25

“Yes!” Colin pressed the end button, vaulted to his feet, and pumped his fist in the air. “We’ve got him.”

“I take it you were talking to the bank that handles the foundation money?” Mac stopped beside his desk and held out a cup of coffee.

“Bingo. Grounds for a warrant is great news on a Monday morning.” Colin took the venti dose of caffeine he no longer needed. “I’ll alert Sarge.”

“I’ll call my contacts with the cadaver dogs and put them on standby. What’s your best estimate on timing?” The other detective took a sip of his java and sat on the corner of his desk.

“Depends on how hard Sarge pushes the warrant. But Phoenix has Parker in their sights, so he’s not going anywhere without us knowing about it. I’m thinking mid to late afternoon.”

“I’ll pencil it in. You planning to let Trish know this is going down?”

“I’ll leave a message. Her summer art class started today, and she told me she keeps her phone on mute while she’s teaching.” He nodded toward the window. In the distance, gray clouds were banking on the horizon. “Let’s hope this rain holds off until tomorrow.”

“Mud won’t stop the dogs.”

“Makes for messy searching outside, though.” He took another gulp of coffee and moved toward the door. “As soon as I have the warrant in hand—or a go from Sarge—I’ll let you know.”

“My afternoon is yours. I’ll be glad to get this one off my plate.”

“You and me both.”

“You set up that date yet with Trish?”

Sheesh. Everyone must have romance on the mind these days.

“Yes.” He kept walking.

“That’s what I figured.”

Mac’s chuckle followed him out the door . . . but he was past trying to hide his interest in the lovely art teacher.

In fact, if this wrapped up today, he might even take her out for ice cream long before their official Saturday date.

The meeting was running long—and the incoming call from Oleg gave him the perfect excuse to cut out for a few minutes.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Dmitri rose and lifted the phone. “An urgent matter requires my attention. Please continue. I will rejoin you as soon as I can.”

Without waiting for a reply, he put the phone to his ear, issued a curt “hold,” and crossed the plush carpet at the private club that was part of his empire. A profitable venture, thanks to the B-girls in his employ, who could pick out a susceptible male customer from five hundred yards.

He smiled. A skimpy dress, some heavy-duty flirting—and the next morning the guy would wake up to find the girl gone and a five-thousand-dollar bottle of champagne on his credit card. It was the perfect con. If the mark went to the police, it would be a major embarrassment for him—and if any of them complained about the charge, the threat of violence always shut them up and put the matter to rest.

A simple scam with a tidy wrap-up.

Clean finishes were always best.

A rule he intended to apply to the Parker matter today.

“I am now free to talk. The arrangements we discussed after your discovery yesterday are in motion?”

“Yes. The matter will be finished by tonight. We will return tomorrow.”

“Excellent. Do you foresee any complications?”

“No. We have canvassed the location. It is quiet, with little activity. But we have an emergency exit strategy in place, should it be needed. It is a shame about the girl, though.”

Dmitri shook his head. Oleg had always had a soft spot for the innocent. His one flaw.

“It is necessary. I want additional assurance we are punishing the correct brother. Based on our dealings with the man we knew as Elliott and the research you provided on Matthew Parker, I believe our test will prove which brother is still living. On the slight chance it is Matthew, you know what to do. If it is Michael—I want an admission of guilt. And I want him begging for mercy. You will document everything. That will add credence to the story we will circulate of our relentless—and successful—pursuit, despite his clever deception.”

“I understand.”

“You will have no trouble getting away?”

“No. It is arranged.”

“You are not being watched?”

“I have seen no indication of it.”

“Good. You will report back tonight, and I will see you here tomorrow. A small token of my appreciation will be waiting for you.”

“I am grateful for your kindness.”

“Skill—and loyalty—should be rewarded. I will talk with you soon.” Dmitri ended the call, a satisfied smile lifting the corners of his lips.

At last this unpleasant episode was coming to an end.

And once punishment was meted out, word would spread that no one . . . no one . . . escaped Dmitri Kozlov’s wrath. He would see to that.

There would be no more traitors in his organization.

The money wasn’t there.

Frowning, Michael clicked through the Providence House Ministries account again.

Zip.

The washed checks hadn’t yet been cashed.

He slammed a fist against the table.

This made no sense.

The test check he’d overnighted soon after he’d slipped into the role of Matt—the one Trish had legitimately written to Providence House—had cleared by ten o’clock central the next morning in New York.

That hadn’t happened today.

He’d been monitoring the accounts since eight thirty, and it was now after noon.

This delay was out of pattern.

And it didn’t feel right.

He rose from the laptop at the kitchen table and began to pace. He was ready to go; his new ID and important papers were in the computer bag in the bedroom, along with a change of clothes, glasses, baseball cap, hair gel, and other items that would alter his appearance. All he needed to do was confirm the money was in the account and transfer it offshore via the sham charities supported by Providence House.

But he couldn’t leave until it showed up and he moved the funds . . . just in case there was a glitch.

Meaning he had to stay in Matt’s skin for now—no matter how dangerous that role-play was becoming.

Tension thrumming through his nerve endings, he veered back toward the computer to click through the account again . . . but came to an abrupt halt at the sound of crunching gravel from outside.

A car was coming up the driveway.

The cops—or the Mafia?

Neither visitor was on his wish list . . . but at this point he’d take the detectives over Oleg and his crew.

At least they wouldn’t kill him.

He darted into the living room and cracked the blinds.

A panel van with his internet provider’s logo on the side swung around on the gravel pad near the garage and stopped by the walk that led to the front door, facing toward the road.

Huh.

As far as he could tell, his satellite connection was working fine.

So why was a repair guy here?

A dark-haired man emerged from the driver’s side, clipboard in hand, a small box tucked under his arm, and circled around the van toward the front door of the house.

He looked legit.

But it couldn’t hurt to stash the computer bag and slip the new ID documents back into their hiding place under the laundry hamper.

By the time he’d secreted the items, the doorbell was ringing.

Ignoring the summons was an option—but if there was an issue that could affect his internet access, it might mess with his plans. He needed to keep monitoring the account.

Better talk to the guy.

He crossed to the door and pulled it open. “Yes?”

“Sorry to arrive without notice, but I was in the area and decided to see if I could catch you at home. You were on our call list for tomorrow. There’s been a recall on your modem. I have a new one with me I can install.” He indicated the box.

“I haven’t had any trouble.”

“Well, your model has some major bugs. We’ve had a lot of complaints about interrupted service.”

Great.

With his luck, the thing would pick today to die.

“Fine.” He reached for the box. “I can hook it up myself.”

The man shifted it away. “I’m sorry, sir. This is leased equipment and has to be installed by an authorized technician. It won’t take long.”

He hesitated. If he told the guy to come back another day and his internet gave out, he’d have to go searching for Wi-Fi. That could delay his escape.

Not in his plans.

Pulling the door wide, he stepped back. “Make it fast.”

The man entered.

“The modem’s in the back.” He motioned for the guy to follow him and led the way to the rear of the house. At the door to Matt’s office, he turned. “How long do you—”

His breath jammed in his windpipe.

A pistol was pointing at the middle of his chest.

This wasn’t about modems.

This was about murder.

Even though the man had no trace of a Russian accent, wore a uniform shirt, and was driving what appeared to be a legitimate satellite service van, he was one of Oleg’s men.

And they were done biding their time.

But why had they resorted to this elaborate ruse if they were planning to take him out? Why not haul him out to his own woods and put a bullet in his brain?

“What’s going on?” His words came out tight. Strained.

“We’re going to take a trip.”

“Where?”

“You will walk out the back door, circle the house, and enter the van from the rear. Move.”

With a gun aimed at his heart, what choice did he have except to comply?

Exiting the house, he saw the logic behind the location of the van. On the off chance someone might be watching the house through the trees from the main road, the vehicle was positioned to block their view as he walked toward it.

At the back of the van, the thug with the gun spoke. “Knock twice on the door.”

He did as instructed.

It swung open.

As the gun pressed against his back, urging him in, he inventoried the passengers.

Oleg.

The bodyguard.

The guy with the indifferent eyes who’d led them to Matt’s grave.

And the real driver of the van—bound with duct tape, blindfolded, and gagged, dumped among the boxes of satellite parts. Blood was seeping out of a large bump on his head . . . and he wasn’t moving.

“Get in.” Another jab in the back.

Before he could respond, Oleg’s guard grasped his arm, hauled him through the door, and shoved him down against the inside panel.

The guy without the accent kept his pistol trained on him during that maneuver while Oleg watched the proceedings in silence, then slammed the back door closed. A few seconds later he took his place behind the wheel, put the van in gear, and retraced his route down the gravel drive.

What was going on?

Hard as Michael tried to fathom Oleg’s plan, he could make no sense of it.

If Dmitri’s people were sure enough of his identity to resort to abduction at gunpoint, why not just kill him and be done with it?

“Does anyone want to tell me what this is about?”

No one responded.

“This is kidnapping, you know.” The words sounded hollow even to his ears.

Oleg, dressed again in jeans, folded his arms and watched him in silence.

Was his casual attire an indication of more dirty work to come?

Pulse pounding, Michael wrapped his arms around his bent knees and gripped his wrist. He had no idea what Oleg had planned for him in the hours to come, but as the van swung onto the road and began to accelerate, he did know one thing.

This trip was not going to end well.

Tote bag slung over one shoulder and juggling an armful of art supplies, Trish pushed through the back door of the house, deactivated the security system, and dumped everything on the kitchen table.

Whew.

Busy didn’t begin to describe this day. It might be only four forty-five, but after dealing with back-to-back sessions of boisterous fourth and fifth graders, she was ready for a nap. And the half-hour delay in her departure while she waited with one of her students for his ride had lengthened an already long day.

But the messages she’d found waiting for her from Colin, plus the anticipation of a pleasant get-acquainted dinner with Kristin, perked her up. According to Colin’s second message, the warrant had gone through. They should already be at Parker’s place, wrapping this up.

It couldn’t happen too soon for her.

After detouring to the fridge for a soda, she dashed down the hall. As late as she was running, she should have gone straight to the restaurant where she was meeting Kristin—but a swing by the house to freshen up had been too tempting to resist. If she hurried, she could be out of here in ten minutes and . . .

Ding dong.

Drat.

Trish set her soda on the bathroom vanity and blew out a breath. She didn’t have time to deal with whoever was on her doorstep.

Except . . . it might be Stan Hawkins. He’d promised her some homemade ice cream from his next batch, and the way he kept tabs on the comings and goings in the neighborhood, he might have been watching for her.

Exiting into the hall, she picked up her pace. Stan would understand if she told him she was running late for a dinner date and couldn’t chat.

But when she peeked through the peephole, it wasn’t her friendly neighbor on the other side of the door. It was some guy with a clipboard, wearing what looked like a repairman uniform.

Edging to the sidelight, she peeked at the driveway. A satellite-service utility van was parked there.

Odd.

Everyone she knew in the neighborhood had cable.

Maybe the guy was lost . . . or had been given some incorrect information by his dispatcher.

She ought to be able to dispense with this fast.

Grasping the handle, she pulled the door open. “May I help you?”

“Yes.” After transferring the clipboard to his left hand, he reached into his pants pocket, angled toward the door . . . and pulled out a gun. “Say one word, I pull the trigger. Move back inside.”

Trish gaped at the deadly weapon aimed at her chest.

Was this for real?

“Move!”

Yeah.

It was for real.

She stumbled back, gaze locked on the gun.

He followed her in, shut the door, and motioned toward the rear of the house with the weapon. “Go to the back door.”

Despite the sudden rubber in her legs, she managed to walk down the hall.

This wasn’t some random robbery. Too coincidental. It had to be related to everything else that had been happening,

But how?

“Unlock the door. Then sit there.” The man waved the gun toward one of the kitchen chairs.

She did as he instructed.

Keeping the gun trained on her, he set the clipboard on the kitchen table and pulled out a cell. “I’m in.” He returned the phone to his pocket, withdrew a piece of black cloth with strings attached to it, and tossed it to her. “Put that over your head.”

She fumbled to catch the . . . what was it?

Panic choked her as she realized it was a drawstring bag.

“I . . . I won’t be able to breathe.”

“It’s porous. Do it now.”

She wadded the fabric in her fingers. If she put this over her head, she’d be blind—and helpless.

A wave of nausea rolled through her, and the room tilted.

Hard fingers gripped her shoulder. “Do as I say. Now.”

She stared at the gun hovering inches away from her face.

Should she lunge for it?

Maybe.

This guy was a lot stronger than she was, but the self-defense moves she’d learned had worked on that mugger.

The man’s grip tightened. “Don’t try anything foolish.”

She tensed, muscles coiling in preparation. Her plan might be foolish—but this could be her only chance to—

All at once, the gun veered away . . . then swung back and connected with her temple.

Hard.

Pain ricocheted through her skull, and she groaned as black spots muddied her vision.

Before she could recover, the bag was jerked from her grasp. The man yanked it down over her head and pulled the drawstring tight around her neck.

She tried to claw at it, but he grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back.

Moaning again, she doubled over, trying to relieve the pressure.

It didn’t help.

Somewhere in the distance, beyond the haze of pain and fear, she heard the back door open . . . and a voice spoke in a language that sounded like Russian.

Seconds later, the pressure on her arm eased and she was able to straighten up—but instantly rough hands slapped her wrists together and secured them with a tight cord in front of her.

“Why did you bring me here?”

Matt’s voice.

No.

It wasn’t Matt.

It was Michael.

The man who’d killed her mother, his brother, and probably that unfortunate manicurist who’d crossed his path.

But why was he here instead of at his house, where Colin and his men expected him to be? Hadn’t Phoenix alerted them that Parker had left?

Or . . . perhaps they had. Colin might at this very minute be approaching her house, charging to the rescue.

Yet even as that hopeful thought flitted through her mind, she dismissed it.

Stuff like that only happened in fairy tales—and her life had been no fairy tale of late.

The truth was, these guys had somehow managed to spirit Parker away from the house undetected—for purposes known to them alone.

“It is much easier to come here than risk a kidnapping.” The same Russian voice spoke again, this time in accented English.

“But what does Trish have to do with any of this?”

No one answered Parker’s question, but a scuffling noise suggested someone was sitting down.

“I passed on the story you told me yesterday to the person who sent me here.” The Russian’s tone was conversational. “He agreed it was quite inventive.”

“It was the truth.” A slight tremor underscored Parker’s words.

“We would like to believe you—but it is difficult. You are friends with this woman?”

“Yes.”

“Close friends?”

“We’ve known each other a while.”

“You socialize?”

A slight hesitation, as if he didn’t know where these questions were leading.

That made two of them.

“Mr. Parker?”

“We’ve had a couple of dates.”

“That is what we determined. And that is why she is important to us this afternoon. Now, here is the deal we will make you, Mr. Parker. You may live . . . or she may live. It is your choice.”

Dear God!

She’d become a bargaining chip for the Russian Mafia!

Trish began to shake.

“What do you mean?” Parker’s tone was wary.

“It is very simple. A life must be sacrificed for the treachery and disloyalty of Michael Parker. It has been decided one of you must die to satisfy this debt of honor. You may choose who lives.”

“But that’s . . . this is crazy!”

“Nevertheless, that is your choice.”

“What if I refuse to decide?”

“Then you will both die. I will give you five minutes to choose.”

A tomblike silence settled over the room.

Inside the blackness of the hood, Trish squeezed her eyes shut.

Five minutes.

That was all the time she had left to live.

Because a man who had killed three people in cold blood wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice someone else to save his own skin.

As the desperateness of her situation sank in, Trish choked back a sob and turned to the only source of comfort—and help—available to her.

Please, God, stay with me through this ordeal. Give me strength and courage and hope . . . because I know that bleak as this situation seems, nothing is impossible with you.

Yet as she finished the prayer, a wave of despair swept over her. She believed in miracles. She did.

But miracles had been in short supply during the past two years.

And it would take nothing less than divine intervention to save her life today.