Chimera (7 page)

“Vasily.” I didn’t remember drawing my gun, but the crosshatched rubber of the grip filled my hand as cool plastic teased my trigger finger. It was the only thing I could feel. My arms, legs, even my face, felt numb and lifeless, but my palm felt the imprint of the gun as if it were a brand, red-hot and marking me for life. “Be still,” I said gently. “It’s over.”

And it was over. Once I put him down, it would be all over . . . for the both of us. But Lukas would live. Lukas would be free. Whether that made it worthwhile depended on your point of view. I raised the 9 mm. It was unfortunate for Vasily that his point of view no longer counted.

Raising curious eyebrows, Saul bounced a fortune cookie in his hand as I continued to scrub. “Should I even ask?”

“No,” I answered shortly in a tone that had made lesser men think twice. Saul, unfortunately, was not a lesser man.

“So much for scintillating conversation,” he said dryly. Cracking open the cookie, he extracted the small slip of paper and gave an audible growl. “Do you believe this shit? It’s a hard sell for some time-share scheme. It’s not bad enough we get this crap in bathroom stalls. Now they’re screwing with our cookies.” At any other time his outrage would’ve been amusing, but not too much was tickling my funny bone today.

“You want a fortune? Here’s your fortune.” I slammed down the lid of the trunk. “Life is short, so get to the goddamn point.”

His eyes dropped to the wad of paper towels clenched in my fist. I’d cleaned up most of the blood with the ones I’d pawned off on Sevastian, but there was still a faint splotch of red fading to wet pink on the one I held now. A ripple of unease passed through the mobile face before disappearing under a smooth mask. Saul had a definite nodding acquaintance with violence himself, but the implications here . . . a bloody trunk . . . might be more than even he cared to consider. “How about we go upstairs and eat while we talk? Having a picnic in an underground garage isn’t my idea of class.”

Giving his green, blue, and purple kaleidoscope silk shirt a disparaging glance, I drawled, “Yeah, you’re all about class.” I shrugged and led the way to the elevator. Upstairs I let us into my place, tossed the paper towels in the garbage, and washed my hands. As the warm water washed over my skin, I let it also carry the morning’s events with it. I couldn’t afford to be distracted. If that meant mentally burying the vision and consequences of what I’d done, that’s what I would do. It wasn’t as if they wouldn’t be in good company. I might have to look into a bigger box. It was getting tight in there.

“Bring me a beer, would you?” Saul called from the living room.

Seconds later I tossed him a cold bottle with a jaundiced growl. “Don’t you hate it when your ass gets superglued to the couch? Lazy bastard.”

He caught the bottle and disregarded the barb with aplomb. “Hope you can use chopsticks.”

He couldn’t have told me that while I was still in the kitchen with the forks. I had many skills, some of which involved pointed objects, but wielding chopsticks wasn’t one of them. It didn’t matter. Hunger was the last thing on my mind at the moment. “It’s all yours, Skoczinsky. Eat up.”

“Your loss.” He put his feet up on the coffee table and opened a carton of rice. “Don’t come crying to me that you didn’t get your daily dose of MSG.”

I knew better than to think I could go toe-to-toe with the perpetual motion machine that was Saul’s mouth. “Did you get all the equipment?” I didn’t sit, instead walking over to the window to take a look at a view with which I was already intimately familiar.

“Everything but the weapons. You said you would handle that.”

We’d been planning for five days now. In that time I’d managed to gather enough guns to give the NRA an orgasm. I’d also obtained Tasers, tear gas, and stun grenades, all police quality. My friends of the semiofficial capacity weren’t exactly in high places, but they didn’t have to be to get their hands on what I needed. “I took care of it.”

“Sure you got enough?”

The side of my mouth crooked. “You’d better bring a back brace.”

Saul had no complaints. He liked his skin in one piece and keeping it that way was of paramount importance in the Skoczinsky scheme of things. “I’ll bring a wheelbarrow if I have to.” Popping a clump of steamed rice into his mouth, he chewed and swallowed. “Have you given thought to what the hell you’re going to do if we manage to pull him out of that place?”

Had I given it thought? I’d given it nothing but. I could go to the police. None of my past indiscretions were known, not even today’s. What a versatile word, indiscretion . . . and how amazing the amount of dark and ugly territory it could cover. Most of that territory was invisible to the cops, and that meant I could take Lukas to the nearest station and scream for help like any other law-abiding citizen. And within an hour I’d be yelling again as those beefy guys in khakis dragged us back to the compound. Not government, but the government ties we so strongly suspected could come into play to pinpoint us in a heartbeat. The police were out of the question; probably the FBI as well. Call me suspicious and paranoid. It was better than being called dead.

My best bet was to go underground. Konstantin wouldn’t be exactly thrilled to have me use the family network as a place to hide, but he would go along with it. It wouldn’t be for my sake so much as a gesture for Anatoly. For protecting his ally’s long-lost son, he could and would expect to be rewarded. Whether in measures of money or power, Gurov would come out far ahead of the game. I had never known him not to.

Taking this to my father now wasn’t an option I’d wasted any time entertaining. At best he’d think me crazy; at worst he’d interfere. Aside from that, the possibility of finding Anatoly could take more time than I had. But once I had Lukas and could prove he was my brother, then I could go to my father. Out of sight within the family, hopefully I would have the leeway to track him down. Whoever ruled that armed structure might have the authorities on a choke chain, but fucking around with my less-than-easygoing pop was on par with sticking your dick in a shark’s mouth and asking for a blow job. It just wasn’t a good idea.

“Don’t worry about it.” I turned and watched as Saul broke into the second carton. Red sauce thickly coated the tofu clump and I shifted my gaze to over his shoulder. “If worse comes to worst, we’ll crash at your place.”

The disquiet evidenced in the sharp knitting of his eyebrows dissipated as he realized I wasn’t serious. “Asshole,” he grumbled around a mouthful of sweet and sour.

“Better you don’t know anyway.”

“Better for you, yeah,” he countered cynically.

He was right. It was better for me. They shouldn’t be able to hunt down either of us if we did our jobs correctly. But if by some bizarre twist they did find one of us, specifically Saul, I didn’t want them to be able to get a scrap of information on my escape plan. With enough incentive anyone would talk. I knew the truth of that from personal experience seeing that today for an unforgettable time I had been the incentive.

Dumping the warm container on the coffee table with no care for the fine fake wood veneer, Saul appeared to have lost his appetite. “I put your money in my happy place. Funny. If anything, it made it less happy.”

I knew he was worried about getting out of this alive. He would be an idiot if he weren’t, and Saul was anything but an idiot. “Stay quick and smart, and you’ll live to buy leather pants again.”

“At least I’d look good in them. I can’t say the same for your flat Russian ass,” he sniped before finishing off half his beer in two long swallows. Saul’s much-vaunted fashion sense came from the disco era, but it didn’t seem to slow him down with waitresses who dreamed of one day making the big time: exotic nude masseuse. Who was I to say anything? If it worked, it worked. How it worked could remain a mystery. I was fine with that.

It went on that way for the majority of the night as we ran through the scenario again and again. Caustic quips and sarcastic swipes kept us from dwelling on what an incredible long shot this was . . . both for rescuing Lukas and maintaining a healthy pulse for ourselves. Near dawn, Saul dozed off, sprawled loose limbed and at ease across my sofa as if he owned it. I ended up at my computer desk, fiddling with the handle on the bottom drawer. After several minutes I gave in and pulled out the picture I’d received in the mail two weeks ago. Running a thumb lightly across the glass, I wiped away a nonexistent speck of dust.

“One more day, Lukasha,” I promised, the whisper a bare breath of sound. “One more day.”

With twilight falling just before seven this far into the year, the headlights of the truck were already on as it rolled past our hiding place. It was one week after I’d first spotted it—one week and right on time. There was the gentle squeal of brakes and a less gentle cursing floating out the window as the driver spotted the obstruction. A blond guy with a beer belly and hairstyle best left in the sixties, he climbed out of the cab. By the time he, with hands on hips, was studying the branch, Saul and I were on the move.

Dressed in black shirts, pants, gloves, and silk masks similar to a balaclava, we ran unseen to the back of the truck and slithered underneath. Fist-sized powerful magnets equipped with handles let us cling to the undercarriage as our combat-booted feet dug for purchase. Saul had come up with most of the more esoteric equipment with a flash of a brief and bitter line of a smile. “Connections of an ex-military life. Don’t ask, don’t tell,” had been the beginning and end of his conversation on the subject.

As we silently hung there with arms straining, I could hear the driver puffing and swearing as he cleared the road. Then he was back in the truck and the asphalt began passing beneath us. The entire thing had taken less than five minutes, which was essential. If too much time passed, the guards would be suspicious and start to grill the driver, and that wouldn’t do. As it stood now, this event barely registered with our blond, not especially bright Elvis and wasn’t worth imprinting on an alcoholic brain cell, much less mentioning to the khaki crew.

The five miles passed and if we’d been walking rather than riding, it couldn’t have passed any more slowly. By the time we reached the compound’s gate, the muscles in my arms were howling in agony and I had a mild headache from the exhaust and the adrenaline. Turning my head, I could see the hyped glitter of Saul’s eyes through the narrow opening of his mask. We were both feeling the rush, although neither one of us seemed to be enjoying it. I felt the truck jerk as the driver put it in park. Several pairs of big feet in leather sneakers approached as I heard the driver’s side door being opened. This was it then.

“Open the back.”

The voice was dispassionately professional, just a man doing his job. I hoped he did it precisely the way it had been done last week; otherwise we were stuck outside the gate with a couple of dead guys in tan pants, which was not the sign of a well-executed plan. Suddenly the truck’s shifting on its tires as someone got a leg up on the bumper was followed by the sound of double doors in the back being opened. With a mouth dry and gritty as sandpaper, I waited for one of the inevitable thousand things that could go wrong. They could change their routine and look under the truck. Elvis could mention the unexpected stop a few miles back. There was no end to the shit that could befall us. Waiting was always the worst. Whether for ten seconds or ten years, it didn’t matter. Waiting could shrivel the soul.

But despite my dark expectations, everything went like clockwork. It made me wonder if someone was paying attention up there or if they weren’t and we’d slipped under the radar.

Within moments the rummaging was over, the doors were shut, and the feet were in retreat. I closed my eyes and forced the churning acid back down where it belonged, eating a hole in my stomach. Elvis settled back into his seat, lowering the chassy by several inches, shifted into drive, and we were inside—just like that. It couldn’t have gone more perfectly if it had been scripted by fate itself.

The truck moved on at barely fifteen miles an hour for a short space until it pulled up next to a building; I could see the concrete base of the wall, plain and spare, in a dingy yellow artificial light. With the damn thing finally parked, I was able to unclench my fingers and with trembling arms let myself down to the ground. Every muscle in my body had taken on the consistency of overly boiled cabbage. Rolling over onto my stomach, I slid along the gravel to the edge of the undercarriage. I caught a glimpse of Elvis standing in an open door chatting up this place’s version of the lunch lady. Improbably red hair, pear-shaped butt, and thick hose on thick legs, she didn’t float my boat, but apparently she did something for Elvis. I didn’t judge. I simply recognized the chance and took it.

Propelling myself on my elbows, I crept out from under the truck and lunged into the shadows. Saul was hard on my heels, so hard in fact that he nearly ran me over. With a healthy sense of self-survival combined with those cutting-edge fashion skills of his, Saul was a true Renaissance man. With the building wall gritty against my back, I moved fast until I took a corner and passed into a deeper darkness.

“And that, Smirnoff, is why I refuse to marry. Once the ring is on, the ass immediately triples in size.”

The disgusted hiss was a puff of air against my ear. His comment on the mating habits of food servers and ex-Kings of Rock and Roll couldn’t have been heard from more than five inches away, but it didn’t stop me from jabbing a warning elbow into Skoczinsky’s ribs. It had passed from full twilight into early night and we were fairly well concealed by it, but there was no need to press our luck. Moving on, we found a stairwell framed by straggling bushes and concrete. It was thick with grime and dirt, indicating it hadn’t been used for some time. Settling down into it, we prepared to wait four or five hours until the place was tucked in for the night. There might be a few khakis on patrol on the inside of the walls, but at least the other personnel, including the maligned lunch lady, would be asleep. It made the process of breaking and entering a little less dangerous for us.

The hours passed. And that’s about the best that could be said, that they did pass. After ten years, you’d think a few hours was something I could handle; that in comparison it would be nothing—less than nothing; a drop in an angry, churning ocean. But it wasn’t. It was ten years all over again.

Finally a hand on my shoulder brought me out of a reverie of nothingness. “Time to go.” With his voice tight and controlled, Saul was all business now. He moved to the metal door and went to work with a skill that had me whistling low under my breath. Whatever branch of the service Skoczinsky had served in, he hadn’t spent his time peeling potatoes. It took nearly forty minutes, but he got us in, bypassing an alarm system I doubt I would’ve detected and cutting the glass from the tiny window set high on the door. After that it was a simple matter to manipulate a dead bolt with a long wire, and then we were in.

Out of the night and straight down the rabbit hole

It looked like a hospital operating room. There was the glitter of metal everywhere in the form of needles and probes, clamps and gurneys. Monitors upon monitors and trays of instruments put the finishing touches on the theme. And if that had been all in the room, it could’ve passed as a medical facility. But that wasn’t all; that was only half the picture. Recessed security lighting showed computers on standby, softly humming in oddly comforting song. It wasn’t one or two either, but an entire bank of them lining the wall. Screen after screen filled with a slowly rotating DNA strand shed a sickly green glow onto the shiny linoleum floor. That kind of tan and white checkerboard-patterned tile was cheap and easy to clean—especially of blood. I’d seen that theory proven true firsthand in the basement of Konstantin’s bar. A bucket of a water and bleach mixture and a mop and it was as easy as that . . . except for the cracks.

Close to the operating table, I knelt down and pressed a gloved finger to the thin brown line that ran between the tile. This place wasn’t just for looking pretty; they used it. Why was it I didn’t believe they were performing tonsillectomies down here?

“This is one creepy motherfucking place.”

I looked over at the whisper to see a child-sized hospital gown cascading from Saul’s hand in a fall of pale turquoise. It was an oddly forlorn sight, that scrap of material. Despite its cleanliness—there wasn’t a drop of anything on it, including blood—the sight of it made my stomach twist all the same. “Anything on the computers?” I asked, shifting my eyes to the safer target. I knew enough to surf the Net, but that was about the extent of my knowledge. On the other hand, Saul’s business depended on his expertise with the technical as well as the physical.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Saul shrug and move to take a seat at the nearest computer. Grunting at the spinning screen saver, he started typing. “Reminds me of biology class. Bacteria and fetal pigs; I’ve had better times,” he said.

Then and now, I was assuming. Remaining silent as he worked, I explored the rest of the room. I was loath to call it an infirmary. People were meant to be healed in those types of rooms. I didn’t see healing going on in this place. Along the far wall I found a massive refrigerator, easily the size of a restaurant walk-in model. But while the size might be similar, there was one immediately noticeable difference: the lock. This unit was sealed with a computerized pad that awaited a code key. Hissing in annoyance, I turned back to Saul. “Well?”

With some annoyance of his own, he slapped his hand on the side of the terminal. “It’s locked up tighter than grandma’s panties. I need either a password or a good week to work on it. Since we don’t have either, I suggest we get moving.”

It shouldn’t have mattered, the impenetrable computer and tightly sealed refrigerator. It wasn’t why we were here. I was here to retrieve Lukas, first, last and everything in between. Finding out who had taken him and why would be useful, damn useful, but we didn’t have the time to spend on anything more than a quick and dirty search. We’d already done that now and it was time to move on. That didn’t stop me from looking over my shoulder at the firefly glow of the computer monitors and thinking I was making a mistake walking away so quickly. That DNA molecule, boldly displayed, gnawed at me. What the hell were they doing here?

Saul’s hand on my shoulder pushed me on through the next door. This one was locked as well, but from the inside . . . our side. I was able to handle that without resorting to Skoczinsky’s felonious talents. From there we went upstairs to the first level. The level of illumination remained the same: shadowed gloom interspersed with dim security lights near floor level. We had come out into a long hall. There were doors scattered evenly on either side and the floor was the same bland tile. Past midnight, the place appeared deserted, but I decided it still was time to bring my favorite boy out to play. Some equated guns to women. That bald bastard Sevastian called his Glock Lolita. Not only was he a bastard but a pervert as well. I never saw weapons that way. The ability to do violence isn’t exclusively linked to the male gender, but I couldn’t deny I thought we had a leg up on it. I had never named my 9mm, but I did think of it as male—ruthlessly, amorally, unapologetically male.

Jerking a thumb toward one end of the hall, Saul drifted that way on silent feet with his own gun at the ready. I took the other end and the strength it took to hold the Steyr in my hand was only a fraction of what it took to trigger that first door latch. Aside from the basement, the building, although sprawling, was only one level. The children had to be here, if not in this hall then in the next—or the next. What had been a dream for a good portion of my life had become a reality just beyond my fingertips. Whatever I found here, for good or for bad, was going to irrevocably change who I’d been. It made opening that first door a little like dying.

The metal might have been cool to the touch, but I felt nothing through my glove. Even without the shielding material I don’t think I would’ve felt anything but an icy ghost of a sensation. My nerves, mental and physical, had gone into hibernation for this excursion. It was the only way to function, the only way to survive. And when I opened that first door to see two sleeping boys with coal black hair, I did survive. I survived, breathed in and out like the living do, and then closed the door quietly to move on to the next one.

Each room was equipped with two beds. Sometimes both were filled with either boys or girls and sometimes one would be empty—until I tried the fourth room. As I pulled open the door there, someone was waiting for me. Out of bed and just within reach of the doorway, a little girl looked up at me. She couldn’t have been more than seven, eight at the most. Petite and dressed in plain white pajamas, she had a sweet, heart-shaped face and silver blond hair that was phantom pale in the low light. Innocent and lost, she belonged in a four-poster bed cuddling a furry teddy bear. She belonged with her mother and father, not here; not in this sterile and clinical prison. I clenched my jaw. Goddamnit. She wasn’t my brother and could very well be a distraction that doomed us, but I couldn’t stop myself. She wasn’t mine and she wasn’t Saul’s Rosemary, but she was someone’s. Someone’s heart was ripped out, their life ruined beyond repair because she had been taken. I holstered my gun and held out my hand to her. She didn’t move, didn’t cry out or scream, but only watched me with impassively shadowed eyes. It was unnerving. What kid when faced with a gun-waving man dressed all in black wouldn’t scream her lungs out?

Stripping off my glove, I tried again. Palm up, I let it lie unthreateningly between us with an inner patience I was far from feeling. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” I assured her softly. “Come with me. I’ll take you home.” She didn’t blink at the words or move, but continued to study me with an assessment that was anything but childlike. It almost seemed to hold the cunning of an adult or . . . a wary animal. My hand began to grow cool, then cold, far colder than the temperature warranted. Confused, I pulled it back and turned it over. My nails were dark blue, the skin of my fingers blanched an unnatural white. What the fuck? When I looked back up, the door was shut once again. The girl was gone. Not much to my credit, I wasn’t completely sorry.