14. Taken #2
“Z’s got Kathrine’s NSA team listening for intel,” Sin said. “So far, nothing.”
“It must be big if there’s no chatter,” Halston said.
“Or it’s a red herring,” Sin added.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Evangeline said. “The chip in your neck is a dud. The entire batch are bad so we’re waiting on new ones. We’ll replace it when they come in.”
Halston flicked her gaze to Gabriel. A knowing look passed between them.
We have the rings. And my commitment to keep her safe.
HALSTON
At ten past nine the following evening, Halston entered Krov bar in DC. A single pin light brightened the hostess stand.
Tonight, she’d worn a conservative black dress and black boots, pulled her hair into a tight bun, leaving her bangs to dangle over her brown-tinted eyes. In the pocket of her black coat with the faux fur collar, she clutched the lipstick gun.
“Dobryy vecher. Ya vstrechayus' s chelovekom,” she said to the hostess. Good evening. I’m meeting someone.
Halston glanced around the upscale restaurant. The quaint space was nicer than she’d expected. Black walls, low-lit pendant lights hanging into the booths and dotting the bar.
Donskoy pushed out of a booth, made his way over, his toothless grin a sight to see. He wore a long-sleeved blue shirt—his bulging chest and arms pushing against the thin layer of cotton—and very snug jeans. He’d parted his short hair on the side, slicked it down with hair product.
Steeling her spine, she launched forward. One drink, then she’d execute their plan.
“Privet, Minka.” Hello, Minka.
She forced a smile. “Mr. Smith.” Her Russian accent so familiar to her ears.
“I go with Bob,” he said in his thick Russian accent. He gestured. When they walked to the booth, he put his hand on the small of her back.
Despite the layers of fabric, her skin crawled. She slid into the booth.
“I sit close,” he said.
“No.” She pointed across the booth.
A flash of anger darkened his eyes, but he did as instructed. Rather than make small talk, she glanced around the room, eyeing the smattering of customers.
She had no idea who she expected to see, but after last night’s ambush, she was on edge.
“Ty ochen' krasivaya. Elegantnaya ledi. YA vyglyazhu khorosho. Da?” he said. You are very beautiful. Classy lady. I look nice. Yes?
A shiver skirted through her.
Do it… for Gabriel.
In order for their plan to work, she had to play along. “Yes, you look handsome, Bob.” Then, she forced a little smile. “English, for practice.”
“YA nenavizhu govorit' po-angliyski. YA nenavizhu vso v etoy vonyuchey strane,” he said. I hate speaking English. I hate everything about this stinking country.
“I work for ambassador,” she said. “He asks for English—”
“Do I look like fucking Bulgrov?” he growled.
Short fuse on this one.
Up went her eyebrows, but she said nothing.
Silence, until he broke it. “Take coat off.”
She slid the garment off her shoulders.
He smiled, his missing front tooth hijacking her attention. She wanted to tell him to see a damn dentist and get his fucking pie hole fixed.
He leaned forward. “Call me Pavel, when alone.”
She nodded once as the waiter appeared with two lowball glasses of vodka. “Anything else?”
“Water,” she said.
The waiter glanced at Donskoy who lifted the glass. “We are Russian. Drink Vodka.”
“Water,” she insisted as she raised the glass.
The waiter offered a tight nod before leaving.
Donskoy lifted his glass. “To us.”
Yuck.
She sipped the alcohol, set down the glass. Donskoy tossed back the liquid.
“Tell me about you,” she said.
As Donskoy launched into a monologue, Halston thought of Gabriel. Angelo’s death had hit him hard. She’d spent hours looking at the video of the woman—both inside the restaurant and during the shooting. She was seventy-percent sure they were the same person, but Gabriel wasn’t convinced.
“Even if you’re right,” he’d said. “Who is she and why is she trying to kill me?”
The server returned with a glass of water and another lowball glass of vodka. “Straw?” the server asked her.
“No thanks,” she replied as she lifted the glass, drank down half.
Donskoy flexed his biceps. “I bench four-hundred pounds.” He flashed her a grin, but his missing front tooth wasn’t buying him any points.
“You’re a beast,” she said.
“Da, ya gotov. Vso radi tebya.” Yes, I am. All for you.
Bring it on asshole.
He lifted his lowball glass. “Cheers to Minka.”
She sipped the vodka, then finished the water.
He lifted her vodka glass. “Me?”
She nodded. He downed the drink.
“You like work with Yuri Bulgrov?” he asked.
“It’s an honor working for the ambassador,” she replied.
“My friend, Dmitri Petrov, he say Bulgrov weak.”
A wave of nausea had her flagging down the server. “Can I get another water?”
Before the server returned, Donskoy asked, “You okay?”
“Just feeling lightheaded,” she replied, fighting against it.
“Outside. Cold air.”
She didn’t feel good. The lights in the restaurant started looking fuzzy, like caterpillars. Donskoy pushed out of the booth and, with clumsy hands, pulled her coat onto her shoulders. With a strong hand clutching her waist, he guided her outside on rubber legs.
“I need to go home,” she muttered as she struggled to stay awake.
“Not home. Pavel and Minka to have kinky fun.”
GAbrIEL
Dressed in black with his face hidden behind a ski mask and a helmet on his head, Gabriel walked into the backyard of Donskoy’s split-level house. The Arlington neighborhood was filled with older, brick front homes. Some tidy, others in need of repairs and upgrades.
Five minutes earlier, he’d checked the app confirming Halston was at Krov bar. According to their plan, she’d have one drink, then suggest they head back to his place.
His skin crawled.
He hated the idea, had asked her to cancel the date. Told her she could accompany him when he broke into Donskoy’s house to deep six him while he was sleeping. She rejected it outright, insisting she wanted to go through with their original plan.
The back door of Donskoy’s home was locked. Rather than shoot it out—and alert anyone who might be there—he used his lock pick. The old lock wouldn’t give, so he tried a different pick.
C’mon, open.
This one worked. He opened the door, waited for the blare of a house alarm.
Nothing.
He lowered the goggles attached to his helmet, entered the dwelling, and shut the door behind him. With his CANiK in hand, he glanced around the dark room.
No one slept on the sofa, no one appeared from the shadows.
While there could have been surveillance cameras, he saw none.
Moving silently through the lower level, he cleared the storage room, cleared the bathroom.
Upstairs on the first floor, the kitchen was unoccupied.
No one in the small dining room, same for the living room.
At the base of the short staircase leading to the upper level, he listened.
Silence.
He cleared the upstairs hall bathroom, cleared the primary bedroom, noting the unmade bed. The other two bedrooms lacked furniture, their closets empty. Back on the main floor, he saw papers scattered over the small kitchen table.
Everything was in Russian. One snagged his attention.
A map of the US.
He couldn’t read Russian, but Halston could. After shoving the papers and the map into the breast pocket of his leather jacket, he checked the time.
He’d been there fifteen minutes. Based on their plan, Halston and Donskoy should be arriving in the next three-to-five. He opened the app, viewed Halston’s location.
Adrenaline punched through him.
Halston was headed in the opposite direction from Donskoy’s house. He checked his phone. No texts, then he remembered she didn’t take her personal phone.
Fuck. Fuck.
He flew down the basement stairs, out the back, didn’t stop to close the door.
He strode through the yard, flipped up the goggles, and broke into a run through the adjacent yard.
He had no idea where she was or why she wasn’t following their agreed-to plan.
But he did know that whatever was happening was not good.
He could feel it in his gut.
He ran to his truck, jumped behind the wheel. Again, he checked her location. Still en route, heading west on Columbia Pike in Arlington.
After hitting the gas, he grabbed his phone, called Angelo. As it rang, reality rained down on him.
Angelo’s gone.
His chest squeezed.
Refocusing, he jumped on I-395, flying past the other vehicles on the highway.
Without warning, bright red brake lights illuminated the dark night.
Gabriel slammed on his. Four cars were parked on the shoulder, several cop cars, a bunch of people being arrested.
Once he passed the slowdown, he roared past everyone.
Faster.
He wanted to check Halston’s location, but a weaving driver had him focused on the road ahead. Gabriel cut over two lanes, slowed again, and watched in horror as a car flew past, clipping the weaving driver.
CRASH!
Metal against metal, the vehicles started spinning out.
Gabriel swerved hard right, driving onto the shoulder as one of the cars soared into the air, crashing in the grass.
He glanced in his mirror. Cars were swerving, some screeching to a halt, others hitting each other.
While his impulse was to pull over and help, he stayed on point.
Halston needs me.
Instead, he called for help.
“What’s your emergency?” asked the operator.
“There’s a big accident on I-395, Bailey’s Crossroads. Total shit storm.”
“Are you in it?”
“No. One of the cars was weaving, another clipped it, they both spun out. Several more couldn’t stop in time.”
Gabriel slowed, checked the app, then took the Backlick Road exit heading toward Annandale.
“What’s your name,” asked the operator.
“Concerned Citizen.” Gabriel hung up.