Chapter 27
Nick
SOMETHING WOKE ME UP, my body going on high alert in one second flat. Remaining perfectly still, I strained to hear or see anything out of place.
There. The scraping sound, then a pause, then the almost silent rattle aluminum.
The balcony. I’d known the balcony would be a problem.
I slid out of bed, bare feet silent on the carpeted floor. No time to think it through. I had to move. The scraping went silent, then a grunt barely muffled by the glass. I hugged the wall, crouched low, and crept to my bag to get the zip ties.
The curtain billowed in, rippling like a living thing. I ducked behind a dresser and waited.
A figure stepped into the room, all shadows and menace. Big. Over six feet. He moved like a professional, head on a swivel, hands open and relaxed. He didn’t have a weapon out, which meant he thought he could handle whoever was inside.
I let him make it three steps in before I struck, catching him with a kick to the knees, then my left shoulder slammed into his gut, and together we hit the floor hard enough to rattle pictures hanging on the wall.
He made no sound except a grunt as the wind left his lungs.
I drove my fist into his kidney and slammed his head against the linoleum.
His elbow caught my jaw, fast and deliberate.
He jerked, trying to throw me off, and I grabbed the back of his neck and ground his face into the floor.
The man started to twist, using his weight to try and roll me, but I hooked my arm under his chin and squeezed tight.
Two seconds, ten, forty, then the fight left him.
While he was out, I secured his hands behind his back.
Just as I finished securing the second zip-tie around the ankles, he came to and tried to buck, but I used my full weight, one hand on his head, the other on his shoulder.
He spit blood onto the tile, and then started laughing—a low, ugly sound that made me want to break his jaw.
It was only then I heard the door slam open.
Nadya barreled into the spare bedroom in nothing but a tank top and boy shorts, hair wild, eyes feral with panic. She held a kitchen knife out in front of her, but she was shaking so badly I wasn’t sure she could stab anything if she tried.
And then she hit the light switch.
The man’s face was mashed into the tile, but I could see now the blue-black teardrops trailing down from his left eye. Fuck. Of all the people to come after Nadya, it had to be this one.
Nadya stopped cold. The knife clattered to the ground. Her hands went to her mouth, stifling a scream.
The man stared up at her, bloody teeth bared.
Nadya didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched him, as if by sheer force of will she could erase him from the floorboards and her head by sheer force of will.
I kept my hand heavy on his neck. “Nadya, I need you to step back. Go to your room and close the door.”
She didn’t move.
“Nadya. Go. Now,” I said again, adding more command into my voice, needing to protect her even from just seeing him again, from being in the same room with the worst kind of scum.
That snapped her out of it. She stumbled backward, hands shaking, then bolted and locked herself up in the bathroom. A second later, the sound of her retching came.
The man tried to roll his neck and glare up at me, but I kept him pinned as I reached the wire connected to my phone and pulled it to me, then thumbed 911, and gave the address to the dispatcher. “Breaking and entering. Perp is restrained,” I said.
Fuck. I somehow needed to have this guy arrested and locked up without him knowing I worked for the FBI. He couldn't know we were onto them.
The man started humming. Some lullaby or maybe a folk song, slow and strange. Every so often, he craned his neck to look at the bathroom door, as if he knew Nadya was in there, listening.
The asshole was trying to get into her head.
“You're acting funny for a burglar,” I said. “Should I tell the police it wasn't just breaking and entering? Are you a stalker, too?”
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
“Just a very good friend.” Who would happily snap this fucker’s neck, but he might have the information I needed.
It took only a couple of minutes for the police to show up. The officers came up the stairs, boots heavy, flashlights cutting through the gloom. I raised both hands and stepped back as they entered.
“On the floor,” the first one barked.
I didn’t argue, lowering myself, hands behind my head.
The second officer advanced on the guy, gun drawn, and pulled him up by the zip-ties. “Jesus. What happened to him?”
“He broke in through the balcony door. I stopped him,” I answered.
The officer looked from me to the man, then back to me. “You live here?”
“Guest,” I said. “But you’ll want to talk to the tenant—she’s in the bathroom. And you’ll want to check my wallet, but don't advertise it.”
The first officer checked, found the badge, and relaxed a hair. “Sorry about that. You can get up now.”
Just as I was rising, Nadya stumbled out of the bathroom and immediately came to my side. I put a protective arm around her, hoping it would soothe her, tell her I wouldn't let anyone hurt her.
“Can we make a statement in the morning?” I asked, hoping the officers would understand I didn't want to talk in front of the perp.
“Of course.” The one who had seen my badge eyed me, then the teardrop fucker. “We’ll be seeing you in the morning.”
They read the man his rights, and as they hauled him out, I caught a final glimpse of his face. Eleven teardrops. Eleven victims. Eleven families who might finally learn of their kids’ fates. Assuming those kids even had a family, which wasn’t likely considering the adoption scam.
I squeezed Nadya’s waist one more time to remind myself that she made it out. Not every child these fuckers got their hands on was doomed.
As soon as the two police officers and the teardrop fucker left, I locked the door behind them and set to work.
First, I wedged the sliding balcony door shut with a broomstick.
Then I double-checked every window, every latch, every possible point of entry.
The adrenaline was still hammering through my veins, but I forced my hands steady, checking and re-checking, making sure I hadn’t missed anything.
When I finished, I found Nadya at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, eyes rimmed with red. She was staring at a mug of tea, but it was clear she had no intention of drinking it.
I sat across from her. For a full minute, neither of us spoke.
“Someone will come tomorrow to spruce up security in here,” I said, in hopes it would make her feel better. “And I’ll have to tell my superior about this. I’ll make sure you're safe.”
She nodded but didn't say a word. Fair. She never struck me as talk-about-feelings type, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t feeling too much right now. What could I offer her that would help but didn’t involve getting wasted?
I got up and opened the freezer to find a tub of ice cream. A couple of scoops should do the trick. Although... I dismissed the idea and gave her the whole thing.
“Thanks,” she mumbled as she dug in.
I watched her for a moment before I pulled out my phone and dialed Renat. He answered on the fourth ring; voice filled with sleep and suspicion. “Volkov.”
“It’s Nick Santana. We had a visitor tonight. You heard about the teardrop tattoo guy?”
There was a pause. “He’s still alive?”
So, Renat knew who I was talking about, even though Nadya’s written testimony didn’t include that detail.
“NYPD has him at the Twentieth.”
“Good. Don’t talk to the locals. Let me handle it,” he said.
“I promised them a statement in the morning.”
“Fuck that. I’ll have him quietly moved to our jurisdiction.”
It made sense. Renat couldn't afford to blow his cover before he even went undercover.
“In that case, call me if you need anything,” I said before hanging up.
I put the phone down and looked at Nadya.
“You should get some sleep,” I said.
She almost laughed. “Right. I’ll get right on that.”
I crouched at her side but didn’t touch her. “I’ll be right here. All night.”
She nodded. “He’s not going to get away with just a breaking and entering charge, right?”
“Not a chance,” I promised. “I have a feeling he’ll go away for life.”