Turbulent Sea (46 page)

He shoved a clip into his gun, checked his other and waited. He found a spot on higher ground where he had a clear view of the driver's side of the vehicle. He'd have to take him out first. That was imperative. With the driver dead, the car would be a hazard. The others would have to bail or ride it out and try to survive a crash into the river.

Above the roar of the water, he could hear the powerful engine as the car rounded the bend and accelerated. The driver held it steady in his lane, making the target easier than anticipated. Their attention was on the road, trying to find Nikitin's car. Windows were rolled down, arms and heads hanging out. Ilya concentrated on one target. He steadied his arm and took the shot, drilling the driver through his left eye.

The windshield fragmented, and the car slewed back and forth; then as someone tried to grab the wheel, it abruptly turned, spun and slid into the rapid current of the river. The car tipped forward, drawn into the powerful current. Water poured into the windows. Ilya heard a shout. Someone fired a wild shot. The car began to be dragged downstream, still sinking.

Ilya made his way down the slippery slope and walked along the embankment. A head popped up, and without hesitation he took the shot. If any of these men lived, and they knew about Brian, the guitarist was dead. He kept his eyes on the body. It was torn loose from the car and carried away, the water rolling over and over the limp form.

A second man emerged, coming up out of the water like a geyser, spewing bullets, aiming wildly, spraying the shore even as he fought to stay afloat. Dirt flew into the air all around Ilya's feet, splattering his jeans as the bullets came close.

Ilya shot the man twice, a quick one-two as the river swept the bobbing head away. The bodyguard was certain he'd killed the shooter, but he raced along the bank to make sure. The body turned facedown, tumbled and churned, a red stain spreading, and then it was pulled under.

Ilya waited, watching the surface of the water. No one could hold his breath that long, but if it had been Ilya, he would have gone out through an open window and swum downstream, letting the current carry him before sticking his head up and chancing it getting blown off. He began to jog along the riverbank heading downstream, reloading as he went and watching both sides of the bank as well as rocks the fourth man might be able to cling to.

Movement caught his attention. At once he dropped to the ground. Bullets spat around him, one actually going through the sleeve of his jacket. He felt the kiss, the heat, and then he rolled, stretching out in a two-handed grip to steady his shot as he fired back. The gun bucked in his hand, feeling familiar, part of him, his aim natural. Where he looked he shot, and the bullet traveled true, striking his target.

He watched the man fall back into the river. He knew his opponent was dead; he knew exactly where the bullet had hit. He turned and began to jog toward the freeway exit. Within minutes, he saw the car driving in reverse back toward him.

Nikitin grinned at him as he slid into the car. "Well done."

"Get us out of here, Eddie," Ilya said. "We have to clean this mess up. You rented that house, Sergei, and your prints are everywhere. I did my best to get rid of Brian's, but I had no way of knowing everything he touched."

"He'd only been there a few minutes when the strobe went off." Nikitin took his hand off Brian and allowed him to sit up. "If you wiped the glass and the couch, we should be good."

Brian pressed an unsteady hand to his mouth. "No one knew I was going there. I had the taxi let me off several blocks away."

"Good, that's good, Brian," Ilya said, praising him to steady him.

"Why is this happening?" he asked again.

Ilya didn't want to take any chances with Nikitin's patience—or the fact that Brian had witnessed a battle between two warring factions of the underworld. "Sergei must have mentioned to you that he was born into a family in Russia that controlled certain aspects of business. They don't want him getting out. He's been legitimate for some time, but a few powerful people fear his knowledge." It was Nikitin's standard story, and it was what Brian wanted to believe. Believing it now might save his life.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya saw Nikitin visibly relax.

"I've tried to tell you," Nikitin said. "I know it looks bad, but there's little I can do about the family I was born into."

"We have to go to the police. These people tried to kill you, Sergei. What if there are more of them?"

Nikitin handed Ilya's phone back to him. "Don't worry. This isn't the first time. We don't want the police involved, because these are the kinds of people who buy off the police."

Ilya tucked his cell phone safely into the inside pocket of his jacket. He deliberately glanced at his watch. "Can you perform tonight, Brian? If you can't, say so. Everything has to be exactly as if you never were a part of this. Not only you, but everyone around you would be in danger, and especially Sergei. Can you handle performing?"

Brian swallowed hard. "Will you be there?" he asked Nikitin.

Ilya flinched at the raw emotion in Brian's voice. He didn't want Eddie to have a clue about Brian's relationship with Nikitin. It was too late. Far, far too late. Nikitin flicked a single glance at Eddie, and it was enough to let Ilya know Eddie was a dead man. In spite of his loyalty, in spite of the fact that he'd helped save both Brian and Nikitin, the Russian boss wouldn't take any chances with his relationship being made public.

Brian had no way of knowing what kind of a man Sergei Nikitin really was and what he was capable of doing. Murder was second nature to Nikitin. He'd grown up making hits when other boys were playing ball. He'd learned torture before he ever went on his first date. As with Ilya, there had been no childhood, and violence had become his way of life.

I have to make certain Sergei is safe, Brian," Ilya said. Until we know who is trying to kill him, we can't take chances with his life."

Brian nodded. "That's right. You're right. Maybe you should get out of town, Sergei. Leave tonight. We have one more gig to play in San Francisco and then we're finished with the tour."

"Where do we go?" Eddie asked.

"We have to switch cars. This is full of bullet holes. Then we take Brian to the Arco Arena if he thinks he can put on a show."

"Yes, yes, if it will help," Brian agreed. "Of course."

"You have to act as though nothing happened. You have to be normal, Brian," Ilya reiterated and pulled a cell phone from inside his jacket. His hand slid over the other one, the one with the special chip that had sent every number Nikitin called to Ilya's bosses. They'd be moving on the information, matching numbers with names in order to set up raids.

The two phones were identical, just in case Nikitin wanted the phone destroyed. Ilya would have cooperated fully. He wanted the original phone for evidence, but if not, they still had the numbers.

He spoke briefly into the phone then turned to Eddie. "Take this next exit, Eddie. A car will be waiting at the McDonald's parking lot. We'll ditch this one in the parking garage just next to it." He glanced back at Brian. "You don't have any blood on your clothes, do you? Or your shoes?"

Brian shuddered, but inspected his clothing. "No. I'm fine."

"Good. You're doing great."

Nikitin nodded. "I'm sorry this happened. It comes with the territory. At least you know I was telling you the truth."

Brian took a deep breath as Eddie pulled into the parking garage and found a dark corner on the second level. "You don't lead a boring life, Sergei." He made an attempt to smile.

Ilya pulled open the door. "Don't touch anything. Eddie and I will wipe the car down. Stand over there, where I can see you, but no one can approach you."

Ilya worked vigorously, wiping the steering wheel, seats and door handles in the front seat, while Eddie wiped down the back and floor.

"Let's go. Brian, walk normally, we're just looking for a Big Mac," Ilya instructed. "You're recognizable, so hunch a little and keep your head down so no one sees your face. You're doing fine," he added as he herded the men through the parking garage and out onto the street.

Darkness had fallen. If they were going to get Brian to his performance, they would have to hurry. Ilya wanted him gone. He didn't want to give Nikitin an opportunity to regret protecting Brian, or to figure out that Brian was an intelligent man who would sooner or later realize Nikitin was no legitimate businessman.

Ilya glanced down at the guitarist as they walked, noting his aura, and everything in him went still. Brian
did
know the truth. The shakiness, the trembling, his fear, had nothing to do with the attempt on their lives, and everything to do with his knowledge of what and who Sergei Nikitin really was. Brian's melody was sobbing, wailing, every note drawn out in utter and real despair.

He rested his hand briefly on Brian's shoulder, the merest of touches, but sending healing warmth and encouragement to him, a small salute that the man was holding up under the worst circumstances. Brian kept his head down, stumbled a little, recovered and kept walking.

The car was waiting right where Ilya had instructed. Nikitin didn't ask who had put it there, but if he had, Ilya had a ready answer. He covered every detail—that was how he stayed alive.

The Arco Arena was already filled with cars and a crush of people. They drove around the top where the buses were parked, and Brian slid from the car.

"You can do this, Brian," Ilya said, keeping his gaze steady.

Brian nodded. "Don't worry. I won't let you down."

"I know you won't," Nikitin said.

Brian lifted his hand and turned and walked away.

Some of the tension that had coiled in Ilya's stomach drained away. "Let's go, Eddie. Take us to the safe house."

"Do you have any idea who those fuckers were?" Nikitin asked.

"Not Tarasov," Ilya said. "Someone here in the U.S. How much did Demidov know about your operation?"

"Everything. He knew everything. He's been with me for years."

"So how did they get to him? Money wouldn't have done it. What did they use to turn him against you?"

"I don't know," Nikitin said, "but I'm going to find out."

Chapter 19

"WHAT the hell were you doing out there, Brian?" Rick demanded, throwing a towel on the low-slung couch. They were in the suite at the Arco Arena, surrounded by some of the crew, a few friends and girlfriends. "You played worse than an amateur. Joley covered for you time after time. You were lagging. You forgot which song you were playing. Shit. It was crap tonight."

Brian swung around, his expression going from upset to furious instantly. "You know what, Rick?" Brian shouted back. "Fuck you and your opinion. I don't see you playing the kind of music I play. You're all safe back there on your bass, playing off my lead."

Rick took several aggressive steps forward. "Lead? Is that what you think you were doing tonight? You couldn't pick up the beat. You were all over the place tonight. It was my bass that saved your ass more times than I can count."

"Then you can fucking take over." Brian picked up his guitar, swung it over his head and smashed it repeatedly against the floor.