54. CASSANDRA

Assess the threat. Analyze the options. Choose the outcome with the best chance of survival.

These concepts are all ingrained in me to the point of being second nature. But I’ve never been in a situation where someone I love is in the line of fire. Literally.

I scan the area on either side of the table, but I already know that there won’t be any heroic measures. The potential for catastrophe in such a crowded place is unacceptable. If there’s one reason I went into the CIA, it was to stop Americans getting hurt. I won’t have it happen on my watch.

There’s only one way out of this that I can see.

Tricia looks like she can’t decide between panic and fury. Her eyes are like a caged animal’s, but the snarl on her lips says she’d castrate this guy as soon as look at him if she could. My gut is in knots knowing that something I did put her in danger.

I approach the table head-on, giving the gunman plenty of time to see my red hair and recognize me. The last thing I want is to get close and startle him, for fear that he reflexively pulls the trigger.

Tricia sees me first, her eyes widening.

“Cassie, get out of here!” she calls. “It’s a set-up!”

The gunman looks up and sees me. My hands are raised to show him I’m not armed.

“It’s all right, Trish,” I say calmly. “This is all just a misunderstanding. We’ll get it sorted out.”

“Thank you for being so reasonable,” the guy says. His accent tags him as Albanian. “Your friend here was only meant to be a failsafe. Looks like my employers were right not to underestimate you.”

“Let her go,” I say. “It’s me you want.”

“Where is the winning contestant?”

“On the way to the emergency room, if he’s lucky.”

He frowns.

“That is unexpected.”

He pulls out a phone and hits a speed-dial number. Then a conversation in Russian. I’m not an expert, but I have a working familiarity. I make out references to compensation and a cleanup crew, as well as the Hotel James. All in all, it doesn’t sound promising.

“Da,” he says, then ends the call.

“You piece of shit,” Tricia spits. “My friend Maks is connected with some powerful Russians. When he finds out what you’re doing –”

“The people behind this are those powerful Russians,” I say. “Sorry, sweetie, I didn’t know this would happen.”

Tricia’s eyes are wild, looking from me to the gunman and back again.

“What the hell is going on here, Cass?”

“I’ll explain later. Right now I have to go with this gentleman here. As soon as he lets you go.”

He stands up, and I see that he’s draped a nylon running jacket over his clasped hands, hiding the gun.

“Actually, you are both coming with me,” he says.

I shake my head.

“Uh-uh. Me only.”

A black Lincoln pulls up beside us and the gunman opens the back door.

“Both of you get in,” he says. “Or both of you die right here and I jump in this car and speed away.”

Shit.

“I’m so sorry, Trish,” I say, taking her by the shoulder and pulling her into the car.

“What do you mean about Maks? He’s not involved in this, is he? Cassie, what is going on?”

“It’s a long story,” I sigh as the Albanian closes the door and gets in the front with the driver.

55. CARSON

The elevator doors open and I drag Maks out by the collar.

“Come with me,” I say, leading him down the hall to the computer room.

“I’m not getting what is happening,” he yelps as I toss him onto the sofa. “What is going on with Cassie? Why are you being so angry?”

I take a deep breath and sit down opposite him, fixing him with a glare that I hope conveys just how serious the situation is.

“Long story short,” I say. “Your uncle and whoever else in involved in running the Chase have Cassie. They’re going to hurt her.”

“Bozhe moi,” he breathes. “But why?”

“Cassie was the quarry in the Chase. I caught her. But your uncle thinks we cheated and that we’re somehow conspiring against him.”

He blinks rapidly, staring at nothing.

“I looked up your family while you were on your way here,” I say, calling up the screen on the window. It fills with a grainy shot of a man in his sixties, with a brush cut and deep pouches under his eyes.

“I know your uncle is Alexei Ivchenko. Except that’s an alias – I can’t find any record of him before 2004. You would have been seventeen at the time, so you obviously know his real name. What is it?”

Maksim looks at the floor in silence for a moment, and I have to combat the urge to reach out and throttle him.

“Bogdan,” he says finally. “His name was Bogdan Nabatov.”

My fingers fly over the keyboard as I boot up my own personal hacking software. Code runs by on the window as I kick down back doors in the NKVD, Russia’s security and law enforcement division.

The program doesn’t work quickly enough for my brain, and I feel the kind of frustration I used to experience as a toddler, when my language skills weren’t yet up to expressing what was going on in my head.

“I am sorry, tovarishch,” Maks says, still staring at the floor. “For everything. I should never have been telling you about the Chase.”

“Your uncle should never have been doing the Chase,” I mumble as I scan the data on the screen.

Who am I trying to bullshit? I should never have been doing the Chase!

I fight off a wave of shame that threatens to take my attention away from the matter at hand. Names and faces begin to run across the screen as I access the NKVD’s watchlist files.

“I knew why we left Russia,” Maks says. “I was old enough. I listened to the talking at family dinners. But I try to ignore it all. Party all the time. That way I don’t think about it.”

“I’m not your therapist, Maks,” I say, eyes on the screen.

Finally, a file: Bogdan Nabatov, brother of Maksim’s mother, Ilyanna. Indicted in the early days of Putin’s first term for trafficking in sex slaves, importing heroin from Albania and several counts of murder.

And he’s got Cassie.

“My father bought us out of Russia after Uncle Bogdan was arrested,” says Maks. “We all got new names in America, and Papa hid all of his money. He is a good man, not like Bogdan.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” I mutter as I try to find anything new on Alexei Ivchenko. Nothing. He’s learned how to hide very well in his new homeland.

Wait a minute…

“Maks, you said all of your father’s money,” I say. “Does that mean Alexei doesn’t have any of his own?”

“I think Bogdan had to leave all his own money in Russia,” he says. “Papa runs the business and pays him salary.”

“So his money is all underground…”

Maks looks confused. “He does not bury his money, Carson.”

“Forget it,” I say. “I need you to call him and set up a meeting. Right now.”

He seems conflicted for a moment, but before I can say anything, he pulls his phone from his pocket and dials a number. There’s a brief conversation in Russian. Maks looks on the verge of throwing up the whole time.

Finally he ends the call.

“One hour,” he says. “At gentleman’s club in Brighton Beach. I am to take you there.”

That’s good. We’re making progress.

“What about Cassie?” I ask. “Is she all right?”

“For now. He is waiting to see what you will be saying.”

I breathe deeply, let it out slowly. There’s still hope, if my plan works.

My eyes meet Maksim’s and I see tears there.

“I am so sorry, my friend,” he whispers. “I never would be wanting anyone to be hurt, especially Cassie.”

My heart sinks. He’s a victim in this too, and I’ve been treating him like a criminal for the last hour. I wrap an arm around his neck and squeeze.

“I know that, buddy. And thanks to what you just did, I think we’ll be able to get her out of this.”

Even if it costs me everything I have.

I take a last glance at the screen, only to see another pop up from behind that one.

Match found, it reads.

Holy shit! I totally forgot I left the facial recognition program working in the background when I went for my run.

Up comes a photo of Red Dress, but no name. She’s wearing a black dress this time, but it’s definitely her. It’s from a dark web site that features photos of satanic rituals. What kind of sick person would be into this kind of shit?

The text posting alludes to an annual sacrifice at the height of summer. Reference to it being a female, and recently defiled…

Oh God, no.

“Maks!” I snap. “The Chase – is it always at this time of year?”

“I am not being sure exactly…”

“Is it always in summer?!”

“Yes! Always summertime. Why?”

My heart gallops in my chest as my stomach turns to ice.

“She’s going to kill Cassie,” I breathe. “That bitch is going to kill the woman I love.”