Chapter 27
Daisy woke with a start but for the life of her didn’t know why.
She was in her own bed this time, no Jordan Krychek nearby, having a nightmare because his demons were doing a jig on the family grave.
Something inside her contracted in pain at the thought of how many years he’d been suffering.
At how many nightmares he’d endured. She hated everything that had happened to him.
She hated that she wanted to be the one to soothe him, to distract him, to make him forget his traumatic past.
As if she were special.
When, in reality, she was just last night.
Gave a gusty sigh.
She was not a morning person, not if she could help it. She snuggled back under the covers and started to drift off again.
Another muffled sound had her opening her eyes wide again.
Was that coming from the Pagets’ apartment downstairs? Had one of her elderly neighbors fallen? Was there a break-in?
She swung her legs out of bed and slipped her feet into her sheepskin slippers.
She hesitated before picking up her Glock but decided better safe than sorry under the circumstances and then put her cell phone in the pocket of her red plaid PJs for the same reason. She snuck into the living room, spotted Florence fast asleep on the couch. Regan’s bed was empty.
Maybe he’d decided to sleep in the back of the van? Maybe there was news about Amed’s arrest and he hadn’t wanted to wake anyone.
Was that what she’d heard?
Regan doing something Regan-esque?
She hoped Amed was okay. She didn’t want him to get hurt. She wanted to understand how he could be so generous and helpful on one hand and plan their destruction on the other.
She headed to the apartment door and paused for a moment, listening.
There were sounds downstairs she couldn’t identify. Someone moving around? Had there been a medical emergency? A burglary?
Gripping her Glock tightly, she started down and immediately the scent of something pungent assailed her nostrils. Gas? She wrinkled her nose. No. Shit. Gasoline. What the hell?
She hesitated on the stairs, and the next moment she heard a footfall on the landing outside the Pagets’ apartment.
The saliva in her mouth dried up, making it hard to swallow.
She couldn’t see due to the dividing wall, but there was definitely someone there.
She held her breath and prayed they didn’t come around the corner.
Regan?
It was probably Regan.
She almost called out but something stopped her. Would Regan be creeping around her neighbor’s landing? Probably not. He’d be pacing somewhere, taking up space, using up oxygen.
Blood started to pound in her ears. She backed up a step, then another, trying to ease her weight down softly to avoid creaks. Then she hit a riser that groaned like a wailing cat.
She froze. Heart pounding.
Dammit.
A man appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Big. Bald head. Clean shaven. Small, beady, calculating, pale-blue eyes. He could have been handsome if not for the twisted sneer on his lips.
The man from Mexico. The Russian Jordan said burned his entire family alive.
Now the smell of gasoline struck fresh horror along every nerve.
She scrambled backwards as he pulled a large black revolver from the back of his waistband. She lunged for her door, then remembered the Glock in her hand, firing instinctively behind her, to give herself time to get inside her apartment and barricade the door.
She heard a cry of pain and looked over her shoulder to see him holding his left arm.
“I was going to gift you with a bullet as an act of mercy”—his accent was thick, his voice deep and guttural—“but now you deserve what you get, you stupid little cunt.”
The door opened behind her.
Cisco fired at her assailant, and he leapt out of the way behind the partition but got a shot off. His bullet slammed into the wall beside Daisy, plaster spitting into her face with a sharp sting.
Cisco grabbed her arm, hauled her inside with surprising strength.
Daisy slammed the door behind them and locked it. Then jammed a nearby wooden chair under the handle. They ran into the kitchen, crouching behind the kitchen island as bullets rocked the door in its frame.
Cisco held a firing stance, waiting for Bocharov to burst inside. “Where’s Regan?”
“No idea. I heard a noise downstairs and went to investigate.”
“Without your bodyguard?” It was the first time she’d ever heard Florence sound anything but agreeable.
“You were asleep!” But with hindsight, Daisy felt stupid for not waking her first. “I thought it was Regan or my neighbors, who are elderly, having some kind of emergency. He has emphysema.” It hit her then. “Oh God. Do you think Bocharov hurt them?”
“I don’t know, but I doubt he dropped off a care package.” Florence pulled her cell out of her pants pocket and dialed. She’d slept fully dressed, and Daisy wondered why she’d bothered to put on her PJs.
She’d been trying to pretend things were normal, but they weren’t even close to being normal. She had a horrible feeling her life would never be normal again.
They both kept their weapons aimed at the door, but the shooting had stopped.
Florence’s whisper was worried. “Regan’s not answering his phone.”
Daisy stared at her wide-eyed.
The idea of anything bad happening to Jon Regan was unthinkable.
He was larger than life and twice as sarcastic.
Cisco’s mouth was tight as she made another call, this one to 911. Daisy checked her cell and even as she kept one eye on the door, she dialed Jordan.
“Hey.” His background was really noisy, and it was hard to hear what he was saying. Daisy swallowed the lump in her throat that threatened to choke her.
She wanted to hear more of that voice.
“Hey back. Good news and bad news. Bocharov was here.” Her voice was surprisingly steady as if she hadn’t faced down a vicious killer.
“I shot him in the arm, but we think he got away. Florence and I are safe in my apartment, but Regan’s MIA,” her voice rose in agitation.
She couldn’t hold it together anymore. “I’m worried about my neighbors downstairs and—” A sob choked off the flow of words.
“Okay. It’s okay. We’re calling local cops and putting out a description and roadblocks. Every cop in the city will be descending on that area ASAP. Stay put. He won’t get away, Daisy. Not this time. Just stay put and stay safe. ETA six minutes. I, er, I care about you.”
He cared about her?
The admission floored her even though it wasn’t a mad declaration of love. He wasn’t a man who easily allowed himself to care about anyone outside his work. She knew that. Whereas she cared about people too easily but rarely allowed herself to admit it. Because it gave them too much power.
The power to hurt her.
The power to make her weak.
She noticed Florence’s visible sniff of the air at the same moment she registered something that stopped her heart.
Smoke.
She’d expected it, having guessed Bocharov’s plans after smelling the gasoline.
Terror nevertheless wound its way through nerves and flesh, twisted around sinew and burrowed deep into the marrow of her bones.
Her hands shook. They were on the third floor of an old Victorian house with original, well-seasoned hardwood floors and original wooden siding.
Every inch of this place—aside from the decoratively tiled cast-iron fireplaces—was a tinderbox of highly flammable material.
“I have to go, Jordan.” She squeezed her eyes shut because she didn’t want to tell him the rest, but she had to. “I-I think he set the house on fire.”
He cursed and told someone to go faster and call the Fire Department.
“We’re coming, Daisy. We’re coming, and so is every First Responder within a ten-mile radius. Hang tight.”
She remembered what he’d said about his sister and how Bocharov, or his goons, had shot her when she’d tried to escape via the window.
If they tried to leave, would they also be shot? Was her fate, after dedicating her studies to making things safer, to burn in an old house or be shot trying to escape the flames?
“I have to go. We have to find a way out of here, but whatever happens,” her voice cracked, “this isn’t your fault. None of it is your fault.” And because she knew this might be the last time she ever spoke to him, she told him the truth. “I care about you too.”
She swallowed the smoke already irritating the back of her throat and hung up before he could answer.
“We need to get out of here.” Florence’s brown eyes were wide, expression determined.
“Agreed.” Daisy filled the sink with water and tossed in dish towels before grabbing a fire blanket she kept under the kitchen sink, ripping it out of its packaging.
“When Bocharov did this last time, he shot Jordan’s sister when she tried to climb out of a window.
We need to get to the back door and then run for cover.
” Daisy wrapped a wet cloth around her nose and mouth and handed Florence the second.
She turned off the taps although she had no clue why.
Old habits died hard.
“First, I need to check on my neighbors.”
Florence tied the cloth bandana-like around her nose and mouth, eyes worried because she wasn’t a fool. “Let’s go.”
They flung open her door and took cover behind the jamb, but there was no one there.
“They’ve gone.”
Smoke formed a thick layer that rushed inside her apartment in a choking wave.
“Come on.”
Cisco took the lead, but they both held their weapons. The idea that anyone remained behind when she could see the inferno at the bottom of the stairs was ludicrous unless this was a suicide mission.
The noise was incredible. The roar of the flames as they consumed fuel, deafening.
Daisy closed the door behind her and stumbled down the stairs. Cisco looked over the banister to the ground floor below. Her brown eyes held fear. “Can’t get out that way.”