Staying Cool (5 page)

A half hour later, they were parked a few yards from the Coleman estate. Gina pointed out a tidy, cottage-like house at the entrance to the property. "That's Igor's place."

An unobtrusive security gatehouse, it was close to the street, on the left side of a long, curved driveway that led to the main estate.

Patrick took a good look. "Damn." The house sat within the estate perimeters, behind mile-high, Transylvania-inspired iron gates that butted into hedges equally high on either side.

"There has to be security triggers all over that gate and fence," she said.

"Then it's a good thing
we're
not going over it."

"What then?"

"You, darlin', are going to ring Igor's gate bell. My bet is, he'll open it for you."

She smiled, nodded. "A nice, friendly home invasion. I like it."

"I figured you would."

"In that case, if I'm the front man, you'd better have this." She dug into her tote, pulled out a Glock, and handed it to him.

Patrick eyed the gun as if it were a coiled cobra. "And here I was hoping I'd never see one of those again." He took it and shoved it into the pocket of his leather windbreaker. He might not like it, but he'd use it without hesitation if Igor laid one meaty paw on Gina.

"Some kind of cop you are."

"Not a cop. Remember? Not anymore."

After giving him a hard stare, and taking a moment of silence, she said, "Right—and when this is over, maybe you'll tell me why."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Apparently, she had no answer for that, so all she said was, "We'd better go. Stay close. We get through the Dracula gate, and we're home free."

* * *

Patrick stood back, well out of camera range, as Gina pushed the gate's buzzer, and put her face squarely on camera. He heard every word.

"What you want?
Dumb crazy
." The big guy sounded rattled. Probably wasn't every day an intended murder victim rang his bell.

Gina said, "We need to talk."

"No talk. You go way."

"Have you told your boss I'm still alive yet?"

Silence.

She went on, "That's good. Because you know how he deals with failure, Igor."

Another beat of silence, then, "Name not Igor."

"It is to me. Now open the gate. Either you and I talk, or I call the police. We clear?"

Patrick heard a buzz, then the lock snap open. Gina, smart woman, paused a couple of seconds before going in, giving him time to stoop below the gate's security camera and go in behind her.

She walked steadily along the curved stone path leading to Igor's front door. Patrick stuck close to her, on the other side of the shrubbery. His plan was to get to the door and flatten himself against its sidewall before Gina got there. But Igor didn't wait. He opened the door wide—bloody filled it!—and watched her walk toward him.

Shit!
Crouching low, Patrick looked for a plan B. There was always a plan B. He pulled out the Glock, released the safety.

Gina was at the door now, which put her directly in front of the Bull, who stepped aside to let her in. The door closed behind them.

Double shit!
Staying low, Patrick considered his options—all motivated by his not wanting to leave Gina alone with T. rex a second longer than necessary.
Which meant...

He took a breath, turned the knob on the door, and kicked it in.

The Glock was aimed at Igor on entry—not exactly a small target—and either shock froze the man in place, or he couldn't process events fast enough to react. "Don't move," Patrick said, a dramatically irrelevant but necessary command. Igor didn't look afraid, just confused. One look at him in the light and Patrick decided he was a Grade A minion—probably never made a move without a full set of instructions. Everyone should have one.

Gina smiled at Patrick. "Took you long enough."

He arched a brow.

Igor rallied and said, "What you want?"

"Nothing much," Gina said. "Just access to your boss' house."

Bushed-out brows furrowed, Igor shook his head slowly. "No. Not good."

"What's not good are your choices. Either me putting a bullet through that thick head of yours—" Patrick raised the pistol "—or calling the cops about your foray into a woman's bedroom tonight. Take your pick, Igor."

"Name not Igor. Name is Bogdan."

Patrick raised a who-cares brow. "My apologies. So what's it to be,
Bogdan
, a bullet or the cops?"

It wasn't so much a
click-click
Patrick heard coming from behind the man's suddenly calculating eyes, more like
ka-ching, ka-ching
.

Igor took his own sweet time answering, then said, "Want money for go home. Mother sick. For money I do." He set his jaw, then added, "Twenty thousand United States dollars."

Gina looked at Patrick. One of those didn't-expect-this looks.

The man spoke again, this time straightening his massive shoulders. "No money. You shoot me." His raised chin left no doubt he meant it. "What's it to be?" he asked firmly, his words a direct mimic of Patrick's own except for the "W" sounding like a "V."

Patrick tossed a quick glance at Gina, the woman with all the answers and all the resources. "You can arrange this—through Raven Force?"

"I can arrange anything through the Ravens—if it means getting Coleman. No problem. Although it pisses me off to pay someone who had a pillow in my face a couple of hours ago."

Bogdan dipped his head, almost bowed, in her direction. His expression sober, he said, "Understand. Forgive, please. Did not want."

Ah, a reluctant minion. Who'd have thought?
Patrick said, "You've got your money. Now let's shut down a few security systems, shall we?" Patrick didn't lower the gun. "And to be on the safe side, you'll be coming with us."

The last instruction didn't seem to bother Igor one bit. "Is good. Till money in hands." With that, he turned his back on them and walked to a bank of computer screens, where, with the light, flying fingers of a master pianist, he shut down Coleman's security grid.

* * *

Gina watched the man shut down the system. This guy might speak lousy English, weigh in like a sumo wrestler, and have a face that would stiffen a rattlesnake, but he obviously was no fool. The cover didn't fit the book. She was relieved Patrick was keeping the gun on him.

And she had an idea—pretty much following Patrick's thinking about a straight line being the shortest distance between two points.

They were about to head to the main house when she stopped, her hand on the smashed door jamb. "Bogdan?"

He looked at her, his expression stolid.

"Coleman has a safe in the house, right?"

He nodded.

"Is it in his office or the library?"

He shook his head. A negative.

"Where then?"

"Kitchen. I show?"

Patrick and Gina exchanged looks.

Patrick said, "Yes, you show."

Grinning, Gina said, "This is going to be a walk in the park."

Patrick cringed, the remark sounding too much like one of those "just one more bank heist" or "one more day to retirement" comments before guns blazed and sirens started wailing.

Chapter 7

Bogdan, using barely 1 percent of his muscle mass, pulled out the stainless, double-door fridge far enough to expose the wall behind it. The safe was embedded in that wall.

Gina immediately stepped into the opening left by the moved fridge and bent to take a closer look. "Perfect," she whispered. "Exactly what I expected." Rubbing her hands together, as if to warm them, she added in a louder whisper, "Bogdan, watch the door. Patrick, step back. And be quiet, both of you. This will take a few minutes." With that, she went to her knees, shoved her hair back, and placed an ear to the lock.

* * *

Bogdan did what he was told and went to stand by the door leading out of the kitchen. Patrick stood stone still, exactly where he was, and watched in amazement as Gina's delicate, long-fingered hands—with nails the color of fresh blood—turned the safe's dial this way and that.

She did not have the combination.

She was cracking the damn safe.

"What the hell—"

"Shh!"

Patrick shushed because he didn't want to finish his question anyway. And here wasn't the place. Instead he watched the woman he'd fallen in love with work a safe with the confidence and know-how of Bernie the Burglar. And that took experience.
Lots of experience
. The shock gave him brain freeze.

In less than three minutes, she'd opened the safe's door. Inside, there were papers, a couple of tall stacks of cash in elastic bands, and a small journal. Gina quickly thumbed through the journal, then reached back into the safe and grabbed the cash stacks.

The next second, she closed the safe's door, and stood. "Got it. Let's go."

When Patrick didn't move right away—for the first time since they'd found the safe—Gina looked at him. He guessed his face, which felt as tight as a tent tarp, still held traces of shock, because she grimaced, then briefly closed her eyes. "Later with the questions, okay?"

He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Like when we're all safely locked up for grand theft? That be late enough?"

"It's not what you think."

"Yeah, that's what they all say."

"Patrick..."

"Put the money back.
Now.
"

Before she could speak, Bogdan, still posted at the door, said, "He come."

"Then we go." Gina looked at Patrick, the cash and journal crushed to her chest. Her voice shaky, her determined eyes clear, she said, "He'll kill us, Patrick."

Patrick didn't move. He weighed his options, his level of trust in the woman in front of him, the distance to the back door—and Gina's Glock, its cold steel warming under his hand, in his jacket pocket. All of this while cursing himself and the stupidity that was man made even stupider by a lying woman.
Fuck! Life seemed always to be a choice between the lesser of two evils.
But, all things considered, pulling a gun and facing down Coleman didn't fall into the lesser category, so the back door it was. "Let's go."

The kitchen light came on, overhead and blinding.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" Coleman, medium height, obese, and pale-eyed, stared them down. He wore scarlet silk PJs, black mules, and a giant diamond pinkie ring—on the same hand that held a silver Smith & Wesson pistol—pointed at Gina.

Patrick tightened his grip on the death in his pocket.

Coleman took him in with one scanning glance. "So... I take it you're the boyfriend. Or, should I say, co-conspirator?" His face was passive. "The Raven Force. Am I correct?"

Patrick said nothing.

Coleman shrugged. "Actually, it doesn't matter who you are, but whatever that is in your pocket—" he gestured with his chin "best you take it out, slowly, and put it on the floor." His mouth was set on thin and tight. "Of course, you can shoot if it pleases you, but the woman will go down first."

Patrick took the gun from his pocket, dangled it by the trigger. Trying to estimate his chances of taking down the pajama man, he kept his moves slow. He did have an unused headbutt left over from his earlier run-in with Bogdan, but for now... too risky. He needed one damn nanosecond—and that gun pointed away from Gina. The players in the room were equidistant from each other—maybe ten feet. He needed less.

Coleman nodded at the Glock hanging from Patrick's index finger. "On the floor."

He did as he was told.

"Now kick it over."

He kicked it—but not too hard, putting it squarely between him and Coleman. He hoped the asshole would bend over to pick it up. He didn't. Instead, he looked at Bogdan, his expression hard. "You have anything to say, fat boy?"

Bogdan hung his head. "She made me do, boss."

"
She
—" the slightest flick of the gun pointed at Gina "is supposed to be dead."