Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery) (37 page)

I wanted to hit him again, but I didn't. "Who set up Belov's son?"

"All I know is Krashakov wanted to make a power play, and Belov's son was the first obstacle in his path. There's been some tension between those two for a while, I think." He wiped at the blood on his chin. "I'm in a bad spot, too, Perry. Wayne thought the Russians were going to kill him, and now I'm playing the same role. You think I want to be part of this? Shit, no."

"So why
are
you part of it, Kinkaid?"

He snorted. "You think I got a choice? Hubbard owns my business. Hubbard owns
me.
You don't just walk away from a guy like that."

I moved away from him, pacing the little room. He watched me warily.

"Does Hubbard own Cody, too?" I asked.

He looked at the floor. "I don't know."

I reached down for him, and he threw an awkward punch that I avoided easily as I got my hands under his arms and lifted him. I slammed him back against the wall, twice, hard enough to make the door rattle in its frame. Julie and Betsy had to hear it, but I was too mad to care.

"Yes," he said, "yes, dammit, he's paying Cody. Now get the hell off me, Perry. I'm telling you the truth."

I dropped him and stepped back. "So what's Cody's game, exactly?"

"He's almost legitimate. He was working on the FBI task force that's trying to take down Belov, and he knew Weston was involved with them from the wiretaps. Hubbard paid him to keep his name out of it. He wasn't supposed to derail the investigation, he was just supposed to steer it away from Hubbard."

"Which means he was derailing the investigation," I said. "So let me get this straight--Krashakov was making a power play by eliminating
Belov's son. But who was selling Hubbard the club?"

"Krashakov. He was the muscle in charge of it, even if he wasn't the owner on paper."

"Dainius didn't know about the River Wild deal?"

"No. That was Krashakov's move. He had the authority to sell the club as long as Belov got a cut."

"You sent the Russians down to South Carolina after me, didn't you?" I said.

He pushed himself back against the wall as if he were trying to burrow into it for protection, but this time he was smart enough not to lie. "Yes."

I thought about Rakic and the fat, pale man, about that shotgun swinging toward me, and gritted my teeth. "What about Hartwick?"

"He wasn't a weapons smuggler."

"No kidding. I mean what about his murder, Kinkaid. Did you set that up, too?"

"No."

"Kinkaid, it's over now. Understand that, you cowardly son of a bitch?" I drove my foot into the wall just beside his head, and he jumped as if I'd struck him. "Now tell me what happened with Hartwick."

"I only lied a little about Hartwick," he said. "I wasn't lying when I said he was the most dangerous person I'd ever known. He was a loose cannon up here, Perry. Hubbard couldn't afford to have him here, and neither could Krashakov. As soon as I heard Hartwick was in town, I knew he was here for blood. That's how it worked with Randy. He wasn't here to investigate, he was here to kill."

"Bullshit," I said. "He was trying to figure out a way to buy some safety for Julie and her daughter, just like Joe and I have been. If he'd wanted to kill Krashakov, he'd have done it and gone back to South Carolina."

"I don't know."

"I'm sure you don't, Kinkaid. So Hartwick showed up in town, and you told Krashakov where he could be found, didn't you?"

He was looking at the floor, where drops of his blood were gathering in a small pool. "They were in the cemetery with me. When I left you and Pritchard and went out to smoke a cigarette, I called them, and they parked near your office and waited. They took the shot from the hill in the cemetery and left. I killed a few minutes and then went over the fence when I heard you shouting for me."

"Who made the shot?"

"Krashakov. He's had sniper training."

"Why'd he only take Hartwick out?" I asked. "Why leave Joe and me alive?"

"I told them about the progress you were making, and I said if they gave me a few days to work with you, I might be able to find the Westons and the tape. Hartwick was too dangerous to . . ." His voice trailed off, but I knew how that sentence was going to end. Too dangerous to leave alive.

"And when I
did
find Julie, then you called Krashakov and told him where to find us?" I thought of Betsy Weston alone in the hotel room just minutes before Krashakov and his thugs had arrived, and I was filled with a surge of anger unlike any I'd felt before. Kinkaid had called them and told them where to find us, then let them fly down to finish the killing.

I took three steps back toward him, ready to grab him and slam him against the wall until I put him all the way through it, but before I could get my hands on him the door opened and Julie Weston stepped inside.

"Lincoln," she said, staring at Kinkaid's bloody face, "what's going on?"

"Get out," I said. "I'm not through here."

She started to object, then looked at the blood on the floor and turned quickly, closing the door behind her. I turned back to Kinkaid. He was staring at the door.

"There's something I need to tell you," he said.

"No shit, Aaron. There were a lot of things you needed to tell me."

"It's more important. Krashakov knows where we are."

"What?"

"I called him when I found out you'd gone to the prosecutor's office. He went crazy about it, and he made me tell him where the girl was staying."

"You son ofa bitch. How long ago was this?"

"Maybe an hour. I tried to calm him down, but he was threatening to kill me. I didn't want him to refocus that anger on me, but now that I've seen the little girl . . ."He looked up at me."You've got to get her out of here, Perry. Krashakov will kill her. He'll kill all of you."

I stepped away from him, hearing Thad Cody's voice in my head when he'd told Joe and me about the Russian mob's thirst for revenge. "We Italians will kill you," he'd quoted from the wiretap, "but the Russians are crazy--they'll kill your whole family." If Krashakov knew that we'd gone to the prosecutor, it meant he'd be coming to kill, and only to kill.

"Shit, we don't have much time," I said.

I threw open the door and stepped out of the bedroom, holding Kinkaid's gun in my hand. Betsy saw it and ducked behind her mother. "Put Betsy in my truck," I said. "We're leaving."

Even as I spoke, I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel drive. I ran back into the bedroom, ignoring Kinkaid, who was cowering on the floor, expecting me to strike him again, and went to the window that looked out up the drive. At the top of the drive a shiny black SUV had come into view through the pines.

There was no time to think, only time to react. We could not drive away, and the little cottage would not offer protection for the fire-power the Russians would bring. We could flee into the woods, but they'd see us, and eventually they would catch us.

I stepped into the living room and pressed Kinkaid's gun into Julie's palm. "They're here. Take Betsy and go down the back steps and into the crawl space where she hid before. Keep Betsy absolutely quiet. If anyone tries to come inside, use the gun, but don't waste bullets."

She stared at me, her mouth open, jaw slack, but I spun her and shoved her forward, out the door and onto the deck. She grabbed Betsy and ran down the steps and around the corner of the cottage. The cottage would screen them from view from the drive, but if they ran away from it they'd be seen. Now I was left alone inside with Kinkaid and no weapon. My gun was still locked in the center console of the truck, and I'd never make it there.

"What should we do?" Kinkaid said, stepping out of the bedroom, looking as scared as Julie. I knew he
was
scared, and because of that, I also knew he'd tell Krashakov exactly where I'd sent Julie and Betsy. I took one quick step toward him and threw an uppercut at his jaw, dropping my shoulder and using my legs as a source of power for the punch, the way it's supposed to be done. I hit him flush on the chin. His head snapped back and he sagged to the ground. I clubbed him once on the back of the skull for good measure as he dropped. At least he'd be quiet now.

I stepped away from Kinkaid and into the kitchen, pulling open drawers in search of a knife. Before I found anything more useful than a corkscrew, Alexei Krashakov stepped inside from the deck and pointed a 9-millimeter Beretta pistol at my chest.

I
STOOD
where I was and watched as Krashakov walked into the room, followed by Rakic and Malaknik. Great. The whole gang was here.

Krashakov kept the gun pointed at my chest. It was the first time I'd seen him face-to-face since we'd stood on the porch of his house.

He smiled. "You owe me twenty dollars."

"I'll give you fifty and send you on your way."

He shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid it will not be so easy."

"One hundred, then."

He slapped me on the side of the head with the Beretta, and a band of bright light like heat lightning passed over my eyes. When I could see clearly again, I was on my hands and knees on the cheap linoleum floor. The man was strong. There weren't too many people who could bring me to my knees with a single blow. I'd hardly seen his hand move.

He laid the barrel of the gun against the back of my head as Rakic went from room to room in the cottage. He came back out and shook his head.

"No one is here except for him." He gestured at Kinkaid's inert form.

"You are pretty good," Krashakov said to me. "That was very nice work at the hotel."

"Glad you approve."

"No. I do not approve. You killed a friend of mine." He slammed the butt of the gun into my upper back, sending a spasm of pain through my back and shoulders.

"Where are they?" Krashakov said.

I didn't answer, and Rakic said, "It will be best to tell us quickly. The longer you wait, the more pain you will feel." He had a thick, wet voice, like someone suffering from chronic bronchitis. "Where is Mrs. Weston?"

"Mrs. who?"

Bad idea. Krashakov slapped my head with the Beretta again, setting off a few more flashes of heat lightning. This time it took longer for my eyes to refocus. My field of vision was beginning to seem like a Texas sky during a nighttime thunderstorm.

"Where is the woman?" Krashakov said.

"It's over, boys," I said. "The prosecutor knows what happened, and the media knows what happened. It's time for you to run. Killing me will only make it worse." I didn't tell them that Belov knew what had happened. They'd kill me for sure then.

"He's lying," Rakic said.

"Where is she?" Krashakov repeated.

"With the police. She's at the prosecutor's office telling them the whole damn story. You can go down there and ask for her, if you'd like."

"You lie," Krashakov said. He jabbed the barrel of his gun at Kinkaid. "Not long ago, the woman and girl were here, and they were with him. Now he is unconscious, and you are alone. Your truck is still outside."

"I told you, they're not here."

Krashakov lifted me and threw me forward, into the counter. My head connected with the edge of the sink, and then he grabbed my shoulder, spun me around to face him, and hit me three times in the stomach with savage uppercuts. I fell back to my knees and gagged, choking back a rise of vomit in my throat. He kicked me in the head and pointed the Beretta at my chest as he stood over me.

"We do not have time to play games," he said. "You will tell us where to find her, because I wish to kill you last."

"I'm your favorite, eh?"

"Hold him," Krashakov snapped, and Rakic and Malaknik stepped
over, grabbed my arms, and moved me out of the kitchen and into the living room. Behind me, the door to the deck was still open, and cold air rushed in past my face as the wind picked up outside. Krashakov knelt beside me in the doorway, using his left hand to pin my right ankle to the ground. He pressed the muzzle of the Beretta against my kneecap.

"One chance," he said. "Then this knee goes. You will get another chance, and then the other knee goes. After that, I will have to be more creative." His voice was calm and uninterested, speaking in careful, stilted English.

I looked at the gun pressed to my knee. So much for my evening runs. I closed my eyes and saw Julie's face and heard Betsy's laugh. I would not give them up to these bastards. Not for one knee, or two knees. Not for one life.

I opened my eyes again, ready to tell Krashakov to hurry up and go to work, but he was jerked away from me as if someone had tossed a lasso around him and yanked him backward. He shouted and tried to bring the gun up, but it was knocked from his hand as Thor stepped inside the cottage from the deck and drove a Buck hunting knife deep into the front of Krashakov's thigh. Krashakov started to scream, but Thor's gloved hand was wrapped tightly around his throat. His other hand was pointing a gun at Rakic. Behind him, Alexander stood calmly, pointing a Soviet-made AK-47 assault rifle at Rakic and Malaknik.

Kinkaid lurched up on his hands and knees behind us, still groggy. He looked at the hunting knife protruding from Krashakov's thigh, said, "Oh, holy shit," and fell back to the floor, covering his head with his hands.