Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emma’s research uncovered a trail of things about her father. He’d been involved in major deals in Russia involving land use, drilling rights, and financing. Deals that hurt the environment and ethnic minorities. When her father took over a business negotiation, competition would pull out of the project, and when they didn’t, they turned up dead. Macknight had been right. Her father’s world was far bigger and more corrupt than she’d ever realized.
His work had even been honored by Putin himself, which meant he was at the top of his field and had access to people in the Kremlin. At home, he downplayed his work as though he’d been a corporate salesman, swinging small deals and staying in fleabag motels. Not the case. In such a huge capacity, wouldn’t he have had a huge income to match? He didn’t live the life of a millionaire. He drove a Ford pickup and preferred eating dinners at the Greenhouse Cafe rather than anyplace requiring a tie. Nothing made sense. Unless he hid the funds for a rainy day. Another question on the list she had for him.
While on the dark web, she spoke of her father by only his nationality, not his age or any other identifying features, claiming he was missing after visiting Belarus on a business trip a few weeks ago. Some people lurking online mentioned the bombing, but if he’d died there, no one would be chasing her.
Yet the timing of the bombing and his disappearance seemed too coincidental. On or around that date, he’d disappeared, Lucy had died, and Owen had received a severe injury to his ear.
As her certainty about Belarus rose, she still had no idea where her father was, or who took him. Even what MI6 had told her was subject to interpretation. According to Macknight, lying was what MI6 did best. He had been accurate about one thing—someone was after her. That much was clear after being hauled onto a helicopter while dodging bullets.
On a Belarus press site, she located a list of the dead from the bombing. Her father wasn’t on it—neither was anyone named Lucy. The six deaths included four people from Belarus, Isidor Panin, a Russian bureaucrat, and a Russian translator named Katya Nikonov. She dug further into both Russians. Panin seemed an ideal candidate to recruit for spying. His job involved the nuts and bolts of a hundred influential transactions. Katya? Not much was available about her except that she had trained in the U.K.
Searching for more information led to dead end after dead end. In addition, Chief never replied to her email. Maybe he took it upon himself to forward it straight to the U.S. Embassy. That would be a helpful introduction for her when she arrived complaining about Russian spies and MI6.
After finishing two cups of coffee and a chocolate croissant, it was time to head to the embassy. Part of her questioned whether she should trust the U.S. government. So far, the Brits hadn’t been too accommodating. Although, they did have a lot at stake if her father held a list of people he was protecting. The U.S. had no skin in the game, at least she didn’t think so, and she was a U.S. citizen as much as she was a U.K. citizen. They’d have to help her. She hoped.
She tried one more dark site before she left the café, and ran into the WhiteRabbit again.
The user invited her into another private conversation. If there was a chance she could learn anything, she’d take it.
LacrosseBunny: Have you found anything more about Brits in Belarus in the past week or two?
WhiteRabbit: No. Have you located your father?
The message sent ice through her veins. How did they know she was looking for her father? Did she inadvertently give something away?
LacrosseBunny: Who?
WhiteRabbit: Your father. Edward Ross.
Emma’s fingers froze on the keyboard. It wasn’t possible. Who the hell was this?
LacrosseBunny: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
White Rabbit: Yes, you do. But he’s already in a cage. You are running free, aren’t you, Emma Ross?
Shit.
LacrosseBunny: You have the wrong person.
WhiteRabbit: Stay where you are.
She clicked off the computer, her body shivering as her thoughts went into overdrive. She grabbed her things and went to the back room of the café. The woman who had been serving her asked if she needed anything.
Trying to keep her voice steady, she replied, “I think my ex is headed here. The asshole won’t take no for an answer. Could I leave through the back door?”
The older woman, her eyes softening, waved her arm in that direction. “Be my guest. Do you want me to call the police?”
“If I can slip away, it would avoid a confrontation. That would be the best possible scenario.”
The woman nodded. “Good luck.”
Emma mouthed a thank-you and hustled through the kitchen and into the back alley. Surrounded by old stone buildings, the alley was deserted, with loose trash and leaves blowing in small circles. A perfect place to murder someone and never be caught. Emma stepped carefully out the door and glanced around. She hustled away from the isolation, onto a side street, and down a few blocks.
The U.S. Embassy was in Mayfair. She headed south, hoping her navigation skills would take her in the right direction. She’d looked at the map in the café, but these roads were all unfamiliar to her. What had been mere lines on the computer were bustling boulevards in real life.
The crowds both calmed her and made her stomach churn in panic every time someone passed her. Everyone was suspect.
The WhiteRabbit could be Macknight or someone else from MI6. Or someone a lot less friendly. How did they know her name? The only information she’d provided was an English businessman missing from Belarus and the bombing. If that had been the botched MI6 deal, someone from there would immediately recognize the transaction and maybe identify the players. The morning crowds clogged the sidewalks. She kept her eyes down, blending in as best as she could.
She entered Regent’s Park through an old black iron gate and passed groups of schoolchildren all dressed in uniforms. The laughter and shrieks of the kids eased some of her worry. No one would attack her out in the open. The Russians had made an explosive entrance into Windfield, but even now, all sides were covering it up. There had not been one mention of it on any of the news sites she’d scanned.
She trotted as fast as she could on her sore leg and tried to steady her shallow inhalations.
She would have loved seeing London under different circumstances. This was her mother’s home, the place she’d worked, the place she’d died. This was Emma’s birthplace, as well. She could return someday, when no one was chasing her, and her father was by her side. Until then, she had to be more observant of people than places. She glanced around at anything unusual.
When she stopped for a breath of air and to determine the best route to her destination, two men stood out. Something evil ran through their veins. And the evil was directed toward her.
One of the men, a younger guy in jeans and a maroon jacket, turned away when she glanced at him. The second man had dressed in black and had short black hair, almost military in appearance. He stared straight at her. His purpose was to scare the hell out of her. She couldn’t make out his exact expression, but the scarring on his face identified him as the man from the helicopter. He’d murdered Dawson.
Her chest squeezed her lungs so tight she had trouble taking deep breaths. There was nothing to discuss with this monster. She had to leave. Immediately.
She ran. Through the bustling people, over a bridge, past a fountain, and almost to the street. The guy in jeans had somehow maneuvered in front of her. He strolled in her direction, his hands in his pockets, a mean-ass look on his face.
“Miss Ross. Why don’t you come with me?” he called out to her, his Russian accent mixing through his English words. “I’m here to help you.”
He didn’t know she understood Russian. Good. One weapon in her pocket.
She turned back into the park. The man in black walked toward her, a gun partially inside the pocket in his coat. He could kill anyone and maybe no one would notice h
e was the person who had done it.
He didn’t aim the gun at Emma, as she’d expected. Instead, he took aim at a little girl to the left of her, playing on the grass. She could be no older than four or five. Emma’s heart bled. She couldn’t watch another innocent victim die on her watch.
She’d taken one class on hostage negotiation. Not enough to keep the Russians at bay, but maybe she could save the little girl.
Listening, time, and empathy. Those were three of the five means of de-escalating a hostage situation. She couldn’t remember the other two. She could barely stand.
“What do you want?” Her hands rested at her sides, lifted a bit off her clothes. Unarmed, she was no threat to them.
“We need you to come with us.”
“Why don’t you point your weapon away from the girl and we can talk?” Emma spoke with a slow conviction to give the police time to arrive. Someone had to be watching this unfold and calling for help.
“You have five seconds to walk to my colleague and continue with him to a waiting car.”
The world slowed down until it was only him and her. His intentions, his emotions, remained her only focus. She could run. Then he’d be forced to chase her, forgetting about the little girl. Or he’d kill her anyway.
She held still for a moment. “Promise me you won’t hurt the little girl, and I’ll go with you.”
His head tilted, his eyes narrowed.
“Five seconds is up.” He switched the aim of the gun from the little girl toward a woman standing over a pram, completely oblivious of the drama so close to her.
The bullet struck the woman’s chest, and she went down with a cry, grabbing the attention of the few people around her.
Emma wanted to scream and run, but the rush of emotion froze her limbs. All she could do was remain rooted to the spot and watch the aftermath, some people rushing for safety, others rushing to the woman. She’d screwed up, and someone was dying. She should have walked to the devil and handed herself over. Even turning and running might have kept the woman safe. Anything but what she’d done.
As two younger men tried to save the woman’s life, the murderer yelled out to the crowd, “Has anyone called the police? Or an ambulance?”
People responded to his calls for help by reaching into their purses and pockets for their phones.
He strode over to Emma and placed an arm over her shoulder. “Walk with me, and no one else dies.”
They wandered away from the chaos, his arm around her neck as though they were lovers. But he was a killer, and she wanted him dead. She couldn’t walk fast with her limp. He stayed at her pace. His minion followed close behind.
They turned the corner into a more quiet section of the park. When she reached for the metal pen from the hospital to stab him, he twisted her arm behind her to the point of breaking, until she dropped her pen to the ground. She held back a cry of pain to keep any other innocents around her protected. He wouldn’t kill her, but he might take half the park down to force her to move.
He led her toward a black van that drove onto the sidewalk. “Cooperate and we can make this far less painful, kukolka.”
Kukolka. Russian for baby doll. A term of endearment. A term used by someone in control of another.
A spark of defiance ignited, sending her thoughts in search of an escape. No way was she moving from this public spot into that van. She had one thing in her favor. For the next few yards, no one was within sight of them.
“I’m not who you want,” she bluffed.
“Move.” His scowl had deepened from annoyed to deadly. He pulled the gun from his coat pocket and pressed it into her rib cage, the black of the metal blending with her outfit and his so it was difficult to detect.
Her heart pounded, creating motion-stopping chest pains. She couldn’t shake free from his grip without breaking her bones.
“Let’s go.” The steel of the barrel dug into her skin. His finger rested on the trigger.
One squeeze and her life would explode into a puddle of blood. Her throat closed so tight, any scream she made would only be stuck inside. She stopped resisting, and his arm relaxed. She took advantage of his position. Intentionally tripping, she tumbled to the ground with a loud scream. Their progress stopped as he struggled to pick her up.
A police officer came running into view, heading to the murdered woman. He looked young, probably inexperienced.
“Don’t move or he will die,” the murderer whispered to her.
She watched in despair as the officer trotted by them and disappeared from view, leaving her alone again. She couldn’t have another fatality on her conscience.
The Russian gripped her arm so tight she cried out in pain. He attempted to drag her along the cement path as though she were a toddler having a tantrum. She glued herself to the ground, her feet barely gripping the walkway.
The younger guy’s arm circled her waist from behind and pulled her to her feet, holding her like a shield. Her legs weakened. She tried to fall to the ground again to slow their pace. His grip was too strong.
She wasn’t going, no matter what. Instead of pulling away, she fell back into him. His grip loosened as her body collided with his. She grabbed his wrist, twisting his arm as she rotated one hundred and eighty degrees. He lost his balance and was on his back.
In martial arts, she often finished an exercise with a fake punch toward the opponent. Not this time. She punched straight into his face. His head smashed against the cement. She didn’t wait to see if he was able to stand.
Her gut instinct was correct. The man in black didn’t fire his gun at her. He couldn’t risk her dying. She was safe.
She raced away from both men toward the U.S. Embassy.
Trust no one.
Trust absolutely no one.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Macknight was headed to the airport when he received Derek’s phone call. They’d seen Emma on camera entering Regent’s Park and now there were casualties.
He turned on the police radio and listened to the fallout. The shooter was on the run, a woman was dead.
His ugly reality and his constant nightmares converged. Emma could be lying in the park lifeless. The twisting of his heart ached more than a knife wound. For Emma, Grace, Lucy, or the idea that everyone around him got sucked into the abyss. He wanted out of all this. Life couldn’t be that bloody unfair. He headed toward Regent’s Park to verify her identity and then thought better of it.
If she was dead, there was nothing he could do for her. Seeing her body with a gunshot wound to the chest would only rip apart more of his soul.
A moment later, the police radio mentioned the casualty was a thirty-seven-year-old mother of two. It wasn’t Emma.
He turned his car around and proceeded toward the U.S. Embassy. She’d always threatened to go there when things became strained. Moving slower than normal through heavy traffic on Wimpole Street, he scanned the sidewalks and then turned onto Wigmore. A few more turns, and he arrived in front of the embassy. Nothing out of place, no sign of Emma. He swung back up toward Regent’s Park and followed a switchback pattern, trying to locate her.
Derek called. “Are you driving?”
“Yes.”
“Pull over.”
Macknight parked the car illegally and waited. “Is Emma okay?”
“She was seen leaving an internet café. A few minutes later, she met with Maslov in the park.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I wouldn’t either, but look at the video I forwarded to you.”
Macknight uploaded the video. It appeared to have been shot on someone’s phone. Emma walking arm in arm with one of the world’s most dangerous men. They turned to each other and spoke about something serious. No struggle in her at all.
Was Maslov her lover? No wonder he’d never harmed her. She could have been the one to set up her own father.
Every memory of her incinerated. The last ounce of compassion he’d had for her dissolved in her doubl
e cross. She was conspiring with the biggest thug of all.
He’d allowed his grief to weaken his instincts. She’d eased the constant thundering inside of him after Grace and Lucy’s deaths. But sometimes evil dressed up in a friend’s clothes. He’d received enough signs to distrust her. The list of people he cared about had grown one person shorter, only Owen remained.
He reached into his glove compartment and pulled out both PPKs and loaded them. There was only one solution to this mess. Kill Maslov and the viper in his arms.
Ten minutes later, he located her walking alone through Grosvenor Square. Dressed in black like the villain he should have seen, she was holding her arm and limping, but very much alive. Another part of the game. Most likely headed to the embassy to play the victim again.
All of Macknight’s pent-up anger whipped through him. He parked his car on the side of the road in a bus stop and ran toward her, calling in their location to Derek.
She remained steady in her path toward the embassy. Once inside, he wouldn’t get a second chance to kill her.
She seemed to slow down, the limp more obvious. He trotted up beside her. She was winded, as though she’d run a marathon.
“Emma,” he called to her.
She stopped and turned toward him. Her lying eyes focused on his, but she wasn’t seeing him. She was seeing an opportunity. She’d be seeing hell before the end of the hour.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, with as easy a tone as he could muster.
His tone wasn’t as casual as he’d wanted. The urge to strangle her came out in every hissed word. Her eyes widened, looking around for safety from him. Not today, sweetheart.
Before she could run, he wrapped his arm over her shoulder and tightened it, not until she was unable to breathe, but close. She struggled to break free. He slowly released his grip, and she gasped for air. His arm kept her locked to his side.
London Calling Page 17
