Chapter 8
Mason parked in front of the small beach house Lance rented in Middletown, and walked up the front walk. He was early, but thought it was best to get a head start on their hour-long drive to Hanscom Air Force Base just outside of Boston. They were scheduled to depart at nine-thirty for their three-and-a-half-hour flight to GiTMO. Knowing Lance, he’d been ready for an hour, and was waiting on Mason.
He had left Jess curled up on the couch, sleeping. He’d have to find out what that was all about when he got back. Maybe there was something wrong with the bed in her room. Mason had never slept on it, so he had no idea if it was uncomfortable or not. He hated that she found the couch more comfortable than the bed. If that was the problem, he would let her sleep in his bed and take the guest room. He was used to sleeping on hard ground. Any bed was comfortable to him.
Of course, the idea of sleeping with Jess was intriguing…but out of the question. She was off-limits. Didn’t make Mason want her any less, though.
When Lance had called the night before to tell him about Laura Townsend being missing, Mason had decided not to tell Jess about it. Might be a really bad call on his part, especially if the media caught wind of the story. But he didn’t want Jess to be alone—grieving one friend and worrying the other might also be dead—while he Lance got answers from Orlov. The only way to potentially find Laura Townsend before she was killed and end this entire escapade was to question Orlov.
He knocked on Lance’s door.
“Hey, you’re early,” Lance greeted him.
“Yeah, I want to beat the morning traffic in Boston as much as possible. You going to let me in?”
Lance glanced over his shoulder, and reluctantly stepped out of the way.
“Jesus, dude,” Mason said as he pushed past Lance, “I don’t give a shit if you’ve got a girl in here. Get her ass up and out the door so we can get moving.”
Lance huffed. “It’s not that—”
“Lance, did you get the dry cleaning yesterday? I need my—” Riley walked out of the bedroom wrapped in a towel and came to an abrupt halt. “Oh—hey, Mason.” She glanced at her watch, Lance, then back at Mason. “You’re early.”
“And you’re half naked. In Lance’s house. At six-thirty in the morning. Is there something going on between you two?” Mason knew he was toying with them, and probably being a bit of a dick, but this was too good to pass up.
Riley narrowed her eyes. “Other than Holt, no one else knows, Tink.”
“And we’d like to keep it that way,” Lance added.
Mason nodded. “Okay, okay—I get it. But, now that I know your secret…I own you. Both of you.”
“Lovely,” Riley muttered.
Lance let out a long, exasperated sigh, grabbed his backpack, and gave Riley a quick kiss. “Bye. I’ll see you tonight.”
Mason stepped next to her, and put out duck lips. “Bye, Riley.”
“Tink, get the fuck away from me or you’ll be going to GiTMO without your balls.”
Mason frowned and looked at Lance. “She’s mean in the morning. Did you not properly sex her up? Because, if you need some pointers—”
Lance shoved Mason toward the door. “Shut the fuck up.”
* * *
Lance watched as the guards brought Alrick Orlov into the interrogation room. The last time Lance had seen the Russian was in Jordan where he, and other members of the RRA, had led an attack on the US Embassy in Amman. Lance had chased the man through an underground parking garage and managed to activate a barrier before Orlov could escape. Orlov had been in US custody ever since.
“Mr. Orlov, do you remember me?” Lance asked when the man sat down across the table from him. Mason stood behind him, stance wide, massive arms across his chest to showcase his enormous guns.
“Of course,” Orlov replied, his Russian accent heavy. “How could I forget?” He placed his forearms on the table and leaned closer. “Tell me, how is Agent Bray? I heard she suffered a near fatal gunshot wound.”
A vision of Riley, sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, blood pooling beside her from a in her side nearly stole all the air from Lance’s lungs. He felt every emotion again—as he did every time he had this memory—the fear of losing her. The pain of never being able to hold her again. It was still so raw, and wrung his heart out.
But he’d be damned if he let Orlov see any of that. Riley had survived because she was the strongest person Lance had ever met. It was so easy to love her. And, for some reason, he was the lucky bastard she loved in return.
“Alive and well,” Lance said. “The same can’t be said for your associate, Andrew Kelly. He took a bullet between the eyes, courtesy of Agent Bray. I assume you were made aware of that?”
Orlov sat quietly and continued to stare at Lance without a hint of emotion on his face. Lance pulled a photo out of his file and slid it across the table to Orlov.
“Recognize this man?”
Orlov barely glanced at the photo, and shook his head. But a brief glint of recognition lit up his eyes.
“Never seen him?” Lance moved the photo closer to him. “Look again.”
Orlov picked up the photo. “No, never seen him.” Pulling the crime scene photo from underneath got the reaction Lance had been hoping for. Daniel Forrester in a pool of his own blood, gaping hole in his chest. Eyes wide open as he stared at death.
“Here’s what I think, and you let me know if I’m right. I think you do know him, Alrick. In fact, I think you know him very well. What do you say you cut the bullshit, and confirm for me that this piece of shit is the son of Yurick Stepanov?”
Orlov tossed the photos on the table and looked away, lips flattened in a white line.
“I can make things easier for you during your stay at Chez Guantanamo…or I can make them very hard.” Lance pointed at the bruise across Orlov’s jaw. “Even more so than they have been.” He leaned closer. “Clean clothes. A shower. The ability to take a shit in private…any of that sound good to you, Al? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours?”
“Food first, then I talk,” Orlov said. “And vodka. Good vodka—Russian vodka—not that swill you Americans drink.”
Lance nodded and glanced back at Mason. Mason stepped into the hallway and returned after a minute.
Within ten minutes, a large sandwich and a bag of chips was set in front of Orlov. The man tore into the food like a bear awakening from hibernation after a very long winter.
“Who is Daniel?” Lance asked.
A long, heavy exhale slid from Orlov’s chest. “Yurik’s son. His real name is Nikolai Stepanov.” He glanced at the file where Lance had placed the photos. “What happened to him?”
“He tried to force himself on a woman who told him she wasn’t interested in him. He pulled a gun, but as you can see, she got the better of him. It appears Daddy Dearest is making threats against her.”
Orlov took a large bite of sandwich and spoke around the food in his mouth. “Yurik will demand retribution. The girl will never be safe.”
“How far will he go to find her?” Lance asked.
“As far as he needs to get what he wants.”
“Kidnap or kill her family and friends?”
Orlov took a long swig from his water bottle. “There are no limits to what he will do. Has he taken a a member of her family yet?”
“One of her friends that happened to be with her the night she shot Forrester.”
“She is dead.” It wasn’t a question, and the reality that Laura Townsend was guaranteed the same fate sent a cold rage through Lance. Mason shifted on his feet behind him, and let out a noisy exhale. He must’ve come to the same conclusion as Lance.
Lance took a steadying breath and reigned in his temper. He had the upperhand and wanted to maintain it. Letting Orlov know he had upset Lance would strip him of his advantage. “Where is Stepanov?”
“Before I was kidnapped and imprisoned here, I saw him in Colombia.”
“Doing what?”
“He is in charge of running drugs and girls through Panama, into Mexico, and taking them to market in the U.S. There is a base of operations in Mexico where they prepare the girls for work once they get to America.”
Lance’s stomach twisted into a knot at the thought of what types of preparations young girls forced into the sex trade would have to endure. The nonchalant way Orlov discussed his family’s business made Lance want to slam the man’s head into the table until his brains drained out through his nose, mouth, and ears. But the Russian was talking, and they were getting good intel…no matter how disgusting the information.
But Lance couldn’t shake the creep of disgust that sat on his skin like a layer of dirt. Talking to Orlov was akin to speaking to Lucifer’s right hand man. The sooner he could get the information and get back stateside, the better. “Where in Colombia is Stepanov?”
“The main operation is based in Bogota, but Yurik spends most of his time overseeing operations in Turbo.” Orlov glanced away. “He likes to sample the goods.”
“Which goods? Girls or drugs?” Mason asked.
“Both.”
Mason let out something between a growl and a groan, and cracked his knuckles. Orlov’s gaze was locked onto Mason. Lance wanted to chuckle. Orlov was probably concerned with whether or not Mason was going to beat the shit out of him before the interview was over.
Lance wasn’t completely sure he could stop Mason if he laid into the guy. Could get sporty…
“Would he bring the kidnapped woman to Colombia?” Lance asked.
“Not normally, but if she is being used to flush out her friend, he will want to handle things himself.”
“You mean, kill her?”
“Yes—but not before he makes her pay for her friend’s sins.” Orlov wiped his hands on his pants. “Yurik will not hold back if he is avenging his son. Neither woman is safe from him…and he is very adept at old school Russian torture methods. Although, lately, he has become impressed with Middle Eastern methods.”
“Awesome,” Mason said.
Lance rubbed his jaw. “How did Forrester become involved with your organization?”
Orlov sat back in his chair and crossed his arm over his chest. “Like most of us did…we were born into it.”
“Andrew Kelly told Agent Bray that he had been adopted out to Americans. Was Forrester also adopted?”
“Yes…that was Maksimillian’s genius, but the potential wasn’t fully realized until Mikhail took over after the old man died.”
“And who are Maksimillian and Mikhail?”
“Maksimillian started the organization with his son, Mikhail. Both are dead.”
“Go on,” Lance said.
“With the difficulty and long wait to adopt a white baby in America, Russian orphanages became a popular source for feeding your impatience. Mikhail had three sons, two of them had sons that were adopted. It was all done under the table, and the parents were anxious that the children never know they were adopted.”
“They put their own kids up for adoption?” Mason asked.
“Mikhail was not a sentimental man,” Orlov sneered.
“The birth certificates were altered to look as if the adopted parents had actually given birth?” Lance asked, bringing the discussion back around.
“Yes, for an additional fee, Mikhail would arrange it all.”
“How?”
“A contact in the State Department.”
“Is that how Andrew Kelly was able to become a CIA agent?”
“If it had been necessary, yes, but he had all the right credentials. As far as the American government was concerned, Andrew was born and raised in the Midwest with his upstanding physician parents.”
“You said two sons had been adopted. Anyone else?”
Orlov shrugged. “Mikhail had a brother. One of his sons was the first to be adopted.”
“Who?”
Orlov shrugged. “I never discovered who it was. I was not familiar with that side of the family.”
“Just how do you fit into this organization, Al?” Mason asked.
“My father was a member, and a deep believer in the cause. He brought me up to follow this path.”
“And you’re okay with selling drugs and underage girls as sex slaves?”
“There is always collateral damage in war.” He stared at Lance, and his blood ran cold in his veins. “If anyone understands that, it is you, Commander.”
* * *
Mason managed to fast track the drive from Hanscom to Newport thanks to the lack of rush hour traffic. It appeared most people had left work early to get a head start on the weekend. Mason wondered how Jess was, and considered about calling her. She was starting to occupy more and more of his thoughts. Some of them even had to do with her protection.
Some.
The others were starting to get personal. Most were downright pornographic. Every time she looked at him with those smoky, chocolate eyes he wanted to throw caution to the wind and kiss those full lips until she begged to come up for air.
And that was not good on so many levels. His job was to protect her—not bed her. And he was more than slightly disturbed that he not only wanted to fuck her in every position he could imagine, he wanted to get to know her better. She impressed him with her strength and courage, yet she was so soft and vulnerable at the same time.
He couldn’t imagine how it would feel to take a life without the amount of training he received. The woman had been out for a drink with friends, and ended up shooting a man in the chest to avoid being raped…or worse, if Daniel—Nikolai...whatever the fuck the guys name was—shared his father’s predilection for pain and torture.
Mason caught Lance in his peripheral vision pulling his cell out and putting it to his ear.
“Hey,” he said into the phone. “Yeah, we’re headed back. Where are you?”
Mason could hear Riley’s muffled voice.
“I need you to run some names for me. Maksimillian Stepanov and Mikhail Stepanov. Orlov dropped them in our conversation today.”
Knowing Riley, she was probably at the office. The woman was a workhorse. The fact that she was in a relationship with Lance was less surprising than her making time for a relationship. Mason guessed it worked for them. They were both workaholics.
Lance ended his call. “Drop me at the office.”
“Already figured. What did Riley have to say?”
“She’s going to check with some of her contacts in Bogota and see if they’ve heard any chatter about a woman coming into the country and being held. Also, Jake and some others on the team are down in Colombia training, in case she’s able to flush out some intel.”
Mason wasn’t really a religious guy, but he sent up a prayer for Jess’s friend, and hoped to hell they found her while she was still breathing.