Relentless Pursuit (25 page)

“We need to find out what's so important on that phone Dubshenko's willing to kill to get his hands on it.  Remy tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, deep in thought.

Things were spiraling rapidly out of control.  Look at the players.  Dubshenko was a given.  He's the one who started this whole fiasco.  Then there's Carlo.  Definitely more than meets the eye with that part of the story.  What kind of dirt did the truck driver have on the notorious Russian?

Then there was Jinx, who'd become the central figure in their game of cat and mouse.  He wanted to trust her, knew most of what she told him was the truth, but was she holding out on him?  A niggle of doubt crept in.

Captain Hilliard knew there was a leak in the N.O.P.D.  Probably more than one.  Dubshenko had deep pockets, and for most cops money was tight.  They'd been working on plugging the leak for months, but it seemed like as soon as one bad cop got taken out of the equation, somebody else bubbled up to the top to take his or her place.  Unfortunately, money talked in a city known for its excesses, and Dubshenko had more than enough money to continually have eyes and ears at the station.

“You're thinking way too hard over there.  Spill it, flat foot.”  Remy smiled at her teasing nickname.  They'd discovered a love of old classic movies, and she'd taken to calling him by the old-fashioned name for cops.  He liked to consider it a term of endearment.  At least he hoped it was.

“Running through a list of the key players trying to see a pattern, something to connect the dots.”

“Okay, I get it.  Definitely Dubshenko.  He started this by trying to kill Carlo.”  Jinx chewed on her lower lip, and if they weren't running for their lives Remy would have pulled the car to the side of the road and kissed the living daylights out of her. She was just so damned cute.

“Actually, it looks like Carlo actually is the first player.  He's the one who's got something—incriminating—on Dubshenko.  Something big enough to kill for.”

Jinx shifted to look at him.  “You're right.  I didn't know the company Carlo was contracting with, driving long-haul shipments for belonged to one of Dubshenko's holding companies.  Could it have something to do with his shipments?”

Remy nodded.  “Might be, but somehow this seems bigger.  A lost shipment or missing merchandise, yeah, Dubshenko might exact payment from your brother, probably in the form of a beating, maybe dismemberment.”

“Uh, gee, thanks for that visual.”

Remy grinned.  She was adorable.  “No, whatever Carlo has or found or transported, I think that's only the tip of the iceberg.  Think, hon, Carlo said he lost the package.  Did he give any clues, say anything about what the package was?”

Jinx closed her eyes, and Remy waited.  Knew better than to interrupt her train of thought.  Sometimes a witness will remember something days or weeks afterward, so he'd give her time to replay everything.  He hoped some small detail might pull them in a different direction.

“Oh, crap!  The package.  Remy, he did slip one time and call the package
she
.  Like it was a person!”  Jennifer scrubbed her hands over her face, before looking back at him.

“Dubshenko was obsessed with the package, but then he said there were two things Carlo had of his.  That's why he thinks Carlo gave me something.”  She picked up the plastic wrapped phone from the console between the seats.  “This has to be the second thing he's after.  But the first is a woman.”

“Human trafficking?  There've been rumors, but nothing concrete ever surfaced.  If he's moving people, there's little to no chatter about it.”

Remy hit the gas and the car shot forward through an intersection heading toward the city.  “I need to make some calls, figure out where we're gonna hole up for the rest of the day.  Dubshenko's not going to give up, especially since he knows we're back in New Orleans.  Let's find a phone and get this info to Hilliard.”

Jinx picked up Carlo's cell phone.  “We have a phone.”

“That's not a phone, honey, that's evidence.”

He reached over and squeezed her hand, and she clung to him, entwining her fingers with his.  Not a problem, he could drive one-handed, and he welcomed the brief physical connection.

Things were about to implode, he felt it, that deep cop's instinct.  There was a hell of a lot more going on right beneath the surface, but the waters were too muddied to see all the players.  Wouldn't be that way for much longer, though.  A plan unfolded in his head, piece by piece. A plan with Dubshenko at its core.

It was about time to turn the tables on the Russian mob, and he knew just how to do it.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

C
arpenter had been right, the girl was terrified.  Isabella Sokolov trembled so hard she could barely stand.  Fifteen years old, one look and you knew she was going to be a beauty when she had a few more years to mature into her looks.  White blonde hair fell in a straight curtain to her waist.  She had piercing green eyes, when they weren't filled with tears they displayed an intelligence and wisdom beyond her years.

“Isabella, I promise I'm here to help get you back home to your father.”  Carlo waited while Samuel Carpenter translated.  His gut told him to trust the man, though they'd just met.  Knowing his reputation as former DEA helped, even the fact that he'd left after a bungled bust.  The man had more money that Midas, for crap’s sake, he didn't have to be a dirty agent and steal more.  He'd never be able to spend the immense wealth he'd already accrued.

“She said you worked with the bad man.”  Carpenter quirked his brow.  “Think she means Dubshenko?”

“No.  I think she means Ivor Gregorski.  He's the one who gave her to me in Houston.”

Carpenter frowned at the mention of Gregorski's name.  “He's a little fish in Dubshenko's pool, but he's vicious.  Hope he didn't touch her.”  Carlo hoped Ivor hadn't touched her either.   Heaven help him if he had, because from the look in Carpenter's eyes, he'd end the man's existence.

“Does she know, or has she ever heard of, Vladimir Dubshenko?”

Carlo didn't have to wait for an answer.  Isabella spit on the ground at the mention of his name.

“Pig.”

Carlo and Carpenter exchanged looks.  Maybe…

“I think we need to take her back to the bedroom and have some fun.”  Carpenter said, eyeing Isabella suggestively.  Carlo knew exactly what Carpenter was doing, testing the girl's story with scare tactics.

She ran forward, throwing herself into Carlo's arms.  “Don't let him hurt me.”  Perfect English, barely a hint of an accent.  

Why the little brat.  She could speak English this whole time!

“I thought she might be pulling the wool over Foster's eyes.  With the kind of education Sokolov can afford, she probably speaks several languages fluently, don't you, Isabella?”

“Of course I can.  I thought it best not to let anybody know I could understand them.  Information flows when people think you cannot understand them.”  She shook her head.  “Stupid Americans.”

Carlo decided to let the insult slide, though the corner of Carpenter's lip quirked up.  “I really am here to help you.  What do you know about Vladimir Dubshenko?  The more you can tell me, the faster we can have him sent to prison and get you back to your father.”

“My father will gut Dubshenko where he stands.  He'll never make it to any American prison.”  Isabella promised.

“While I'd like nothing more than to leave Dubshenko to your father's tender mercies, there is more at stake here than just you, princess.”

“What do you mean?”  Isabella sat down on the edge of the sofa, perched for flight at their slightest movement.  Carlo knew she didn't trust him, and why should she?  Kidnapped and smuggled into another country, manhandled and drugged, those were only some of the things she'd endured.  He really had no clue what else she'd been through, and she wasn't exactly forthcoming with info.

“Dubshenko has done a lot of very bad things, but there's somebody even more evil who's his boss.  I have to find out who that is before we can send Dubshenko to meet his maker.  He's also threatened my sister.  For that alone, I'm going to make him bleed.”  Carlo's words held a promise filled with conviction.  Carpenter's indrawn breath confirmed maybe The Ghost didn't know everything going on, though he knew enough.

Isabella studied him and Carlo left himself open, vulnerable to this fifteen-year-old woman-child, praying she'd read the truth in him.  After what seemed like an eternity, she slowly nodded.

“My father talks about Dubshenko.  Says he wants more and more.  More money.  More power.  If he was an American citizen, he'd want to be President.”  She chuckled.  “Can you imagine him as your leader?”

That thought alone had shivers of unease crawling up Carlo's spine, and he spared a glance toward Carpenter, who rolled his eyes.  Yep, that would be really bad.

“He tells my father he wants a bigger cut of the profits.  He's taking all the risks, he should have more rewards.  My father tells him
nyet
, he can replace him like that.”  She snapped her fingers.

“Dubshenko met with my father several months ago, along with other business associates, at our home.  My sister and I were kept out of sight, but…”

“But you couldn't help sneaking out to see what was going on, am I right?”  Carpenter interjected with a pat to her hand.

“Like you, they treat me like a baby.  Isabella, you can't come down to dinner, it's business.  Isabella, you must stay away from the ballroom, your father cannot be disturbed.”  She plucked at a string on her jeans-clad thigh.  “I didn't mean to cause trouble, but on my way back from the stables I snuck onto the patio, the one that backs onto the room they were meeting in, and peeked in the window.  Vladimir Dubshenko was there, along with several others.  He was the only one who saw me, though.  There was this look on his face, like he'd been handed a prize.  He winked at me and I ran—like a coward.”

“Isabella—”

“I know my father does bad things.  You don't have to tell me this, but you have to understand—he's my father and he loves me.  I love him.”

“We will get you back to your father, I promise.”  Carlo made the vow, knowing he'd do everything in his power to ensure she'd be reunited with her father.  Growing up the way he had, he understood better than most that blood was thicker than water.  His family wasn't perfect, but he loved them anyway.

“Where's Foster?”  Carpenter's voice broke into Carlo's thoughts.  He looked around.  Good ole Foster was nowhere in sight.

“You don't think…” Carlo began but Carpenter cut him off.

“We're outta here, now.”  Carpenter pulled Isabella off the sofa and started for the front door.  “Foster's been acting odd ever since he called me to talk to Isabella.  He's been there every time we've talked, hasn't he, Isabella?”

She nodded, her hand within Carpenter's.  They raced toward the front door.

“Him not being here, wanting to know what's happening, something's definitely off.  We'll split and check with him later.  Right now, we need Isabella safe or we'll have one hell of an international incident parked right at the steps of the White House.”

Carlo pulled open the front door and froze.  Foster stood on the small wooden deck's middle step, a shotgun pointed dead center at his chest.  Damn, I'm sick and tired of having guns pointed at me, he thought.  Behind him, nobody moved.

“Carlo, buddy, I'm sorry but the money is too good to pass up.  Once Carpenter uncovered who our guest is, I couldn't resist.  I'll cut you in on the reward.  Man, we could be living the high life down in South America.”

“Why, Foster?  You're one of the good guys.”

“Yeah, well, where has being one of the good guys gotten me?  Stuck in this rat hole in South Texas, watching drug dealers and murderers rake in the dough hand over fist.  My wife split, took the kids with her.  I'm paying so much alimony and child support, I'm lucky to have enough to buy macaroni and cheese once a week.”

“So it's all about the money?”  Carpenter's disdain was apparent.

“Hell, yeah, it's about the money.  You'd never understand, Mr. Moneybags.  You've got more money than the gross national deficit of some small countries.  So don't look down your nose at me when I'm barely scraping by.”

Carlo took a step forward and Foster raised the shotgun up a notch higher.  “Don't do it, man.  We're friends.  I don't want to hurt you.  Gregorski's got guys on their way to pick her up.  She'll be delivered to Dubshenko, and everything can go back to the way it was, except we'll be rolling in moolah.”

Carlo shook his head.  He, better than anybody else here, knew Dubshenko wouldn't let them live.  When Ivor Gregorski got here, all three men would be dead, and Isabella thrown into the hands of a monster who'd either use her as a bargaining chip to control her father or rape her then sell her on the black market as a sex slave.  Either way, her life would be ruined.

“Back inside.  We'll wait until Gregorski's men get here.  Carlo, get Carpenter's gun and put it on the table.”  Foster motioned with the shotgun, stepping forward and crowding everyone back into the entry.  Carlo glanced toward Carpenter, nodded and the man pulled a Glock from behind him, gripping it by the muzzle to hand it to Carlo.

With a move worthy of those big blockbuster, Hollywood special effects Carlo spun and fired in one smooth movement, hitting Foster between the eyes.  The shotgun discharged with a reflexive twitch of the dead man's finger on the trigger, the shot going wide as his body fell backward onto the front steps.

An eerie calm settled over the small entryway as the reality of what happened settled over Carlo.  Another betrayal, another friendship lost due to the lure of filthy lucre.  Everybody's brains seemed to be screwed up lately, with the love of money ruling out their common sense.

In the distance, the sound of an engine broke through the quiet.  It had to be Gregorski's men.  No reason for anybody else to be headed for Foster's place.

“Get her out of here.”  Carlo spun at Carpenter's voice, reflexively snatching the keys he'd tossed out of midair.  Isabella's head darted back and forth between the two men, fear written across her young face.