Ultimate Vengeance (Wanted Men Book 4)

by Nancy Haviland

TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sergei watched from five rows of vehicles away as the Range Rover pulled into a numbered parking spot. It was quiet in the underground lot, and he was able to hear the expensive SUV idle for a moment before the engine was shut down. The brake lights went off.

  Feeling hollow inside, which was not unusual, he took one more look around then brought his favored long-range sniper rifle up. He angled the Lapua so the tip of the barrel rested in the open window, settled his finger on that trigger he was so familiar with, and he waited.

  How many times had he done this? Too many. First in Russia, now here in the States.

  The driver of the luxury vehicle opened the door and slid out. Not the owner of the vehicle. Not a surprise. Sergei had already known he wasn’t taking out the owner. He was starting a war.

  He bent his neck slightly and put his eye to the scope, blinking, completely relaxed.

  As Markus Fane straightened from retrieving a briefcase from the confines of the truck, a steady red dot appeared on the back of his neck.

  With the slightest pressure, the trigger was pulled. The suppressor did its job by smothering the sound of the shot. He felt nothing when Markus went down. But then, it wasn’t necessary on his part to feel, because there would be more than enough sorrow in their world in the next few hours when word got out that this man was no longer with them. This particular death would cause a damning ripple effect that would reach all the families.

  It would have been interesting to witness, he thought as he placed the rifle on the floor behind his seat. But his final job would make that impossible. It was too bad because he’d begun to wonder who would come out on top when those left went head-to-head.

  Moretti, Tarasov, or Fane.

  His interest in the answer faded away as he started the car and left the scene before security once more did their rounds of the parking garage and found his latest victim. He had a few more stops to make, and then he had to confirm the attendance list for the coming party.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  After a meeting with Vasily that had him detailing everything he’d learned, Alek had made his way upstairs. He’d found Sacha in Lekzi’s room, wide awake, rocking away with the baby on her chest. After wheeling the crib into their bedroom, he’d insisted she put Lekzi down before gangrene set into her arms. He’d massaged her shoulders, and as she’d winced through his ministrations, he’d told her about Sergei and Reynard.

  Now, she was sitting against the headboard, her knees up, her arms wrapped around them. He’d been waiting for long minutes to hear what she had to say about the murder he’d committed tonight.

  “I am…”

  She stopped again and he moved closer to slip his fingers around her slender ankle. Her voice was raspy, her eyes smudged with fatigue.

  “I am glad he is dead,” she rushed out. “Very glad. I wish I could have hurt him personally before you dropped him.” She looked at the baby. “It is frightening that men like that exist.”

  “I know.”

  His phone going off startled them both. He snapped it off the nightstand and turned it over to see his uncle’s number. “Yeah.”

  “Get dressed and downstairs. Now.”

  Alarm nailed him square in the face at both Vasily’s tone and the order. He hung up and stood.

  Sacha’s brows popped. “Where are you going?”

  He took the time to lean over and kiss her, working her mouth until her lips softened against his. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling it needed to be voiced again. “This isn’t how our life is. You know that. This isn’t the norm.” What if she wanted to leave? What the fuck would he do without her? Without his daughter? He kissed her once more. “Vasily needs me downstairs. I’ll text you if I have to leave.” As quietly as he could, he dashed out the door.

  He jogged down the corridor, nodded at Grigori who was in his cubby at the top of the stairs, and headed down. He nearly missed a step when he saw his uncle, Dmitri, and Anton standing by the door.

  “What happened?” His apprehension grew at the grief he saw in Vasily’s eyes when he came over and pulled him into a tight embrace. He hugged him back. “What is it, Vasya?”

  “It’s Markus,” his uncle said as he drew away.

  That threw him, but it also brought a load of relief crashing over him. News about Markus wouldn’t be Tarasov related. It would be business. But that grief…

  “What about Markus?” he asked slowly.

  “He’s been shot.”

  “What!” His knees just about gave out. “When? Where? Who the fuck—? Where have they taken him?” he demanded as he jammed his feet into the shoes he’d left under the coat tree. Before he could grab his keys from the table, Vasily put a hand on his arm. He was shaking his head.

  “Where have they taken, him?” he demanded, deliberately ignoring that gesture. “Which hospital?”

  “It was too late for a hospital.”

  He sucked a breath in through his teeth and everything stilled for a suspended moment.

  “No,” he murmured. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt a slice of happiness leave his world. “Aw, Jesus Christ, no. Don’t fucking tell me that.” He felt flames come to life beneath his lids. “Don’t tell me that. Not about him. Not that fucking kid.” He threw his head back and walked away. “Where? What happened?” he choked out.

  Vasily exchanged a furtive look with Dmitri and Anton before scrubbing a hand roughly over his jaw.

  “What.”

  “It was a couple of hours ago. In the parking garage across from your office.”

  He tried to keep up. Markus didn’t keep normal hours, so him going to work in the middle of the night wasn’t the problem with that statement. “Why was he in the garage? He gave up his car last year.” Relief began to seep in. This must be a mistake.

  “He was found next to the Range Rover.”

  The air squeezed from his lungs as one of the ten conversations he’d had with Markus that day came to him. Your secretary got another call about your truck taking up space at the convention center. If you don’t have time to get it, I’d be happy to swing by and pick it up for you. I still have the fob you gave me last month when I took it to Connecticut.

  “Oh, fuck, Markus, what did you do?” he whispered. “Tell me.” He rounded on his uncle. “Tell me what you know.”

  Dmitri was the one to speak. “He was hit in the back of the neck when he stepped out of the SUV. No evidence of a scuffle, nothing stolen. The police think the shooter was waiting for him.” He shoved a hand through his hair and looked as if he’d just swallowed a mouthful of glass. “We think the shooter was waiting for you.”

  A quiet gasp on the stairs had them looking over. They watched Sacha slowly lower herself so that she was sitting on the third step. She pressed her fisted hands to her lips. The monitor hung from her pinkie, as always. She was staring right at him, Alek noted in a distant part of his mind. He held that gaze, finding strength in it.

  “We should get to the morgue.”

  He coughed through the jarring pain that statement brought with it, and he wanted to punch Dmitri in the face for delivering it. “Go upstairs,” he said to Sacha instead. “Grigori will be here with you and Lekzi. Lucas is patrolling the grounds.”

  She nodded and stood. But instead of going up, she came down the remaining steps and came to him. Her hug was brief but heartfelt. “I am so, so sorry,” she whispered with a lingering kiss to his jaw.

  He pressed his lips to her hair and had a hard time letting her go.

  “Yuri and Aron will also be here,” Vasily said, and as though they’d been waiting to hear the Pakhan say their names, both clearly heavily armed men appeared; one in the doorway of the living room, the other in the hallway coming from the kitchen. Both were already in the zone, their expressions blank, eyes intent yet emotionless. “There’s a heavy presence around the house,” his uncle added, still speaking to Sacha. “So don’t be alarmed if you hear groups of voices. If you go anywhere downsta
irs, Grigori is with you, no exceptions.” He went to the door but turned to look at Yuri, Aron, and Grigori, who was now on the stairs with Sacha. Vasily held each of their eyes long enough to communicate the gravity of what he was about to say. “If Sergei Pivchenko shows up; shoot him dead on sight.”

  Shockwaves swept through the foyer, because the order meant the casualties had just become more important than any personal satisfaction Vasily might have gained from ending this by his own hand.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Lucian Fane put his empty glass down and looked closer at the set of plans for a textile factory one of his companies was building. His advisors were right. This could work, he thought as he compared this design to one for a factory the same company had built only five years ago. Could be they’d make a dent in the U. S.’s efforts to supply manufacturers with an option that didn’t include out of country purchasing.

  “You were looking at this when I came in,” he said to Sorin.

  “It is an interesting concept.” His bodyguard leaned over and was just pointing out one of the things that would cut costs by a healthy percentage when Lucian’s private cell rang.

  He reached over and swiped at the screen then tapped the speaker button. It had to be Markus. His brother was like him where he enjoyed working into the night. Some of their most enjoyable conversations were had between the hours of three and five a.m.

  “Yes?”

  “Lucian Fane?”

  Both his and Sorin’s heads came up at the unfamiliar, accented voice.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Dr. Jayesh Singh.”

  As the polite Indian man offered his address and credentials, Sorin jotted the information down, as was his way. All Lucian took in was the man’s title; Chief Medical Examiner.

  “What can I do for you, Dr. Singh? And might I ask how you came into possession of this number?” He pointed to a file folder that had come with the factory plans. Cost breakdowns and such. The meat of the project. Sorin handed it over just as the doctor blew an irreparable hole in Lucian’s life.

  “Your phone number was the first listed under emergency in Markus Fane’s contact list.”

  Lucian was staring into Sorin’s dark eyes, but he wasn’t seeing his friend of more than twenty years. He noted his heart rate was increasing until the organ was beating harder and faster than he thought it was capable of doing without failing.

  “Put my brother on the line, please.” He was well aware his words weren’t so much a request as a demand, and he allowed his eyes to slide closed while he waited to see if his world was about to go black.

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Mr. Fane.”

  Ice flashed over his skin. In his mind, he watched a crimson pool form and spread around him as he slowly began to bleed to death. “Explain yourself, Dr. Singh.”

  The man cleared his throat. “I’m afraid there was a shooting in a parking garage uptown—”

  Lucian’s eyes flashed open as his fist slammed down on the phone so hard it shattered and went silent.

  “Get the chopper,” he ordered as he tried to keep his legs from failing him.

  Sorin was already halfway to the door.

  It took Lucian a moment to gather himself enough so that he could move. All he could see in his head was his little brother. His innocent, fully legit little brother who for the last ten years had made Lucian beyond proud by taking the business world by storm. Always smiling. Always with a thoughtful, usually humorous word for anyone he sensed needed it. Markus was an intuitive, kind-hearted, innocent man the world should bow down and revere. And they would.

  As he left his Southampton home and traveled into the city, the chopper eventually flying over the East River with the radio chirping what was essentially nonsense in his ear, his lips twitched. He was going to embarrass Markus with the affection he would bestow on him after dealing with this inconvenience. But not before he gave the careless little bastard some serious hell for allowing some amateur criminal close enough to steal his wallet and cell phone. Never again would his little brother be able to accuse Lucian of being emotionally cut off in that I’m-kidding-but-really-I’m-worried-about-you way he had.

  Never again.

  From this moment on, if an opportunity presented itself where he could let Markus know he was the most important person in Lucian’s life, he was going to take it.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  As Lucian walked down the long corridor, a tremor of pain began resonating from deep within. It grew in strength around his continuous silent reassurances that this was a mistake. An infuriating mistake no one would dare make again after he was through with them.

  The sickening sense of terror worming its way in behind the pain was a reminder of why he didn’t love. He didn’t have what it took to handle the things that came with it. Usually loss or rejection. Sometimes both. He wasn’t in the least bit ashamed to admit he didn’t know how to deal with either. Both were infuriating and unacceptable, and his psyche usually found a way to deny them. If it couldn’t, it blocked them completely and forced Lucian’s focus onto something he was better equipped to control completely. Or usually someone.

  This will turn out okay, the voice in his head soothed. That optimistic voice he’d always thought had been meant for Markus but had accidentally been given to Lucian’s instead. It was even and measured, and was usually quite calming.

  It wasn’t tonight.

  The obscure presence that also resided within him, the one he kept on a tight leash for his brother’s sake, was writhing worse than ever to break free. If it did, this situation was going to go from bad to run-for-your-lives worse.

  He should probably warn Sorin, who was a solid, silent presence at his side. He didn’t. Because a part of Lucian wanted that obscurity to come out. It was his shelter of sorts, and he usually felt blissfully detached when it took over.

  The moment they rounded the final corner and saw a group of familiar faces, Lucian wanted to detonate.

  They received the same mistaken message you did, the voice soothed. That’s all. Get the facts, and then react.

  His clipped nod encompassed Gabriel Moretti, Vincente Romani, Maksim Kirov, Micha Zaretsky, and Alek Tarasov. He didn’t take in their demeanor or expressions, but rather pointlessly wondered where Vasily was.

  Then he didn’t care because he was in front of a tall counter and being offered the hand of the small Indian man who’d just scrambled to his feet.

  “Dr. Singh?”

  “Yes. You must be Markus’s brother.”

  He nodded, feeling so proud of that fact. “Yes, I am. Show me.”

  He watched as if through high definition, the man swallow hard, his throat working convulsively as his eyes shifted with discomfort and unease.

  Dr. Singh motioned to the desk behind him. “I have his belongings—”

  “Show me. The body,” Lucian whispered, denying the rational part of his mind that was trying to make him accept that this was happening.

  The doctor hurried to lead the way into a room fifteen feet away.

  There were two metal tables. One was empty. One was not. The occupied one had a bright light above it. The length and size of the body under the white sheet had a cold sweat gathering on Lucian’s forehead. Something small and scared inside him started to wail.

  Dr. Singh went around and paused with his hands gripping the edge of the sheet as Lucian and Sorin took up their position.

  Dark hair, a too-handsome face, and straight shoulders were revealed.

  Lucian couldn’t have described what punched through his consciousness right then had someone given him a million years. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t even agony. It was worse. Times a million. It saturated every area of his mind and every cell in his body. It stole the beauty from both his memories of the past and his hope for the future.

  In seconds, his being rejected it because he just couldn’t sustain it and Lucian’s body slammed into a permanent state of present time. That present t
ime became his safe zone. Nothing existed before it. Nothing existed after. And the present time was a dangerous place because it held no regrets. No repercussions. Just the now.

  He forced himself to reach out and brush his fingers down the side of his baby brother’s cold cheek, stopping only when he reached Markus’s strong neck. He felt for a pulse.

  “Call Valarius,” he murmured.

  Sorin’s phone appeared in his hand within seconds.

  “I want him here as soon as possible. How did this happen?” he asked the doctor while keeping his fingers pressed to that inanimate area that should have been pulsing with life.

  Before Dr. Singh could answer, the door swung open, and Maksim walked in. “If you can take it, I will show you.”

  He’d always respected the Russian for his fierce loyalty and brilliant mind, and normally got something of a kick out of his arrogance.

  “How?”

  Maksim raised a cell phone. “Surveillance video.”

  “That you got where?”

  “From the car park across from TarMor’s head office.”

  Lucian bent and placed a kiss on his brother’s temple. “Be right back,” he whispered.

  When he and Sorin reached Maksim’s side, the Russian already had the video ready to go. “Are you sure?” he questioned quietly enough that the doctor wouldn’t hear. “It shows him going down.”

  “Then I need to see it.”

  “I do not think now—”

  He reached out and touched Sorin’s arm, shaking his head once. He nodded for Maksim to continue. After the first run-through, which was less than thirty seconds of footage, he took the phone and watched it a dozen more times. By the time he handed it back, what was left of his humanity had leeched away.

  “Make sure I get a copy of that.” He motioned for the door. “Bring your boys in here.”

  Maksim held his huge body stiffly. “This was supposed to be Alek.”

  Lucian nodded. “From the Tarasov Bratva.”

  “The shooter was his cousin, Sergei Pivchenko.”