Eye of the Storm (8 page)

CASSIE ALLOWED HERSELF
to be led from the house, watching helpless as Kasanov’s thugs escorted Muriel to a Lincoln Town Car parked at the curb and shoved her inside.

A second, identical car pulled up behind it. Kasanov opened the rear door for Cassie. She tensed, thinking this might be her best opportunity to escape, knowing the others inside the house would be watching for a chance to save the situation, waiting on her cue.

“Please, Dr. Hart, don’t underestimate me like Mrs. Steadman did. I’ve read all about your tendency for heroics,” Kasanov said calmly, reaching into his pocket. Instead of the gun Cassie expected, he pulled out a handheld radio. “My men are listening—anything goes wrong and Mrs. Drake will be killed.”

Cassie resisted the urge to spit in his face—adolescent antics would do nothing to improve the situation. But it would have made her feel better, given her some brief sense of control. Not to mention the satisfaction of wiping that greasy smile from his face.

Kasanov seemed disappointed by her docility as she climbed into the car, pulling the folds of the wedding dress in with her.

“I’ve lived this long by learning not to believe everything I hear,” he told her once he’d joined her in the back seat. “But also by not underestimating anyone I deal with. You can rest assured that if it had suited my purposes, I would have left no witnesses, would have snapped that boy’s neck if only to prove to you who is in control here.”

Cassie was silent as he lounged against the corner, not bothering with a seat belt. He had wanted to leave witnesses. Why? A message for Drake could have been just as easily sent with dead bodies. She had a suspicion that it was some form of misdirection, but she couldn’t see how. Kasanov hadn’t even bothered with the comic book formula of telling them not to call the police—which would be the first thing Andy would do.

She wasn’t surprised then when they pulled into a parking garage and she was hustled into a second vehicle, a light gray Dodge Caravan, complete with a “Baby on Board” bumper sticker. The car Muriel was in was nowhere to be seen. How far was his radio’s range? she wondered.

“What do you want?” she finally asked as they drove off in the van, hidden from traffic behind tinted windows.

“Tell me about your grandmother.” He surprised her. “Tell me about what she did during the war.”

Cassie frowned. “Why do you care about Rosa? What does she have to do with this?”

“Rosa Costello stole everything from me—my father, our family pride, my legacy. It’s because of Rosa Costello that I am who I am.” He smiled at this, the wide grin of a predator. Cassie felt a chill enter the pit of her stomach.

“No matter what happens here you can blame it on your beloved grandmother—Rosa Costello, the bitch.” He spat out the last, a glob of saliva splattering the skirt of Muriel’s dress.

Cassie shifted on the bench seat, protectively pulling the fabric closer to her. Kasanov’s face clouded in fury and he grabbed her, his hand bunching in the folds of silk, yanking her closer to him, ignoring the ripping noise as the skirt caught on the seat buckle.

“Don’t make me beat it out of you,” he snarled, all pretenses at civilization shattered. “As much as I would love to. Because, for the short time, anyway, I need you alive. And if you die, so does Drake’s mother—” He pinched her cheeks in his hands, squeezing her face, forcing her to look at him, to see truth of his threats.

Finally, he released her. She crumbled against the seat back, her chest heaving as she fought for air.

Kasanov crossed his legs, shaking out the crease in his pants leg. “Now. Tell me about your grandparents,” he commanded. “Where did they hide the treasure?”

That’s when Cassie’s courage faltered. Because in all of her grandparents’ tales of their adventures during the war, neither had ever mentioned any kind of treasure.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His slap came like lightning. For a man in his sixties, he had great reflexes. Cassie’s cheek burned but she didn’t touch it; instead, she simply stared at him. He was obviously smart, able to lead men, successful…but if he thought Rosa and Padraic had access to some hidden treasure, then he was also completely mad.

“Tell me where the gold is,” he repeated. “I know they got it out of France—their escape cost my grandfather his life.”

She shook her head. Then remembered. It wasn’t a treasure, not by any definition, but…“Her perina. Rosa kept the gold in her perina.”

A perina was a crazy quilt, a patchwork pieced together by generations of the women in Rosa’s kumpania, each sewing small treasures beneath the fabric to guard against bad times.

Rosa had used her perina for more than a portable treasure chest. After her kumpania had been betrayed and the Nazis captured Rosa, they’d sent her to a prison farm. She’d ground manure and grass seed into the fabric of her perina and then used it as camouflage to help her escape.

Decades later, that same perina had saved Cassie’s life when her house was set on fire. Those ragged bits of fabric, sewn with love, were worth more to her than any treasure.

Kasanov obviously didn’t see it that way. He glared at her. “I’m trying to decide if you’re a fool or just ignorant. If you’re playing with me, it’s Drake’s mother who will suffer.”

“No,” Cassie said. “That’s the only gold I know anything about. Rosa and Padraic never had any money—they lived on a farm, could barely pay the bills. You must be mistaken.”

“I am not mistaken,” he told her in a slow, deadly voice. But then he paused and considered. “And I have no patience for liars.” He raised the radio, gave a command in a language Cassie didn’t understand. Then he held the radio up to her. “Listen.”

A woman’s screams pierced the air, drilling into Cassie.

Muriel.

“Stop, please. I’ll do anything you want.”

“Tell me where the gold is.”

Muriel kept screaming, barely pausing long enough to breathe.

“I told you, I don’t know. Rosa never talked about her past. I can’t tell you what I don’t know!”

DRAKE SPENT THE
morning transforming the rooftop garden into a winter dreamland. Jimmy helped him transport warming lights and braziers, chairs for all the guests, canopies with clear plastic roofs to keep out the cold and let in the stars, and pots of Hart’s favorite roses in full bloom despite the fact that it was December twenty-third.

Hart deserved magic, so he’d been happy to arrange it for her with the help of a local florist whose son had been falsely accused of murder until Drake and Jimmy found the real killer.

“She’s going to love it,” Jimmy assured him as they looked upon their handiwork. “But you’re setting the bar high for the rest of us. Denise is going to expect something just as spectacular come our next anniversary.” He glanced at his dirt-smeared work clothes. “We’d better get cleaned up or Tessa won’t let us in her house.”

They returned to Drake’s apartment where Jimmy used the guest bath while Drake grabbed a quick shower and changed into jeans and a button-down shirt. He sat on the bed, one shoe in his hand, feeling as dazed as a man moving through a dream, the heat of the shower and pleasant ache from the morning’s exertion adding to the illusion. As he smoothed a wrinkle from Rosa’s quilt, a generations-old collection of faded and worn fabric, he realized he had everything he’d ever wanted from life.

In the past, the thought would have been terrifying. Having everything meant you could just as easily lose everything. But not now.

Now it brought a warm contentment. No pre-wedding jitters, no second thoughts. He’d gotten it right. What he had with Hart was true, more real than anything he’d ever experienced. He imagined her walking across the rooftop garden tomorrow night, a thousand lights competing with the stars above, and she’d outshine them all. Imagined the expression on her face, that smile when their gazes met—the smile he’d die for.

After everything they’d been through, they’d more than earned their fairy tale ending. He was so very proud he could give it to her.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted his fantasy. He hastily finished tying his shoe and stood. Jimmy opened the door without waiting. “We gotta go.”

Drake immediately came to full alert. Jimmy’s tone, filled with worry and urgency, sent all his hopes and dreams crumbling into ashes.

“What happened?”

<<<>>>

THE VAN DROVE
for a few more minutes, taking what felt like random turns, until the driver said something to Kasanov in a foreign language. It sounded a bit like Rosa’s Romani, but Cassie only knew a few words of the native gypsy tongue, so wasn’t sure.

Then they came to a stop. The driver opened the door beside Cassie and yanked her out, twisting her arm behind her and placing her in a wristlock that sent pain jolting down her arm. Kasanov joined them. This time they were inside an abandoned Quonset hut. A hanger? Cassie wondered, panic edging past her defenses. If he took her onto a plane, there was no way Drake could follow.

They were parked beside a black Ford Focus—the kind of car no one would look twice at or remember once it passed.

Kasanov opened the trunk and gestured to it. “Get in, Dr. Hart,” he told her with a smile.

Cassie had the sudden feeling that Kasanov knew about her history of claustrophobia and panic attacks. She hadn’t had any problems in months; thanks to Drake, she could even ride in an elevator now.

It was an oft-used technique with prisoners of war: first divide, then disorient, and finally conquer. That knowledge was no help as the familiar whirlpool of panic began to suck her in, stealing her breath, squeezing her chest, strangling her heart. The gaping maw of the car trunk shrank in her vision until it appeared as a suffocating small tomb. No, she couldn’t do it. If she got inside there, she would die.

Cassie fought for control, digging her fingers into her palms until the bite of nails into flesh gave her something to focus on other than the terror that threatened to devour her.

Kasanov jerked her arm, pulling her closer to the dark void. She pulled away and he slapped her.

“I said, get inside.” He reached for the two-way radio. “Would you like to hear Mrs. Drake scream again?”

“No, don’t!” Cassie pushed against the edge of the trunk. Kasanov nodded to his driver who grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back once more. He slid a pair of plastic zip ties over both wrists, pulling them so tight she felt the edges bite into her flesh.

“Give me the radio,” she bargained. “So I know Muriel is still alive.” A voice in the darkness, maybe she could survive if she could talk to Muriel.

“If I wanted her dead, she’d be dead,” Kasanov said flatly.

The driver bent and cuffed her ankles with another set of zip ties, lifted her off her feet, and shoved her into the confined space. Cassie resisted, bucking her body, blocking the lid from being closed.

“I don’t have all day.” Kasanov raised the radio to his lips.

Swallowing a whimper, Cassie lowered herself the remainder of the way into the trunk before he could tell his comrades to hurt Muriel again. He grinned down at her, her last sight before the roof slammed shut.

If I die, he’ll kill Muriel too. She fought for breath. The space stunk of gasoline, rubber, and spoiled meat as if some small furry creature had crawled in here to die. Guess that meant she wasn’t alone, Cassie thought as hysteria threatened to overwhelm her defenses.

The car started and they lurched forward. Her body, already contorted in a painful position, was now slammed and bounced against hard surfaces as they traveled. A surge of nausea rose in Cassie’s stomach and she clamped her jaw shut, swallowing the bile. Her hands and feet grew numb while painful stabs of muscle cramps shot through the rest of her body.

She almost didn’t notice the pain; it was the least of her worries as panic overtook her.

Dead, she was dead. There was nothing she could do, couldn’t breathe, her heart pounding so hard it was going to leap from her chest, couldn’t even swallow, was going to gag—it didn’t matter how, she was dying, going, gone.

She tried to fight—the battle for her mind more terrifying than her struggle with Kasanov. You’ve faced killers before, seen evil and beaten it; don’t give up, a small voice tried to pierce the darkness that had enveloped her.

A voice that sounded like Drake’s.

He’d always been there when she was at her most hopeless, always given her the strength she needed to overcome. Not now. Now she was alone.

She couldn’t do it alone. The sobs echoed through the trunk as Cassie’s spirit broke. She began to scream, to bang, pound on the walls with the frenzy of a madwoman. The only response when she finally quieted, head and knees bruised, throat raw, slumped in exhaustion, was the sound of laughter coming from the man in the rear seat.

Laughing as she died.

She had no more tears but cried just the same, certain each breath was her last. She curled up into the fetal position, whimpering, broken as darkness overtook her.

Then warm arms encircled her, snugging her into their embrace. She felt Drake’s breath on her neck as he whispered in her ear, the steady comfort of his heartbeat against her back, his hands clasping hers tight, pouring his strength into her body.

She strained to hear his words but it was as if he were too far away. She tried to quiet her breathing, and finally the rushing in her brain subsided so that she could hear his gentle whisper.

“I’m here,” he was saying. “I’ll always be here.” And he moved one of his hands to rest over her heart.

As their heartbeat and breathing synchronized, Cassie allowed herself to fall into an exhausted stupor, cradled within the safety of Drake’s arms.

DRAKE INSISTED ON
driving while Jimmy worked the phone and scanned any intersections they blasted through. Normally, the drive to Tessa’s home in Bloomfield took twelve minutes, fifteen if the lights went against you; today, Drake ignored the lights and made it in half that time.