Wallbanger (21 page)

“Easy, sweetheart,” Xander soothed. Moving
slowly, he avoided her body and slipped his hand into the breast
pocket of his coat. He removed the bag; transferred it to his
pants’ pocket. Then he picked up again in Russian. “How’d you end
up there?”

This she tried in English. “I am payment…for
debt my brother owe to Sacha. He is not nice man.”

Understatement. “Once this is over, you and
your family leave Sertolova. Phil will make sure you’re someplace
safe. Understand?”

She nodded. “Spasibo.”

“How about you do that and let me go be
stupid?” Phil offered, the truck moving at a faster clip through
the streets. “You always get to be the stupid one while I have to
sit around and tend the hearth.”

“Make sure Kizzie lives. Take her home.”

“Panama?” Phil eased off the gas a bit to
take a left.

“No.” Xander reached under the seat front;
checked the side pocket.

“Back to—You’re sure? Shit…you’re sure.”

“Pull the goddamn truck over, Phil.”

“’Cause it’s personal? Just like—?”

“You really want to do this right now?”

Phil guided the car to the side of the road,
stopped in front of a Metro entrance and threw it in park. Removing
two cartridges from the middle console, he slammed them on the dash
and unfastened the shoulder holster housing the Sig P226.

Xander reached for the gun and Phil grabbed
his arm. “Hold on.”

“I don’t have time—”

“Stop being an asshole. And stop lying to
yourself, and me, you asshole. Give me your shirt.” He motioned to
the bloodstain on the cream top Xander wore and began working on
the buttons of his own. The undershirt came over his head too,
knowing Xander didn’t have a jacket and would freeze once the anger
in his blood ebbed.

“Shit’s real, X—I get that. This would be a
lot eas—” Phil didn’t finish, seeing the warning look on Xander’s
face. Tight-lipped, he handed his buddy the clothes, took the
ruined linens in exchange. “All right, be a dick. But be clear. You
being stupid means Harvey’s a bust. You know that, right?”

Dressed once again, Xander took the weapon
and clips; opened the car door. “Then it’s a bust.”

* * * *

Chantilly, Virginia

Two days of pouring over information and Jack
Holloway had finally made the discovery he was hoping for. Connolly
was impatient, nothing new there, but Jack sure wasn’t about to go
traipsing off to chase a cell phone without some specific location
in mind. Now he was faced with two definite options—the spot in
Canada, or the one in Panama.

He played a hunch and shut down his
laptop.

Packing up his gear, he grabbed his mobile,
perched it between his ear and shoulder, wishing he was calling
Gale instead as he shoved his clothes into a duffel. He chuckled at
the incredulous drawl still playing in his head.
Laytuh
. It
always got worse when she was going for apathy.

“What’d you find?” Bill asked, skipping the
pleasantries.

Jack took a moment to consider what he was
about to do, and then said, “Headed to Canada. I’ll update you when
more info’s available.”

The call ended, and Jack left the room.
Destination: Dulles International.

14

St. Petersburg, Russia

He remembered the three-story house vaguely.
He’d been back a few times since he was a kid, but it never seemed
quite as large as it had then, quite as grandiose. It was a
ridiculous fusion of old-world Russia meets American shabby-chic;
half the items cheap, Martha Stewart magazine reproductions mixed
among the heavy, dark, hand-carved wooden furniture meant to last
generations.

Sacha never did care for it. Too
Americanized, like the man who owned the place. Too loose and free
flowing and willing to compromise. But it was all his now, or would
be once certain legal documents were sorted, and he would enjoy
striking the match and setting it all aflame.

Just as soon as he found what he was looking
for.

Xander Duquesne was no longer an option. But
Sacha had a feeling that would be the case before the meeting was
ever set. He should have killed him when he had the chance, but
would not focus on the missed opportunity. Neither his body nor the
girl’s had been found in the rubble of the tunnels, and none of the
night guards were left alive to stop them from walking right out
the front door of the chateau. Just as soon as Sacha’s men tracked
him down, Xander would die. Also on that list were Gigi and his
missing puppets, Sumi and Zlata. He’d bring all three bitches back
and kill them himself. After he made them dance, of course.

He was in pain. The shoulder and foot
injuries hurt more without the daily pinch of cocaine he was so
accustomed to. But he’d given his last bag of sugar to Xander—proof
he was out of his gourd when he was high. Sharing was one thing,
but the last bag? And to
him
?

Oddly enough it was something the filthy
American had said that brought Sacha to the home today. An exact
set. He never knew.

Sling supporting one shoulder, crutch under
the other, he slowly mounted the steps to the third floor where he
entered his father’s office. For a man who sold explosives for a
living, Nikolay was more family-oriented than Sacha could imagine.
Pictures of him as a boy graced one wall, the opposite filled with
pictures of his brother, Misha. There were none of their mothers,
and Sacha was just fine with that. He sat in the chair behind the
desk and opened a ledger that lay upon it.

He flipped a page, and another, until he had
gone through the book, and then yanked open the drawers, rifling in
the spaces for any clue as to who she was. But there was
nothing.

His eyes scanned the room. Nikolay spent most
of his time here. If there was any information, it would be within
these four walls.

Swiveling his head left, he tried to envision
his father sitting where he sat. What did the room mean to him in
that way? Misha’s pictures were to the left, Sacha’s to his right,
but the wall directly in front of him was oddly blank.

Sacha approached, his bandaged shoulder and
foot making the going slow, wondering why, with the rest of the
room being decorated, this wall was bare. A low bookshelf lined it,
and on it sat the row of nesting dolls—the exact set of babushkas
that sat in his office in Helsinki.

But where Sacha’s set had nine, Nikolay’s had
ten.

A thrill running through him, Sacha picked up
the biggest of the dolls, flipping it over to see if the name was
there. Sure enough,
Yuri
, was stamped into the bottom.

This was it.

He hurriedly flipped the other wooden
effigies, the discovery of each name assuring him he’d finally come
to the end of his search. Arriving at Nikolay’s, he saw the name at
the bottom, dropped it and picked up the next. The missing one.
This one was different—the face painted stark white, the hair
black. The eyes had a slightly different shape; more almond than
round, and this doll was painted not in pants but a woman’s
business suit.

Syestra
.

He flipped the doll over, ready to reveal the
name, but it wasn’t there. He blinked, looked again. Nothing.

Even in death it seemed Nikolay had bested
him.

In a rage, he crushed the doll against the
table. Hollow wood snapped easily, revealing a slip of folded paper
secreted inside. Surprised at the discovery, Sacha retrieved the
note, flattened it with the one hand, eager to read whatever was
upon it. But it wasn’t in Russian. Or English. Just a single
character of kanji—Japanese.

He laughed, a self-deprecating sound that
bordered a sob.

As promised the day of his death, Nikolay
Sokoviev had taken the secret to his grave.

He would have to get it translated. But at
least he finally had it.

A solid thump sounded downstairs and he went
to the door to scream over the railing at his bodyguards. “Sergei,
Fedot, stop your playing.” Those two were always into something.
There was an American saying he found entirely appropriate about
good help. Yes, the American’s were useful at least for
sayings.

Another bump, closer, and his hackles rose;
awkwardly pulled his weapon from his hip holster.

Hobbling back to the window, he peered
outside to see the car they’d arrived in—the body of his driver
hanging lifelessly out the door.

Sacha had no idea who was attacking, but he
needed to move fast; difficult given his injuries. Three more
guards were on the premises. Which meant he had three more
opportunities to escape. Their lives were of no importance.

He went back toward the door, relieved to see
one of his men in the frame.

“Fedot, what’s—?”

The guard went from moving to dead in a
blink.

Sacha’s eyes widened, too stunned to remember
the gun in his grip. He lifted it too late, fairly passing it to
the attacker who easily plucked it from his hands.

Solid fingers chopped his Adam’s Apple,
crushing his larynx. His breathing faltered, and he grabbed at his
throat in reflex, dropping to the floor in a poor attempt to get
air. A rope looped his neck, cinched tightly, and he was dragged
from the room without ceremony.

Sacha lay in the hallway, conscious enough to
know what would happen, too little strength to fight it. He felt
himself floating—proof he wasn’t dead yet. Ascension wasn’t in his
cards.

Moments later he was falling—
that’s more
like it
. The rope went taut so quickly he was sure his neck
would snap. Cruel turn of fate that it didn’t. Enormous pressure
mounted in his head; the noose squeezed his trachea. Dizziness set
in and heaviness followed.

It took another five minutes before the
muscles of his body stopped twitching—a few more for the carbon
dioxide to completely saturate his blood. Finally, his heart
stopped pumping.

There hung the broken puppet, spinning about
the length of rope, never to dance again.

* * * *

Panamá Provence, Panama

“Anything to declare?” the cranky customs
agent asked. The small, brown man hunched over his desk, staring at
the computer screen.

“No.”

“Your purpose for this visit.”

“Pleasure.”

The agent reexamined the passport, trying to
reconcile the blonde-haired person in the picture with the
brown-haired one standing before him. One last look and he stamped
the false documents, handed them over. “Welcome to Panama, Mr.
Holloway. Enjoy your stay.”

Without another thought for the man he’d just
cleared, the officer waved the next person forward and repeated the
endless process.

15

Muscat, Oman

“Take your thumb off the end!”

“Stop, Phil. Stop…please…” Kizzie’s voice
echoed through the villa. “Hurts when…”

What the hell?
Xander dropped his bag
and climbed the stairs, following Kizzie’s pained moans to the
guest bedroom. From where she sat propped against the headboard,
she gripped her side, wincing from laughter. She looked up when he
entered and the light left her eyes.

Phil stood from the chair at the side of the
bed, the smile on his face creasing the scar over his cheek.

“Everything okay in here?”

Holding an untouched plate of food, Zlata
answered from her seat beside Kizzie. “Phillip tells funny joke
about coke bottle and hand job,” she shook her head, “I don’t get
it.”

A chuckle escaped Kizzie’s throat and she
groaned again.

“See, someone appreciates my jokes,” Phil
said, clapping Xander on the shoulder. He stared him in the eye,
and then nodded briefly. “Come on, Zlata. These two need to
talk.”

Zlata stayed her ground. “First Kizzie eat,
then I go.”

Kizzie sighed. “Like I keep telling you, I’m
not hungry, and I can feed myself. You weren’t nearly this pushy a
couple days ago.”

The girl’s eyes misted. “Four days ago I
think I will never see my family again. Now I have hope.” She
reached an arm around Kizzie’s neck and gingerly kissed both of her
cheeks.

“Leave the food,” Xander said. “I’ll make
sure she eats.”

Zlata looked from Kizzie to Xander and back
again. “You have good Master.” Kizzie smiled awkwardly as the girl
pushed herself from the bed. She handed the plate over and walked
toward the door, saying, “Okay, Phillip, tell me why is funny the
coke bottle.”

The pair left the room and Xander set the
food on a nearby table, dropping into the chair Phil had vacated.
“Seems you have a fan.”

“She’s driving me crazy, hovering like a
mother hen. But she’s good people. If she hadn’t been down there
I’d be dead. I owe her.” Kizzie lightly chewed her lip. “She’s been
through so much, and…. Phil says they haven’t been able to find her
family.”

Xander shrugged. “Unless she’s that much of a
bother to you, she can stick around a while until we do.”

The news seemed to settle her, a soft smile
on her face. Since Helsinki, this was his first real look at the
damage Sacha had caused, and it wasn’t pretty. Her left cheek and
eye were still a bit puffy and purplish, but according to Phil’s
updates this was progress. She wore an oversize black tee
shirt—his, he assumed—the rest of her covered by a thin blanket
pulled up to her waist. Her wrists bore the burns from the rope and
seeing her like this made him angry all over again.

“Tell me something,” Kizzie said, “What part
of the Middle East am I in?”

“How do you know you’re—?”

“The call to prayer. Heard it for the last
couple days. Only way I know what time it is. The heat, the food,”
she said, jerking her chin toward the plate. “And I can smell the
water—east, I think—so I know I’m on a coast. I’ve narrowed it down
to Saudi Arabia, the UAE, or Oman. Phil’s a loyal bastard—cute, but
loyal. Wouldn’t tell me anything, and believe me, I offered him a
lot of cash. D’you know he rationed my phone time? The hell’s that
about?”