27

As Colin sped through the Monday rush-hour traffic, the Taurus’s lights flashing, the siren screaming, his cell began to vibrate.

One hand locked on the wheel, he maneuvered around a car that had pulled off the highway barely enough to accommodate an emergency vehicle, yanked the phone from his belt, and held it out to Mac. “Answer this.”

It wasn’t much of a conversation on Mac’s end, but Colin heard enough to get the gist.

“I take it the casual patrol drive-by we asked for was a bust.”

“Yeah.” Mac tapped the end button. “No utility van was visible from the front, like the neighbor said . . . but he’s circling around to the street behind Trish’s. He thinks he might be able to see the back of her place better from there.”

“Her neighbor would have called if the van left.”

“Unless he got distracted . . . or nature called.”

That was possible. Patrol officers were watching the exit of the subdivision—now. But the van could have left before they arrived.

“Let’s get a BOLO alert issued to cover all the bases.”

While Mac took care of that piece of business, Colin moved over to the exit lane. In less than five minutes, he’d be able to scout out the situation himself.

But the drive into town from Matt’s place had eaten up valuable time. Should he have had County street cops knock on the door?

No.

If this setup involved the Russian Mafia, as he suspected, they’d be way out of their league and might ramp up an already volatile situation.

The best option to avoid bloodshed was to go in quietly and take whoever was there by surprise. If that didn’t seem feasible once they got on site, he’d bring in the SWAT team and let them storm the door.

The latter was a very real option.

That’s why Sarge had the team on standby.

As Mac completed his call, Colin roared down the exit ramp and barreled toward Clayton Road. “Let’s drive past the house first, see if we can spot any activity.”

“Sounds reasonable. If everything seems . . .” He picked up the phone again and put it to his ear. “Okay . . . No, but stick close. Our ETA is less than five minutes.” He ended the call. “The officer was able to get a clear view of Trish’s garage and driveway from the backyard of the house behind. No van.”

Colin squeezed the wheel.

Either they’d taken Trish with them, or their business here was finished.

He didn’t like either option.

“If they’re gone, there’s not as much need for caution.”

“The officer did say there’s excellent access to the house from behind.”

“That helps. I’ll still do the drive-by, but if everything appears to be normal, I’ll park on the other street and we’ll go in from the back. Let’s not assume Trish’s house is empty.”

“Trust me, I’m not.”

Half a mile from the entrance to her subdivision, Colin cut the lights and siren, eased back on the accelerator, and entered the development like any normal visitor.

A slow drive past her house confirmed all was quiet. There was no sign of activity.

He looped around the maze of streets and parked behind the patrol car. The officer was standing by his door, shifting from foot to foot as he waited for them.

Colin beat Mac out of the Taurus and flashed his creds at the young, antsy cop who had rookie stamped across his forehead. “Any new activity since you talked to us?”

“No.”

“Anyone home here?” He motioned toward the two-story Georgian house that backed up to Trish’s.

“I don’t think so. No one answered the doorbell.”

“Okay. We’re gonna take a look. If you see anything suspicious while we’re in there, call us—and call for backup. Don’t wait. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s do this.” Colin tossed the comment to Mac over his shoulder and jogged across the manicured front lawn of the house behind Trish’s.

At the end of the backyard, screened from Trish’s house by bushy shrubs, he parted the boughs and peeked through. Mac did the same a few feet down.

After thirty quiet seconds ticked by, he glanced at his colleague. “I say we go in.”

“Agreed.”

“I’ll take the lead.” He pulled out his Sig.

Mac did the same.

They stayed in the shadows as long as they could, then sprinted to the house and flattened themselves against the brick walls.

Colin had no qualms about breaking down a door to get in. Trish wasn’t likely to complain even if this was a false alarm.

But it wasn’t.

He knew that deep in his gut.

Fortunately, he tested the back door before applying heel to wood—because the door opened with a quiet twist of the knob.

Bad news.

After all the warnings he’d given Trish about being cautious and keeping the house secure while she was inside, an open door was a major red flag.

Coupled with a visit from the same van Phoenix had spotted at Parker’s place, this spelled trouble.

He motioned Mac to follow him inside.

Once in the kitchen, he paused. Listened.

Deathlike quiet seeped into his pores.

Whoever had been here was gone. He was 99 percent certain of that.

But much as he trusted his instincts, it was better to proceed with caution.

After bypassing the two chairs pulled out from the kitchen table, he motioned Mac toward the living room and dining room on the left of the foyer and crept down the hall on the right.

The sunroom was empty.

So was the bathroom—though the can of soda on the vanity seemed out of place. From what he’d observed, Trish didn’t leave messes in her wake.

He edged around the door of her mother’s room.

Empty.

That left Trish’s room.

The only one with a closed door.

A tingle of apprehension skittered along his nerve endings, and he gripped his Sig tighter.

Bad vibes were wafting his way.

For an infinitesimal second he hesitated . . . but then he forced himself to walk forward. Putting off bad stuff didn’t make it go away. He’d tried that after Neal died—and it had done nothing but delay the inevitable. In the end, he’d had to face the truth that his brother was dead and he was at least partly to blame.

He wouldn’t stick his head in the sand this time—even if his faulty assumption that the Mafia would have no interest in Trish had led to dire consequences. Even if guilt would gnaw at his soul forever.

But please, God, don’t put me through that kind of pain again.

The prayer came unbidden . . . and from deep within the recesses of his heart.

Sucking air into his balking lungs, he grasped the knob.

Swallowed.

Just do it, Flynn.

Gritting his teeth, he twisted the handle and pushed the door open.

They’d left the highway fifteen minutes ago. Now the van made a wide turn, throwing Michael against the utilitarian metal walls. As it bumped over uneven pavement, every jounce ricocheted through him.

From his position on the floor, the windowless sides of the vehicle rising up around him like the walls of a high-security prison, he didn’t have a clue where they were.

But as the vehicle slowed . . . then stopped . . . it was clear they’d arrived at their destination.

The driver shut off the engine, and a few moments later the doors at the back swung open.

Once again, the man pointed his gun at him.

The same one he’d used to kill Trish.

“Get out.”

Michael unkinked his stiff legs and scooted to the back of the van. Stood.

“Move a few feet that direction.” The man motioned toward a small, abandoned warehouse.

As he complied, he assessed the location. Several similar structures in various stages of decay lined the pothole-littered road. It was clearly an area that had seen better days.

He had no idea where they were.

But the isolated location spooked him.

Big time.

As did the soot-gray Dodge Dart with dark-tinted windows parked nearby.

Oleg and his bodyguard got out of the van, and muscleman shut the door behind them.

“After you, Mr. Parker.” Oleg swept a hand toward the closest structure and peeled off the latex gloves he’d been wearing since the first trip in the van. The other two guys did the same, tucking them in their pockets.

“If you want to talk, let’s do it here.” The notion of going into that dilapidated structure sent a chill through him—as did the black skies and ominous growl of distant thunder.

“You know . . . you are beginning to try my patience. We will talk inside. Either you will come on your own, or my associates will help you.”

The two thugs edged in closer.

“Fine.”

He walked past Oleg, fear congealing in his belly. Dmitri’s deputy hadn’t brought him here to have a casual chat. But they had their sacrificial lamb. This private tête-à-tête had to be about a different matter—and he’d do everything he could to use it to his advantage.

The inside of the building was dim, but the holes in the roof provided sufficient illumination to see the place was empty save for some piles of trash and a rodent that scurried for cover at the human intrusion.

“Move about twenty feet in . . . Michael. Or should I say Craig?”

His lungs froze, and his step faltered.

Oleg had figured out his identity.

But . . . that was impossible. There was no proof.

Keep up the pretense, Parker.

He rotated slowly. The Russian and the two sentinels flanking him were backlit in the open doorway, their faces in shadows.

“I told you I’m Matt.”

“Yes, you did. And it was a lie—as was everything else.”

“That’s not true.”

“Still playing games, Michael?” Oleg shook his head. “You have become tiresome. It is time to end this matter.” He pulled out a compact pistol.

“Wait! I’m not Michael! Why do you think I am?” Panic choked his words.

“You did not pass the test.”

The man’s words were clear; his meaning wasn’t.

“What are you talking about? What test?”

“We studied Matthew Parker. He was a good man. A selfless man. A man who believed in protecting and helping the innocent, no matter the cost to himself. Even if he was not guilty, given a choice between saving his own life or the life of someone he cared about, he would have chosen to sacrifice himself. That is how we knew you were not him . . . Michael.”

They had him.

He could argue to his last breath, but Oleg wasn’t going to budge. The Russian had the proof he needed.

And in truth, it was irrefutable.

Boy Scout that he’d been, Matt would have done exactly what Oleg had suggested.

But there had to be some way out of this.

At a nod from Oleg, the guy who’d driven the van moved off to the side, slid his gun into his concealed holster, and took out his phone. The bodyguard approached Michael.

No!

It couldn’t end like this!

He backed farther into the crumbling structure.

“Look . . . I’ll admit it. I’m Michael. And I made a mistake in Florida. I shouldn’t have skimmed off the money. But I can repay it . . . with interest. I’ve transferred a sizeable amount of cash from Trish’s charitable foundation to my own accounts. I can repay what I owe. In fact, I’ll double or triple it.”

“So now we are bargaining.” Oleg sounded amused.

“I’m willing to work with you to make this right.”

“This is not about the money.”

Oleg signaled to the guard.

The man circled around behind him.

Michael watched him warily . . . but when he remained several feet away, he refocused on Oleg. “Dmitri would be happy to have the kind of money I can deliver.” Not how he’d expected to use the foundation funds, but it was money well spent if it saved his life. “Why don’t you ask him?”

From behind him, the guard grasped his arms and secured his wrists with a zip tie so fast he had no chance to resist. The next thing he knew, he’d been shoved to his knees.

“He is not interested in your bargains, Michael. By the way, I hope you enjoyed your shoes. You are paying a very high price for them.”

At the non sequitur, he tried to switch gears.

Shoes?

The man was talking about shoes?

What did that have to do with . . .

He sucked in a gasp of air.

Natalie.

The bimbo had loved shoes. She’d mentioned once that friends bought her footwear. And she’d seen Elliott’s credit card the night she’d come to visit. Since he hadn’t offered to buy her any, she must have taken it upon herself to purchase some on his “friend’s” behalf. She had called his attention to a new pair of shoes the night he’d picked her up for their dinner date.

That had to be what had happened.

And now he was going to die because of that tramp.

This wasn’t fair!

“Listen . . . I’m sorry, okay? I’ll do anything you want if you let me go. Why don’t you . . . just tell Dmitri I got away. I can make you a rich man if you do.”

“Loyalty does not have a price.” Disgust mottled Oleg’s voice, and he turned his attention to the guy who’d driven the car. “You are getting all this?”

“Yes.”

Michael looked toward him. He was holding up his cell—and it was aimed toward him.

The man was recording this whole drama.

His confession . . . and execution . . . were being documented.

A slash of lightning zigzagged across the sky behind Oleg through the open doorway, followed by a crack of thunder that rattled the ground beneath him.

And as the bodyguard loomed in his peripheral vision and lifted the gun toward his head, Michael knew he’d finally run out of second chances.