a move. But he’s been joined by a couple of others, both of whom have hairy chests and unibrows. And guns, of course.
“You three are thoroughly unattractive,” Tricia snipes. “I just want you to know that before you kill us. I’m talking not a hope in hell.”
The Albanian rolls his eyes.
“What are we waiting for, exactly?” I ask.
It’s common practice to keep people isolated and bored when you’re trying to break them. That’s not going to work on me, so I’d like to speed the process along, whatever the endgame might be.
“I think it’s me,” says a voice from behind me.
I turn, and my heart sinks as I see Carson and Maksim walking into the room. They can’t be here! It’s bad enough I couldn’t keep Tricia from being involved in this. If anything happens to Carson, my heart will crumble and disappear.
“Are you all right?” Carson asks, eyes wide.
I look directly at the Albanian, using all my training to keep my emotions from showing on my face or in my voice.
“Get them out of here,” I say coldly. “This doesn’t involve them.”
Tricia glares at Maks.
“What are you doing here with them?” she asks. “Are you involved in this too?”
He doesn’t meet her eyes, just looks at the floor.
“Cassie,” Carson says. “I’m here to negotiate for you.”
I want to yell at him to get out now, to run. But I won’t give these Russian slugs the satisfaction of seeing me weak.
“I don’t negotiate with people like this,” I say.
Tricia turns her glare to me.
“Were you planning to tell me that at some point?” she yells.
“I’m sorry, Cassie,” Carson sighs. “I’m the one in charge here, not you.”
“That is good to hear,” says a voice from the doorway.
Without looking up, Maks says: “Hello, Uncle.”
Next to the Albanian guard is a barrel-chested man with a wide face and a pompadour of iron-gray hair. His hairy body is covered in a sheen of sweat under his Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts.
“Aannd the sexiness factor in the room just went down, somehow,” says Tricia.
“Not now, Trish,” I growl.
Carson locks eyes with the newcomer.
“Bogdan Nabatov,” he says. “I’m glad we finally get to meet.”
The old man’s eyes flash anger and he tilts his head toward Maks.
“You and I will have a long talk after all this is over, boy,” he snarls.
Maks says nothing.
“This meeting is about you and me,” Carson snaps. “Nobody else. I want just the two of us in a room. I think I have an offer you’ll appreciate.”
Nabatov pulls a cigar from his shirt pocket and lights it. The stench of the smoke makes my stomach hitch.
“You would like that, I’m sure,” he says. His English is much better than Maksim’s. “But I’m afraid we will all stay right where we are. I know what you did to my associates; I can assure you that won’t happen to me.”
What Carson did? What did he do?
“Fine,” says Carson. “I’m here to make a deal. To compensate you for your losses. And to prove that there is no investigation against you.”
“Is that so?” Nabatov’s thick eyebrows go up. “Well, then. I am a reasonable man. Please go on.”
“You let these two go,” says Carson, pointing to Tricia and me. “And I sign over my fortune to you.”
What?
I see naked greed in Nabatov’s eyes as the offer sinks in. His cigar almost drops from his mouth.
“Carson, no!” I blurt.
“I told you before,” he says, eyes never leaving Nabatov. “I’m in charge here, not you.”
“Carson, I am not going to let you give up everything you’ve worked for just so a piece of shit like this won’t do something to me! I can handle myself!”
“Well?” he says, ignoring me. “What do you say, Bogdan?”
Nabatov sucks on his cigar for a moment before answering.
“And how do you propose to do this?” he asks.
“I know you’re under your brother’s thumb here in America,” says Carson. “You create a shill corporation and I buy it from you for everything I have, three billion and change. I get a worthless company, you get the cash. More than enough for you to go legit and give up nonsense like the Chase.”
This is crazy. If I weren’t so desperately in love with Carson, I’d kill him myself for being such a fool.
Nabatov chews his cigar noisily.
“I would be amenable to that,” he says. “Of course, part of the money would have to go to compensate Mr. Buckner for his… troubles.”
Carson frowns. “Buckner?”
“Don’t ask,” I say.
“How do I know you will keep your end of the deal, Mr. Drake?”
“Simple,” says Carson. “You keep Cassie here until it goes through. I’ll make sure my lawyers fast-track it.”
Fuck that! I open my mouth to say exactly those words, but Maksim beats me to the punch.
“No, Uncle,” he says, looking up from the floor for the first time since he arrived.
Nabatov turns slowly to face his nephew.
“What did you say to me?” he growls, his heavy brows drawn down over his piggy little eyes.
“I said no. You are not going to be hurting my friends. I won’t let you.”
Chapter One Hundred Forty
57. CARSON
“Stay out of this, Maks,” I say. “It’s between your uncle and me.”
“And me!” Cassie snaps.
“Excuse me!” Tricia g
ripes. “I’m sitting right here!”
Maks steps slowly and deliberately toward Nabatov. The guards move to intercept him, but a raised hand from his uncle stops them.
“Was that a threat?” the older man says, eyes wide. “From little Maksim?”
“I won’t let you hurt them,” Maks says, his voice stronger this time.
“And what will you do to stop me? Dance at me? Make me drink until I pass out?”
Maks stops on the edge of the exquisite Persian rug, a few yards from where Nabatov stands in the arched doorway.
“I don’t have to be doing anything,” he says. “That’s the easy part.”
Nabatov frowns.
“What the hell are you talking about, boy?”
“All I have to be doing is not calling a phone number for a few days,” says Maks. “When I don’t do that, someone I pay money to will be sending a package to FBI office in New York City.”
The older man’s face slackens and this time, the cigar actually falls out of his mouth to the floor.
“Stupid little Maksim is not so stupid, Uncle,” says Maks. “Ever since I was being teenager, I make recordings. I take photos. I am writing things down. Just in case something ever happens to me; maybe someday you decide I need to be gone.
“So I give sealed package to someone and pay them to be keeping it for me. If I am not contacting that person, they know something bad is happening. They deliver the package.”
Holy shit, Maks. This is the life you’ve been living behind that smile? I glance at Cassie, who looks at me wide-eyed.
“You think I don’t know what you were doing in Russia?” he continues. “I know all. You ruined lives of girls. You killed people. Now in America, you are making embarrassment of our family! You are like a rat in the sewer. This country is giving us everything, but you spit on it.”
Nabatov tries to smile, but it looks ridiculous on him.
“Maksie, Maksie, come on now,” he says. “We don’t need to do this. We’re family.”
