On Best Behavior (C3) (40 page)

“What are you doing?” Ben asked, halting mid-step behind her.

“Trying to see where they handcuff the prisoners to the chair.” A long breath left her lungs. “I can’t believe they took my phone!”

“At least you got a few calls off in the car.” He resumed his pacing.

“This is ridiculous. Why won’t they tell us anything?” She stood and stalked over to the door. Yanking it open, she narrowed her eyes at the man standing outside. “Agent Thompson, I demand to know what’s going on. Why do you have us in here? Why’d you take away my phone?”

“Just following Agent Bounter’s orders, ma’am. We don’t want anyone tracking your location with it.”

“Oh.”
That sort of made sense
.

“And we don’t want you announcing your location to the whole world, either.”

“I only called people I trusted!”

“Yeah,” Ben echoed behind her, apparently joining the conversation. She stepped into the hallway, and he followed her.

“Despite me telling you not to make those calls,” Agent Thompson growled.

A flash of red caught Sophie’s eye, and she turned to see a short, auburn-haired woman rounding the corner. She broke out in a relieved smile. “Marilyn!”

Detective Marilyn Fox rushed forward. Before she reached them, Agent Thompson stuck his arm out to block her. “Who’re you?”

Marilyn flashed her badge. “You guys already gave me enough crap downstairs. I’m with CPD.”

“You’re with the Chicago police now?” asked Sophie.

“Just transferred last month.”

When the agent appeared satisfied, she tucked her badge back into the pocket of her suit jacket.

“You’re the detective who found my dad’s body, huh?” Ben asked.

Sophie gasped.

“And you’re Benjamin Barberi,” Marilyn countered as she shook his hand. “I remember you from the police station last year.” She turned back to Sophie. “Jerry and your father are downstairs—the agents won’t let them up.”

“And how’d
you
make the cut?” Agent Thompson asked.

“Lucas Bounter is a friend of mine. You know, Agent Bounter…your
boss?”

Thompson appeared ready to retort when his cell phone buzzed. As he turned away to take the call, Marilyn turned to Sophie. “How’re you holding up?”

“Not so good,” she rasped.

“Oh, dear.” Marilyn wrapped her arms around her and squeezed her tight. The top of the detective’s head came up to her chin, which made her smile through her tears.

“I think I’m taking all my anger out on poor Agent Thompson too,” Sophie added.

“Said by the psychologist—always analyzing behavior. Thank you for having the wherewithal to call us.” Marilyn let go of her. “Have you heard anything?”

“No! I keep asking them to call Bounter—”

“No need,” Thompson butted in, holding the phone out. “He wants to speak to you.”

Sophie snatched the phone. “What’s happening?”

“Put it on speaker!” Ben urged, but she ignored him.

“We have news.” She closed her eyes and braced herself as Bounter spoke. “It looks like the Russians have Grant.”

Oh, God
. “Is he alive?”

“We don’t know.” He cleared his throat. “We haven’t honed in on his location yet.”

“How do you know it’s the Russians, not Mullens?”

“We have an eyewitness at the scene, a block from your apartment. She says she saw a man in a baseball cap carry a shirtless man, slung over his back, to a car and shove him inside. Then some more men—we think four—approached in another car, and they shouted at each other. Shots went off—”

“
Gunshots?”
Sophie looked up to find Ben with a look of horror and Marilyn’s mouth set in a firm line.

“Yes,” Bounter replied. “Unfortunately Grant and Mullens are gone, and so are the Russians, but Mullens’s car is still there…”

Sophie clutched the phone. “Do the Russians know Grant’s working undercover?”

“We’re not sure what Mullens has told them. Uh, there’s some blood…the car’s rented to a…” He paused, and she heard the rustle of paper. “Hans Koch Fucher…oh Lord, I just realized what that sounds like when you say his name out loud…”

“Bounter!” she barked. “You said there’s blood?”

“Sorry. We’re testing the blood for a match, but it might take a while.”

To her embarrassment, a sob erupted from her throat.
They’re gonna kill Grant.

“I’m so sorry,” he continued. “We were setting up the hotel job for tonight and couldn’t get to him fast enough…”

She swallowed, unable to find any words of forgiveness.

“We’ll find him,” he promised. “We’re getting warrants for all the Russians’ properties. We’ll do everything we can, okay?”

She looked at Ben as she asked, “Have you talked to Enzo Barberi?”

“No.” Bounter paused. “Why would we?”

How stupid was the FBI? “Because
he’s
the one who set this all up!”

“Wait a minute. Based on what Ben told us, we believe Enzo is behind Mullens kidnapping Grant. But Mullens didn’t count on Grant’s apartment being bugged by the Russians, or the Russians scooping him up. For all we know, Mullens is dead, and Grant will make up some story about him. Hell, Grant could still show up tonight ready to rob the hotel with the Russians.”

“Or maybe Enzo’s working with the Russians,” Sophie said. Ben fidgeted next to her.

“Do you have any evidence of that?”

“Do I have any evidence of Enzo trying to ruin Grant’s life? I have
plenty!”

“Calm down, Sophie,” Bounter admonished. “We have to stay cool-headed here.”

“Like
hell
we do!” she roared. “Spare me your sexist rhetoric, Agent Bounter. Emotions are just as important as reason. Nobody knows Grant better than I do, and nobody knows what hell Enzo has put Grant through better than me.”

“What’re you talking about? I am
not
sexist—”

“I want agents interrogating Enzo Barberi. Now. He’s still involved…I can feel it.” When he didn’t respond, she asked, “Did your mother ever sniff out your misbehavior when you were a kid? Even when you hid it well?”

After a moment, he admitted, “Every time.”

“Call it female intuition then. I know you’re worried about wasting manpower, but
please
find out how Grant’s father is involved. Please.”

She held her breath until finally he said, “Okay. I’ll send two of my best to Gurnee. Meanwhile, you stay put, got it? I don’t have anyone to spare to go out looking for you too.”

“Got it.” She exhaled. “Thank you.”

She handed the phone to Agent Thompson, but Marilyn intercepted it.

“Hey!” he protested.

“Bounter,” she said. “I want to go to Gurnee.”

Ben studied Sophie with tired eyes as Marilyn walked down the hallway, phone in hand, with Thompson trailing her. “Is Uncle Grant gonna die?”

Sophie tossed her hair back and squared her shoulders, attempting a sense of optimism she certainly didn’t feel. “No, Ben. Grant’s going to make it.” She forced a faint smile. Grant
had
to make it.

22. Confess

B
LINDING
B
RIGHTNESS
.

Icy cold.

Grant returned to consciousness gasping for air, with pricks of freezing water dripping down his face. His eyes couldn’t blink fast enough to adjust to the light shining down on him. But after a moment he could see that beyond the circle of light was darkness. He heard the scuff of a shoe on the floor but could see nothing beyond the brilliant glow. He smelled earthy mildew and urine.

His thundering heart told him he was alive. So Mullens hadn’t given him poison—just some sort of sedative. A sound drew his attention, and Andrei stepped into the light. He set down an empty metal bucket. Any hint of warmth that had once shown in his eyes was gone, replaced by ironclad resolve.

“Take three buckets of water to wake you,” he said, his voice flat and low.

Grant peered down at the rivulets of said water on his naked chest. When he moved to wipe them he found his arms trapped behind him. Andrei had bound his wrists together. The burning sensation seemed to indicate rope, and his wrists were secured to the wooden chair beneath him. He looked back up to find Andrei prowling around the circle, pinning him with a hostile stare. Was this what it felt like to be in the ring with the former boxing champ?

“He give you strong drug, yes?”

Now that his eyes had adjusted, he could see the shadowy outline of another man off to the right, also tied to a chair. Andrei scooted the man’s chair toward him—a scrape of wood against concrete. This man slumped forward, revealing a crown of short blond hair. His green shirt hugged his muscles, and Grant knew who he was before Andrei seized a clump of the man’s hair and yanked his head back.

When Ricker Mullens moaned, Grant’s airway constricted. Perhaps he would’ve been better off if Mullens
had
poisoned him.

“Who is he?” Andrei asked.

Another moan from the German and now Grant could see two oozing stains on his shirt, shiny black against the green.
Gunshot wounds
. No wonder he was groaning, looking half-dead. He prayed Mullens would be all-dead before revealing he worked for the FBI.

Andrei let Mullens’s head bob back down and took a step toward Grant. “Who is this man?” he repeated, more menace underlining his words this time.

Grant knew he’d better answer soon, but he had no idea what to say, and his fuzzy brain wasn’t helping. Did Andrei already know he worked for the FBI? If so, he’d have killed him already, right? Was he testing his honesty? He tensed at the sounds of a scuffle behind him. He felt something brush by as the bodyguard came around his chair and scowled down at him. He clasped the chair’s back and he leaned in with a leer. Grant braced himself to get hit.

“Vasily!” Andrei barked.

Grant had never heard the bodyguard’s name before. At Andrei’s harsh Russian words, Vasily straightened, muttered something in retort, and skulked off the direction he’d come from. Grant wondered if Vladimir was back there too.

In a flash, Andrei delivered a searing uppercut to Grant’s chest. With his breath whooshed out of him, he slumped over, straining his shoulders. His body position likely mirrored Mullens’s as he fought for air.

Apparently Andrei wanted to conduct the interrogation himself.

His shoes stopped right under his line of vision. Suddenly he looked into Andrei’s blazing eyes, his head ripped back by the Russian’s forceful grip. “Provide answer, Mick.”

Grant attempted to swallow, but his throat was too dry. “Yes, sir,” he rasped.

“Good.” The pressure on his forehead abated as Andrei stepped back, gestured toward Mullens, and nodded. “This idiot say you work for Barberi.”

Grant liked how his family name sounded with a Russian accent. He wondered if the name’s origin had any connection to Russia.

Andrei snapped him out of his reverie. “Is true?”

Grant tried to remember the question. Something about Barberi? His eyelids drooped. “Is
what
true?”

Andrei’s fist slammed into his jaw, sending him reeling to his right, nearly toppling him. The crunch of contact and blast of pain made him wonder if his jaw had broken. As the rope chafed at his wrists, he realized blood pooled in his mouth. Something hard floated in the blood coating his tongue…Oh, God, it was a tooth. His gag reflex kicked in, and he spit a spray of blood onto the dirty concrete floor. The tooth rattled as it skipped into the darkness.

Once he righted himself, Andrei got in his face. “Is true you work for Barberi?”

Christ
. Should he confess his lineage? That had to be better than admitting he worked for the feds, right? Sorting through his thoughts, he watched Andrei’s fist cock back and braced himself for more blood.

“The drug make him slow,” said a deep voice in the darkness.

Andrei dropped his arm and looked to where his boss emerged from the shadows. Vladimir glared at Grant. “He not, as you say, fire on all cylinders.”

He bent down and gripped the armrests of Grant’s chair. Grant pressed back against the wooden slats but couldn’t escape the stink of stale cigars as the don’s unshaven face filled his world. “Focus, Mick,” he ordered, adding to the olfactory onslaught.

Grant blinked several times in an attempt to follow the order. Apparently he didn’t look coherent enough because Vladimir walloped a stinging slap across his cheek. He barely had time to catch his breath before the Russian backhanded his other cheek. His face on fire and his vision blurred, he panted for air.
Interesting refocusing strategy
.