We’d been planning for five days now. In that time I’d managed to gather enough guns to give the NRA an orgasm. I’d also obtained Tasers, tear gas, and stun grenades, all police quality. My friends of the semiofficial capacity weren’t exactly in high places, but they didn’t have to be to get their hands on what I needed. “I took care of it.”
“Sure you got enough?”
The side of my mouth crooked. “You’d better bring a back brace.”
Saul had no complaints. He liked his skin in one piece and keeping it that way was of paramount importance in the Skoczinsky scheme of things. “I’ll bring a wheelbarrow if I have to.” Popping a clump of steamed rice into his mouth, he chewed and swallowed. “Have you given thought to what the hell you’re going to do if we manage to pull him out of that place?”
Had I given it thought? I’d given it nothing but. I could go to the police. None of my past indiscretions were known, not even today’s. What a versatile word, indiscretion . . . and how amazing the amount of dark and ugly territory it could cover. Most of that territory was invisible to the cops, and that meant I could take Lukas to the nearest station and scream for help like any other law-abiding citizen. And within an hour I’d be yelling again as those beefy guys in khakis dragged us back to the compound. Not government, but the government ties we so strongly suspected could come into play to pinpoint us in a heartbeat. The police were out of the question; probably the FBI as well. Call me suspicious and paranoid. It was better than being called dead.
My best bet was to go underground. Konstantin wouldn’t be exactly thrilled to have me use the family network as a place to hide, but he would go along with it. It wouldn’t be for my sake so much as a gesture for Anatoly. For protecting his ally’s long-lost son, he could and would expect to be rewarded. Whether in measures of money or power, Gurov would come out far ahead of the game. I had never known him not to.
Taking this to my father now wasn’t an option I’d wasted any time entertaining. At best he’d think me crazy; at worst he’d interfere. Aside from that, the possibility of finding Anatoly could take more time than I had. But once I had Lukas and could prove he was my brother, then I could go to my father. Out of sight within the family, hopefully I would have the leeway to track him down. Whoever ruled that armed structure might have the authorities on a choke chain, but fucking around with my less-than-easygoing pop was on par with sticking your dick in a shark’s mouth and asking for a blow job. It just wasn’t a good idea.
“Don’t worry about it.” I turned and watched as Saul broke into the second carton. Red sauce thickly coated the tofu clump and I shifted my gaze to over his shoulder. “If worse comes to worst, we’ll crash at your place.”
The disquiet evidenced in the sharp knitting of his eyebrows dissipated as he realized I wasn’t serious. “Asshole,” he grumbled around a mouthful of sweet and sour.
“Better you don’t know anyway.”
“Better for you, yeah,” he countered cynically.
He was right. It was better for me. They shouldn’t be able to hunt down either of us if we did our jobs correctly. But if by some bizarre twist they did find one of us, specifically Saul, I didn’t want them to be able to get a scrap of information on my escape plan. With enough incentive anyone would talk. I knew the truth of that from personal experience seeing that today for an unforgettable time I had been the incentive.
Dumping the warm container on the coffee table with no care for the fine fake wood veneer, Saul appeared to have lost his appetite. “I put your money in my happy place. Funny. If anything, it made it less happy.”
I knew he was worried about getting out of this alive. He would be an idiot if he weren’t, and Saul was anything but an idiot. “Stay quick and smart, and you’ll live to buy leather pants again.”
“At least I’d look good in them. I can’t say the same for your flat Russian ass,” he sniped before finishing off half his beer in two long swallows. Saul’s much-vaunted fashion sense came from the disco era, but it didn’t seem to slow him down with waitresses who dreamed of one day making the big time: exotic nude masseuse. Who was I to say anything? If it worked, it worked. How it worked could remain a mystery. I was fine with that.
It went on that way for the majority of the night as we ran through the scenario again and again. Caustic quips and sarcastic swipes kept us from dwelling on what an incredible long shot this was . . . both for rescuing Lukas and maintaining a healthy pulse for ourselves. Near dawn, Saul dozed off, sprawled loose limbed and at ease across my sofa as if he owned it. I ended up at my computer desk, fiddling with the handle on the bottom drawer. After several minutes I gave in and pulled out the picture I’d received in the mail two weeks ago. Running a thumb lightly across the glass, I wiped away a nonexistent speck of dust.
“One more day, Lukasha,” I promised, the whisper a bare breath of sound. “One more day.”
Chapter 9
The key had been the delivery truck—a cursory search going in and a more detailed one coming out, all made on the inexplicable assumption that the true threat was behind the walls. I didn’t know what lay at the core of that reasoning and I didn’t care. What I did care about was stretching that loophole to the screaming point and beyond.
The large dead tree limb lying haphazardly across the road was the beginning of the stretching. There were many dead or dying trees in this area, but we’d decided against an entire tree. The driver might have been tempted to call for help in moving it. But one branch too big to carry but light enough to be dragged off if he put his back into it—that should do the trick.
With twilight falling just before seven this far into the year, the headlights of the truck were already on as it rolled past our hiding place. It was one week after I’d first spotted it—one week and right on time. There was the gentle squeal of brakes and a less gentle cursing floating out the window as the driver spotted the obstruction. A blond guy with a beer belly and hairstyle best left in the sixties, he climbed out of the cab. By the time he, with hands on hips, was studying the branch, Saul and I were on the move.
Dressed in black shirts, pants, gloves, and silk masks similar to a balaclava, we ran unseen to the back of the truck and slithered underneath. Fist-sized powerful magnets equipped with handles let us cling to the undercarriage as our combat-booted feet dug for purchase. Saul had come up with most of the more esoteric equipment with a flash of a brief and bitter line of a smile. “Connections of an ex-military life. Don’t ask, don’t tell,” had been the beginning and end of his conversation on the subject.
As we silently hung there with arms straining, I could hear the driver puffing and swearing as he cleared the road. Then he was back in the truck and the asphalt began passing beneath us. The entire thing had taken less than five minutes, which was essential. If too much time passed, the guards would be suspicious and start to grill the driver, and that wouldn’t do. As it stood now, this event barely registered with our blond, not especially bright Elvis and wasn’t worth imprinting on an alcoholic brain cell, much less mentioning to the khaki crew.
The five miles passed and if we’d been walking rather than riding, it couldn’t have passed any more slowly. By the time we reached the compound’s gate, the muscles in my arms were howling in agony and I had a mild headache from the exhaust and the adrenaline. Turning my head, I could see the hyped glitter of Saul’s eyes through the narrow opening of his mask. We were both feeling the rush, although neither one of us seemed to be enjoying it. I felt the truck jerk as the driver put it in park. Several pairs of big feet in leather sneakers approached as I heard the driver’s side door being opened. This was it then.
“Open the back.”
The voice was dispassionately professional, just a man doing his job. I hoped he did it precisely the way it had been done last week; otherwise we were stuck outside the gate with a couple of dead guys in tan pants, which was not the sign of a well-executed plan. Suddenly the truck’s shifting on its tires as someone got a leg up on the bumper was followed by the sound of double doors in the back being opened. With a mouth dry and gritty as sandpaper, I waited for one of the inevitable thousand things that could go wrong. They could change their routine and look under the truck. Elvis could mention the unexpected stop a few miles back. There was no end to the shit that could befall us. Waiting was always the worst. Whether for ten seconds or ten years, it didn’t matter. Waiting could shrivel the soul.
But despite my dark expectations, everything went like clockwork. It made me wonder if someone was paying attention up there or if they weren’t and we’d slipped under the radar.
Within moments the rummaging was over, the doors were shut, and the feet were in retreat. I closed my
