On Best Behavior (C3) (38 page)

He glanced around the empty apartment. As he moved Sophie’s briefcase to the corner, out of the way, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Head to West Town in 30 minutes. Mic is operational.

Grant nodded and said, “Yes, sir.” His button microphone negated the need for a reply text. The smell of Sophie lingered on him, and her look of fear flashed through his mind. He glanced down when his phone buzzed again.

Stop worrying about Sophie. Grow a pair.

Smirking, he said, “Yes, sir, Agent Bounter.”

After checking that the hallway was clear, he stole to the stairwell, hustled down a flight, then let himself into his apartment. The TV program he’d left on droned in the background, failing to interest him in his state of nervous jitters. How could he entertain himself until he left? He wished he had time to stop by Ben’s meet, but he knew it would be a bad idea. There was a good chance the Russians were watching him every minute now, with so much on the line.

Deciding to visualize the evening ahead of him, he eased onto the duvet without rumpling the military corners of the sheets underneath. His mind drifted to Mr. Remington’s office—the scene of the crime later tonight. The hidden safe in the coffee table, the combination scrawled on a note taped to the back of a desk drawer…it was all a ruse to make it look like he would lead them to the jackpot. Then he remembered another time the feds swooped in to arrest everyone…the scratch of thick carpet on his cheek after an FBI agent shoved him to the floor in Marina City…the strain of his shoulders as the agent cuffed his hands behind his back. It was time to get cuffed again. It was time for more mobsters to go to prison. He couldn’t freaking wait.

There was a thump on his front door, and he bolted upright on the bed.
Who the hell was that?
Grant shoved the secure phone in its hiding place. He crept down the hallway and before he reached the door, there was another thump followed by a man’s voice calling, “Pizza!”

Grant squinted out the peephole to find a tall, muscled man in a green, long-sleeved shirt and baseball cap with the Chicagoland Pizza logo. The man’s left arm was in a sling, and he held the pizza box with one hand. He stared at his feet, obscuring Grant’s view of his face.

When the man kicked the door—ah, that was the source of the thumping noise—Grant jumped back.

“Come on, man,” the pizza delivery guy said. “I do not got time to wait all day.”

The man’s accent sounded strange, like he had a hearing impairment or something. “Wrong address,” Grant called through the door. “I didn’t order a pizza.”

The bill of the man’s cap lifted an inch, allowing Grant to see his mouth and a shag of blond hair near his temples. “Yah, you did. My boss gave me this address for a…” He looked at the bill taped to the box. “Benjamin. Pre-paid and everything.”

“Benjamin doesn’t live here.” If the Russians could overhear this conversation through the bug in the bathroom, Grant hoped they wouldn’t remember that name.

Pizza Guy’s head sagged, and Grant heard muttering through the door. He looked pitiful in his arm sling, and Grant felt bad that the pizza place had screwed up.

“Look, man, my phone is broke,” Pizza Guy continued. “I will get fired if I show up back at work without completing the job. Can I use your phone?”

The request took Grant off guard. He swallowed and tapped a staccato beat on his leg. He only had about ten minutes before he had to leave to strategize with the Russians. “Sorry, can’t help you.”

“Please?” The delivery guy’s head tilted, but Grant still couldn’t see his eyes. “I got a kid at home. I need this job, man. Please?”

“Why didn’t I get a call from the doorman before you came up?”

Pizza Guy paused for just a second. “He knows me—I deliver to this building all the time. He tried to help speed things up for me with my shoulder sling and all, but I guess you are not as nice as him.” His head drooped again. “Thanks for getting me fired.”

Guilt settled in Grant’s stomach. But something didn’t seem quite right, and he couldn’t let anything stand in the way of taking down the Russians. He’d worked too hard to become a man worthy of Sophie. And he owed it to his mother.

The man finally turned toward the elevator, and Grant caught a glimpse of his profile. For some reason he looked a little familiar. A twinge of unease tightened his throat, and he waited by the door until he heard the elevator’s soft ding.
Good riddance.

Too keyed up to do anything else, he paced his apartment until it was time to leave for West Town. Precisely thirty minutes after his text from Bounter, he grabbed his jacket and keys and opened the door. As he stepped out, a shadow to his left shifted. A flash of green flew across his vision as something sharp sliced into his collarbone.

He shoved against the man pressing into him, and looked down in horror at a syringe jabbed near his left shoulder. His heart racing, he threw Pizza Guy off him as he felt heat spread down his chest from the injection. “
What did you put in me?”

The man gathered himself and straightened. He grinned as he gestured lewdly. “I will put much more in you before the night is over.” His voice had changed, now sounding European. He yanked off his baseball cap, and Grant’s eyes widened. That white-blond hair and pale blue eyes…he’d seen those before.

“He’s from Gurnee,” he whispered into his collar. “It’s…Rick—”

Mullens slammed into him, taking his breath away. “You are wired?” he hissed as he shoved him backward into his apartment.

Grant tried to resist, but his muscles felt like rubber.
No!
He was helpless to prevent Mullens from ripping off his button-down shirt as he muscled him farther into the apartment. His eyelids began to droop, and he felt strangely grateful when he was pushed to the floor. He watched the man ball up the shirt and head to the bathroom.
Get the hell outta here!
he screamed inside his head, but his tremendous effort resulted only in sitting up a bit, propping his back against the sofa. His vision thickened. He heard a splash and realized Mullens must have stuffed the shirt into the toilet.
Bounter
. Agent Bounter and his men would rescue him, right?

“How you like
that
, Barberi?” Mullens said as he shot out of the bathroom.

Grant gasped. The Russians could definitely hear that through the bug. Mullens was screwing with the entire sting operation!

Mullens was on him again, dragging him to his feet. “Get off me!” Grant tried to shout, but it came out more like a whisper. His shoves against the German’s body were ineffective taps. Mullens punched him in the lower back, and he staggered. Sharp pains radiated up his spine.

“That’s payback now that Daddy B’s not here to protect you. Get moving, Justin Bieber,” he growled as he hustled him toward the door. “The fucking feds will be here soon.”

Stumbling forward, Grant could no longer support the weight of his head, which bobbed like a pendulum. All he could see was the geometric design of the hallway carpet as they pushed ahead to the elevator.
Bounter. Where’s Bounter?
Mullens’s dirty hands were all over his bare torso, manhandling him. He remembered him and his boys circling him his first day at Gurnee, after he’d refused his father’s protection.

“
Fresh meat, boys
,” Mullens had crowed. When he’d backed up, he’d added, “
Don’t be scared, sweetheart—we just want to get to know you.
”

The elevator opened, and Mullens pushed him forward, one arm pressed across his chest and the other cupping his ass. He shuddered, realizing what the German wanted from him. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. His heart thumped a sickened cadence.

Once the elevator doors closed, Mullens drew him to the back of the car. “You are sweating,” he said, hugging Grant’s back to his chest. The German’s fingertips skated up his shivering abs. “Slick. Wet. Just as I like it.” Rough lips pressed to the back of his neck. He did his best to squirm away, but he was too weak. What had he been injected with…some kind of sedative? The German’s breath smelled like rotting garlic, and he groaned as he fought to break free.

“Moan for me, baby,” he whispered, pressing more kisses on his shoulder. “We will have a good time before I hand you over to the Russians.”

“
What?”
Grant breathed.

“Oh yah. Papa Barberi found out you work with the feds. He pays me to give you to the Russkies, right after I tell them you are a snitch.”

Grant slumped further and let his eyes close, fighting nausea. After Mullens raped him, Vladimir was going to skin him alive, and Andrei would surely help.
Sophie
. He wouldn’t get to say goodbye.

“Stay with me, Pretty Boy Bieber,” Mullens urged, propping him up in his arms. “Nobody gives
me
orders. Papa B did not know we will have some fun together before I hand you over. I will take good care of you.”

The elevator arrived at the first floor. No neighbors to save him in the empty lobby. No FBI agents to the rescue. Mullens tried to drag him toward the rear exit, but he had trouble putting one foot in front of the other. His cheek stung from a sharp slap. “Move it!” Mullens barked.

His tongue felt fuzzy. He wanted sleep—he just wanted to sleep. A warm sensation flowed down his leg onto his shoe.

“Son of a bitch!” Mullens cried. “You just pissed on me!”

It took a second for the words to register. They sounded like they were spoken underwater. He’d peed in his pants? Was that a bad thing? He couldn’t even feel his feet.

“Goddamn it, I gave you too much, you skinny piece of shit.” Mullens grunted, and Grant was suddenly airborne, slung across the German’s back like a long sack of flour. They blew through the rear exit, and a cool afternoon wind whipped across his naked skin.

There was a screech of tires. A spark of reprieve ignited as Grant prayed Bounter had finally arrived, and he managed to pry open his eyes. His body bobbed up and down across Mullens’s shoulders—oh no, they were running away—would Bounter catch up? As a car door slammed behind them, Grant used any remaining strength he could muster to claw at Mullens’s waist, attempting to get a hold from which to lever himself off. “Trying to get in my pants, yah?” he panted.

That comment and the jostling made him want to barf, but when he heard a man’s voice from behind them, vomiting seemed inevitable.

“Stop!”

That was Andrei, not Bounter.

“Fuck,” Mullens breathed, huffing from running with Grant’s dead weight. “The fucking feds.”

Grant wasn’t about to correct him.
Faster
, he silently urged. The Russians couldn’t get him now—not when Mullens would tell them everything. His vision faded in and out…flashes of the sidewalk, a blur of stores and businesses in his neighborhood. He could feel them slowing as Mullens extracted a key from his pants pocket.

The German leaned over and flung open a car door. Just as Grant felt himself get stuffed inside, Andrei’s shout filled his fuzzy head.

“Stop!”

“Fuck.” Mullens glared at Grant, sprawled helplessly on the reclined passenger seat. “Maybe our love will have to wait.” His face vanished from Grant’s field of vision. “Oh, hallo,” he called, still breathing hard. “I did not know it was you…” Grant forced his eyes open and strained to listen to the exchange. “Vladimir, I presume?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Andrei yelled. “Mick, are you okay?”

No. I’m definitely not okay.

“Barberi is fine,” Mullens answered.

I’m Grant Madsen!
he wanted to scream. The wet sensation on his pant leg had grown cold.

Andrei paused. “Barberi his name?” He didn’t sound entirely surprised, and Grant pieced together the reason the Russians had arrived so quickly—they’d overheard Mullens through the planted listening device.

“Barberi,” Mullens confirmed.

He closed his eyes, wishing he would lose consciousness before Andrei killed him. Another vehicle screeched to a stop and footsteps pounded the pavement.
Bounter. Where’s Bounter?

Instead Andrei spoke in quick Russian to his boss. Grant could make out the words
prick
,
dead
, and, of course,
Barberi
.

“Look, gentlemen,” Mullens interrupted, “I need him for a few minutes, then he is yours. I…I need to take him to visit his father…in prison.”

“Fuck that. Get out here, Mick,” Vladimir demanded.

When he didn’t move, Vladimir’s voice deepened. “Move your ass, Barberi.”

If he could move, that would’ve had him on his feet. As it was, all he could do was wait to be killed. He thought he heard the distant wail of a police siren.

“He is sick,” Mullens said, his voice now tinged with desperation. “I need to get him to hospital.”