Resurrection

by Wendy Million

  The third is Hagen Volkov. A call to him makes my blood boil, but I need cash. Even if he doesn’t realize it, he sold me out to the FBI. He owes me.

  First, a phone.

  Then a plan. Or rather the plan can formulate after I have funds.

  I head to the front desk and get directions to the closest place to purchase a phone. Thankfully the store is within walking distance of the hotel. I’m banking on Hagen giving me an IOU, but he’s an unpredictable asshole. He may not come through for me. Without cash, I’ll be twiddling my thumbs until Carys graces me with her presence.

  The process for the phone is ridiculous—partially because we barely communicate between the sales guy’s mangled English and my non-existent Russian. How the fuck am I supposed to live here when this is over?

  When I get back to the hotel, I wait until I’m in my room to dial Hagen’s number. It rings so many times I wonder if the fucker knows how to set up his voicemail. I hang up and call again. Finally someone answers.

  “Who the fuck is this?” His impatient voice snaps me into focus.

  “Your favorite Donaghey brother.”

  “Ah, you fucker. You survived? I heard Lorcan put a cap in your ass and you died.”

  I grit my teeth and wish I was there to put a cap in Hagen’s ass. He’s such a useless, arrogant fool.

  “You’re in Russia? Ah, the homeland. Good choice.” His voice is full of mockery. “Where exactly?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I need money.” I rub my forehead when silence descends the line.

  “Sean Kovatz has taken over your empire. Call him. How are you going to pay me back if you’re not in charge?”

  “You think I don’t have cash stashed places? I gotta secure transportation, and then I can get my hands on it.” I also don’t have Sean’s number. The FBI is probably tracing those transactions, waiting for me to reach out.

  A car lock beeps in the background, followed by a door slam.

  “I can’t get you money. Even if I wanted to, I can’t. Whatever went down between you and Lorcan in the warehouse has cops crawling across our organizations. I can’t believe you killed your brother. Never thought the two of you would come to blows like that.”

  “Should be a lesson to you, Hagen or a warning.”

  Did Lorcan die? There’s a tightness in my chest at the thought. I don’t let the idea stick. Carys would have told me if Kimi and Lorcan were dead. She didn’t. She asked if I was going after them. So it’s more likely the FBI have him hidden somewhere, poised to testify if they ever find me.

  “I value my life above all,” I say. “Don’t think I can’t get to you. Someone will give me funding, and when they do, you’re on my shit list.”

  “Hold up. Hold up.” The car starts. “I can’t get you money. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you. The Kuznetsof family—Russian mafia in Volgograd. Tell them I sent you.”

  Kuznetsof. Valeriya’s family. Christ. I hate when the world is too fucking small.

  “Address?” I grab the pen and a pad of paper next to the phone in the room.

  Hagen scrambles in his car for a minute and then rattles off an address. “Just don’t—”

  I hang up before he can get anything else out. The number of fucks I give about what Hagen wants or doesn’t want is at less than zero. Ripping off the top sheet from the pad, I hurry down the stairs back to the front desk.

  ~ * ~

  Demid Kuznetsof’s house is on the outskirts of the city. A regular American property transplanted into Russia—two-story, two-car garage, gray brick—but the lot is huge. A brief pang of longing for my mansion in Boston, for the life I led a few short weeks ago, surges through me. Begging at people’s doors isn’t my style. But the money I paid the cab to get here ate into the funds Carys left me. This negotiation needs to work.

  My gun is tucked into the back of my pants as I ring the doorbell. One of the burly men from yesterday opens the door a crack, and I realize the front entrance is reinforced. He eyes me up and down.

  He says something in Russian.

  Here’s hoping he speaks English, too. “I’m looking for Demid.”

  “He know you’re coming?” His switch to English is effortless and almost without an accent.

  “Not unless he’s psychic.” Or Hagen called him. Also possible. But no point in name-dropping to security.

  “Wait here.”

  I’m not sure where else he thinks I’d fucking wait, but I don’t say anything before he closes the door in my face. I should move to Russia to show Demid and these other two-bit hacks how to run a decent mafia empire. He didn’t even search me.

  A minute later the door swings wider, and the guy is back, but behind him is Demid. “Hagen called me.” When he steps around his security, his smile fades. “I recognize you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You work with Carys.”

  I purse my lips. “Yes.”

  He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re coming to me for money?” His eyes narrow.

  I had a feeling this might be complicated. “We’ve located Valeriya.”

  He stills, and his gaze bores into me. “And you’re here.”

  “I am.”

  “I can’t help you.”

  “Won’t help me.”

  He shrugs. “Same—same. Carys didn’t take you wherever she went. You’re a wanted man. Your reputation for brutality precedes you, Mr. Donaghey. I don’t want you near my daughter.”

  “Because you know she’s a liar and a traitor to the Van de Bergs.”

  “She’s my daughter. Someday, if you have a child, you’ll understand. She could shoot me in the back, and with my dying breath, I’d still love her.”

  There are two people who own me in a similar fashion, and neither of them will ever be kids. “I can pay with interest.”

  “Do you intend to go after Carys, and by extension, my daughter?”

  I shrug and consider drawing my gun, doing this conversation with more force. How many guys does he have in the house? How bloody could a confrontation get? He hasn’t even let me in the door.

  “Valeriya would not have done this on her own,” Demid says.

  “Something we can agree on.” But our reasoning is different. “Do you have information?”

  “She’s been acting oddly for the last ten months to a year. Not herself. Distracted. Trips out of town. Said she had a boyfriend, but never wanted me to meet him.”

  I squint, trying to figure out if there’s any relevance to the timeline. The warehouse was cleaned out in the last few weeks. Carys indicated that the packages have only been arriving for a few weeks. Then there’s the murder of the FBI agent, which might be unconnected but can’t be ruled out.

  “Her boss?” I say.

  The name is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t quite grasp it.

  “Ekaterina Petrov,” Demid agrees. “She may know more, yes.”

  “If I promise I won’t touch your daughter, will you give me Ekaterina’s contact details and a hundred-thousand-dollar loan?”

  “What is your promise worth, Mr. Donaghey?”

  My instinct is to smirk and offer a smart-ass reply. My promise is worthless if I get to Ireland and find Valeriya has put Carys in more danger or hurt her. So I say nothing.

  “Hagen vouched for you,” Demid says.

  A smile tugs at my lips. “What’s that mean to you?”

  To me, his approval is worth dick-all. Hagen’s a cocky, dumb fuck who rides on his father’s impressive coattails. But if Demid thinks Hagen’s opinion is valuable, I will not argue with him.

  “To keep the peace with him, I do as you ask and hope your promise has weight.” He gives me the once-over. “One hundred thousand—American?”

  I nod.

  “Wait here.”

  The door closes in my face once more, and I take a deep breath to reign in my temper. After he’s been gone a while, I sit on the steps of the house and work on figuring out my Russian phone. I’m not sure w
hat time Carys snuck out of the room, but it’s mid-afternoon. There will be a limited number of flights to Belfast today. There may not be any.

  When the door reopens, the guard has a duffel bag, and Demid has vanished.

  “No parting words?” I rise and take the sack from his hand.

  “Mr. Kuznetsof is busy at the moment.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Too busy to watch this money walk out the door?”

  “An employee of Ms. Van de Berg called. They located Valeriya.”

  “Ah, I see. Is he working on getting her back here?”

  The guard hesitates and then sighs. “In a way.” He frowns. “She’s dead. Bullet to the head.”

  An execution. My heart rate jacks up about fifty notches. Valeriya is dead. Did they find her dead, or was there an incident? He said one of Carys’s employees called. Not her. Jay. For fuck’s sake. If anything has happened to her...

  This morning I’ve alternated between annoyed, angry, and frustrated, but right now, I’m not any of those.

  Carys.

  Her name is a drumbeat reverberating through me. Very few things bother me, so this tightening in my chest, borderline panic is my gut, is new and unwelcome.

  I stare at Demid’s guard. “I’ll give you ten grand to drive me to the airport immediately.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Carys

  The morgue is in the basement. I haven’t been in many, but the environment is perfect for dead bodies. Linoleum floors, white walls, bright lights. The distinct smell of disinfectant and decay latches onto my clothes, seeps into my pores. Later, when I take a shower, I’ll be expelling death.

  The attendant sitting across from me and Jay has a picture on the table turned facedown. Jay was in the middle of calling Irish contacts when he got a text alerting him of a body being dragged out of the Belfast Harbor. We didn’t think it could be Valeriya. What were the chances?

  My phone pings in my purse and I tense. Jay’s sideways glance is accompanied by the tiniest smirk. If we weren’t here doing this, I’d tell him to shut up. He knows I’m anxious because half of my brain expects Finn to call, to show up, to do something reckless even though he doesn’t have the means.

  The younger man offers a kind smile. His baby-faced good looks only reinforce my advancing years. “You’re Valeriya Kuznetsof’s employer?”

  “I am.” With my hand, I draw my purse closer to my body while the other rises to touch the side of my crown braid.

  “I’ll show you a photo of a person we believe to be Valeriya Kuznetsof.” He continues to drone on, detailing her facial injuries, the bruising, the bloating from being in the water, and finally the gunshot wound to her temple. “Do you understand?”

  Briefly, I close my eyes before opening them again. “Yes. I—this isn’t the first time I’ve seen a dead body.”

  The attendant turns the photo over, and I wish I’d kept my eyes closed. It’s Valeriya, but I’m grateful I’m making this identification and not her father. Demid would be devastated to see her so beat up. While she might have turned out to be a traitor, I’m not sure she deserved this send-off.

  “That’s her,” I confirm as he slides papers across the table for me to sign. “Am I able to notify her father?”

  “Check with the police. I’m only the morgue attendant.”

  “Right, okay.” I won’t be checking with the police. Demid deserves to be told as soon as possible, not when the authorities get around to it. Rising, I stare at Jay who is tuned into his phone. His wife must want to throw the damn thing across the room sometimes.

  When he glances up at me, there’s concern in his brown depths. A new complication must have arisen. We’d better get out of here. Frowning, I turn to the attendant and offer my hand.

  “Thanks for your time.”

  “Just doing my job.” The attendant’s smile is brief, and he peruses my fitted white skirt and my dark purple top. “You in Ireland for long?”

  My smile matches his. Then my thoughts drift to Finn. He’d lose his mind if he saw the hunger in this guy’s eyes. “Flying visit. Taking care of business.”

  “Ah, shame.”

  “We gotta go.” Jay takes my elbow. As soon as we’re out the door, he shakes his head. “We can’t be anywhere without a guy thinking he can get a look in.”

  I laugh. “It’s not that bad.”

  Truth is, I enjoy having men want me, especially if they aren’t tied to the company. Someday men won’t gaze at me with the glint of interest in their eye. I’ll miss their attention which is why I fight the signs of aging with everything money buys.

  “I know what you were doing last night,” Jay says. “Don’t try to tell me he’d be okay with your little exchange.”

  My cheeks light on fire, but I am not discussing what happened between me and Finn with Jay. “Why were you in such a hurry to get out of there?”

  “You won’t like my news.”

  “I love when you start that way.” I point at him as I loop my purse higher onto my shoulder. “And by love, I mean the opposite.”

  We trample up the stairs to the exit door.

  “What was the frantic texting in there? I thought maybe your wife was telling you to get your ass home.”

  “Nah, sometimes she’s happier when I’m gone.”

  “I doubt that.” But I’ve never been married, so perhaps that’s their truth. “Anyway—hit me with it.” I make a winding motion with my hand.

  “When I started making inquiries into Valeriya, a couple people went squirrely on me. Evasive. Giving me bullshit I realized wasn’t accurate. So I’ve been digging.”

  I frown as he opens the heavy exit door and glances outside. “Okay.”

  “You heard of the PLA?”

  I follow him out. We’re in an alley on our way to the car. I search my mind for the acronym. “Irish?”

  “Yeah.”

  My head bobs in acknowledgement as I remember. “They contacted me...months ago...years ago? I can’t recall and exact date. They’re the IRA wannabes, right? Approached our European connection here to do something under the table. I didn’t think the risk was worth the reward.”

  He scans the alley as we walk. I slide my hand into my purse in case I need to draw my gun. Confined spaces aren’t ideal if we end up under attack.

  “Valeriya was here to take a meeting with them.” He stops beside our rental where the alley widens into the street and opens the passenger door.

  I hold onto the doorframe and stare at the narrow passage, lost in thought. “Selling off things from the warehouse?”

  “Could be. Don’t know. Could she have been hoping for protection from you and Finn? It’s strange though. Why Ireland? Why them?”

  Finn’s name and Ireland in the same breath takes me to the night before. I swallow as my senses are flooded with memories. He’ll be furious with me. When I return to Russia, I’ll make him understand why he couldn’t come.

  “Can you get me a meeting?” I say.

  “I’ve been trying. They’re closed up tighter than a frog’s asshole.”

  “That watertight, huh?”

  Jay grins at me as I get into the car. “So far. But frogs have to shit sometime.”

  When he slides in beside me, I glance out the window. There’s something comforting in Ireland—like coming home, though I’ve never lived here, even though I almost died here.

  “Let’s go for a drive. I assume you’ve researched the areas they frequent?” I ask.

  “You’re going to try a bump?”

  “Why not? It’s low risk. I feel like a drink.” God knows I need one. “We’ll find a bar.”

  “You got it, boss.” He starts the car, and we navigate toward the best area of Belfast to hunt the PLA.

  ~ * ~

  We drive for a while before Jay receives a strong enough lead to pick a spot. Similar to other Irish bars within a two-block radius, except there’s an odd flag posted on the doorway as we enter. Not a combination I’ve see
n before—vertical lines of orange and brown with a huge yellow star laid over top. Jay enters first and leads us to a booth in the middle of the dimly lit bar. The place probably hasn’t had a remodel since the 1800s. There’s wood everywhere, and the floor is sticky with stale beer. Our table number is etched into the wooden surface.

  “I’ll get us drinks.” I say.

  I’m clutching my purse when the door opens again. A group of people enter, talking and laughing. I weave my way to the bartender and dig out money from my bag. I sidle up to the edge of the worn wood. When the server gets to me, I order us each a beverage and use the codename for a specific drink Jay heard will signal our interest in a non-alcoholic transaction. The group that came in is loud, and they keep drawing my attention while I wait for the drinks or for a contact—whatever comes first.

  Once I get our brimming glasses, I return to Jay, hoping some action happens soon. Jay points to a few people by the bar as subtly as possible. “One of them kept checking you out.”

  He’s paranoid. Men don’t hit on me everywhere I go. “Men don’t fall at my feet constantly.”

  He gives me a half-smile and sips his drink. “Woman this time. Brown skin. Short hair. Petite.”

  “Admiring my purse or my shoes or my three-hundred-euro skirt. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Used to be true—no real worries, a single stalker—then people died, other people shot at us, you harbored a wanted man.” He raises his eyebrows and takes a drink of his diet coke. “Lately trouble is everywhere.”

  Wanted man. The words get stuck on a loop in my head as I stir my fruity cocktail. One man, and he’ll be in a rage when we go to Russia. A part of me I’m trying to keep under control desperately wishes he was here. Strange to miss him, to long for something—someone—I put to rest years ago.

  “Why didn’t you let him come? We had the documents.”

  I’m startled he’s read my thoughts. We’ve spent a lot of time together over the years. He’s been my constant for security, and he’s become my jack of all trades. I travel light, and he’ll do anything I ask.