Dark Chase (The Gunrunner Series) (2 page)

He barely kept his facial expression even. He struggled to keep his heart rate and breathing smooth and natural. He couldn’t ‘break face’, as Gram called it. Ever.

But he also couldn’t look away from the screen, his eyes drinking in her face even though every feature had been tattooed into his memory.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gram fumbling with the remote.

That was the moment Hitoshi entered the room. “Dear friend!” he said, his voice raspy. “My sincere apologies to have kept you waiting. My health slows me down these days.” He bowed deeply from the waist.

Dmitri stood. “Hitoshi.”

Hitoshi laughed and then moved further into the room. His fingers clutched a cane, and his steps were feeble. Dmitri took it all in, eyes sweeping down his form. He was fatter, weaker, sicker, and it had happened fast.

“Please sit,” Hitoshi said.

Dmitri settled back on the couch, while Hitoshi carefully lowered himself onto a wing-backed chair. “It has been many months,” Hitoshi said.

‘It has,” Dmitri agreed. He let a small smile flit across his face.

“And you, Gram. How are you?” Hitoshi said.

“Well,” Gram said in his clipped way.

Hitoshi laughed, throwing back his head. “This one, never much for words. Same for you, Dmitri.”

“It is our way,” Dmitri said. “And you are well?”

Hitoshi ran his hand down his gray goatee. “Ah, of course I am not, as you can tell. I am deteriorating fast. Spinal muscular atrophy. Not much can be done, but I’ve had a good life.”

Dmitri forced another smile. “Is there something I can help you with?” He allowed his normally stern voice to soften. He’d known Hitoshi for many years. Their organizations had done business together many times. Their families had a history of sorts together.

“I do need something,” Hitoshi said. He dropped the grandfatherly tone and demeanor. “A big favor. Very big.”

“Tell me,” Dmitri said. He clasped his hands on his lap.

“It’s about Naomi,” Hitoshi said.

“Naomi,” Dmitri repeated impassively, even though he was surprised. She was Hitoshi’s youngest daughter. He hadn’t seen her in years, not since Gram and Dmitri had spent a lazy, rich summer in Tokyo when Dmitri was a younger man. She’d been a teenager then. Black hair, willowy frame, green, almond-shaped eyes that only a half Japanese, half English ancestry would produce.

He realized he’d let the silence stretch on for too long. “Is she in trouble?”

Hitoshi sighed and bowed forward, a man crumbling under the push of age and disease. “She is, friend, and it is of my doing.”

“Please, explain,” Dmitri said. He relaxed his posture. Gram was still perched on the edge of his seat, ready to move at the first sign of trouble. That was the problem in this business—you could never really relax, even with old friends.

“She’s almost thirty now. Very beautiful and smart. She has a suitor. Lots of money,” Hitoshi said.

“I do not hear the problem,” Dmitri said.

“The problem is that he’s one of the S-Triangle clan.”

Dmitri nodded slowly. He was very familiar with that group. They were close allies of his. They were a large, powerful syndicate made up of three extremely wealthy Japanese families. Their bloody fingerprints were all over international shipping, drug running, and moving counterfeit goods across South Asia. “I assume you have warned her of the risks?”

Hitoshi rubbed his temples. “It is not so simple. It started out as her voluntarily seeing him, but now they have demanded her hand in marriage from me. An arrangement. A joining of our businesses.”

Dmitri let out his breath as the cultural and practical implications of Hitoshi’s statement hit him. “She does not want this?”

A wobbly Hitoshi leaned on his cane. “Of course she does not. She does not wish to be a part of the S-Triangle clan.” He paced over to the window, his cane dragging on the ground with every step. “She is a good girl. It is I that brought her into this mess. My children never had a choice with this life.”

Dmitri said nothing, but Sophia’s beautiful face was fresh in his mind. He’d done the same thing. Selfishly pulled her into a life she could never understand. She had said no. He had been angry, but she had done the right thing. The thing that he was still too weak to do.

Let her go.

He found his way back to the present, staring at the aging, once powerful man hunched over the cane near the window. Entropy always wins. Even the powerful and wealthy could not escape illness. “And for you? Do you want this?” Dmitri asked.

Hitoshi whirled around. “Of course not!” he shouted. “This would be not only bad for her, but for me. I’m not going to hand over what I’ve built to those cock suckers. I know I will be gone soon, and this is a power play, but I’m not giving it to them. Not ever.”

Dmitri said nothing, but felt tension radiating from Gram. Gram hadn’t moved an inch, but he was ready.

“Dear friend,” Dmitri said. “I am most sorry for this, and I share your concern for Naomi’s wellbeing, but I fail to see what role I have in this. This is not my war, and they are my associates.”

“No war,” Hitoshi said. “I am far too old for war. A game. A game that I can win, with your help.”

Chapter 2

SOPHIA

Sophia paused down the street from the strip club, gathering her nerves. She’d dressed carefully. She wanted to look the part, but not stand out.

So here she was, near eleven thirty at night, in her sleeveless little black dress with a plunging neckline ending just above her navel. Her ample cleavage was on display. She’d gone braless so she jiggled when she walked. She wore black stiletto heels. Her hair was down, loose, and free. She’d applied more eye makeup than she ever had in her life.

She waited for a large group to pour out of a stretch limo. It was a giggling group of women escorted by older, tuxedoed men. She merged herself into the back of the crowd and slipped into the members-only club with the group.

Once she crossed the threshold, she struggled to maintain her composure. The inside was a supernova of light and sound. Stages lined the wall, massive structures with mirrored floors and walls. Within the mirrors were bright neon lights, some blinking and twinkling in rhythm with the pounding, loud music. The effect was so garish she had to blink her eyes against the sudden intrusion of brightness.

Women danced sinuously across the massive stages, swiveling in the haze of bright light. There must have been twenty, all of them insanely gorgeous, swaying with the music in various states of undress.

The beautiful flesh and lights and music were powerful, and she was drawn closer.

It was no wonder this place was world famous.

She tore her eyes away from the stage. Gold art-deco booths and gleaming tables with red, plush chairs filled the rest of the space. She spotted a small table next to a large group of women and slipped into it, hoping to blend in so she could gather her bearings.

A pretty cocktail waitress wearing a sequined mini dress took her drink order, then reappeared with a gimlet in short order. Sophia paid with cash. Russian merchants seemed to hate it when she used her credit card. She’d been reminded of that after a few dirty stares when she’d used her card to pay at restaurants or stores.

Once she had her cocktail in hand, she leaned back in her chair, put a haughty, disengaged expression on her face, and surveyed the other patrons.

As she suspected, money was here. Not only in the large-bill tips spilling from the hourglass shaped, large crystal jars in front of the stages, but the luxurious clothes of the patrons.

There were some couples—men in suits with beautiful young women decked in furs and sparkling jewels. There were also a couple of large groups of girls, like the group sitting at the table right next to her. But most of the patrons were men.

Men of all stripes. Men in suits. Men in long bisht robes. Men in kaftans.

She flicked her eyes up and noticed a second floor with balconies that overlooked the first floor. Darkened booths loomed in the distance, which her imagination filled with writhing couples. Small tables lined the open space, where men sat, ignoring the display of flesh, deep in conversation.

Bingo.

Those men. Those conversations were where they traded power, knowledge, and bargained dark deals over drinks. That’s where she needed to be.

But how?

She took another sip of her gimlet and snuck a glance around her. Several men were staring at her, not the strippers, with hungry eyes. She looked away, avoiding any eye contact. That was not the type of attention she wanted.

She drained her drink.

The noise, the lights, and the sexual charge in the air were getting to her. She flagged down the waitress who quickly answered her question and pointed out the restrooms to her.

She moved on quick feet, winding her way through the crowd with her eyes cast down.

The restroom had a heavy, mirrored door. She pushed it open and was welcomed with an unexpected stillness.

It was all darkness, very different from the light outside. Deep red couches lined the room she had stepped into, along with a line of lit mirrors and stools for touching up make-up. Black tiles led into another area with individual stalls with frosted glass doors.

The heavy door and thick couches muted the music of the club into a faint pounding. It was a welcome break from the intrusions of light and noise.

She plopped down in front of one of the mirrors and tugged a small comb through her hair. Now that she was here, she had no idea what to do.

Her solitude was interrupted with a heavy swing of the door. A tall, slim woman strode into the room. Her platinum blond hair tumbled down to her waist, her striking hazel eyes darting around the room. She was dressed to kill in a black leather, second-skin dress and tall, fuck-me black stilettos. Gold, gothic jewelry hung from her neck and ears and flashed on her slim fingers with long, bright-red nails.

Her eyes settled on Sophia, and a hint of a mocking smile appeared on her face. Sophia moved her eyes back to the mirror, ignoring the woman, hoping she would go away.

It didn’t work. She sank into the chair next to Sophia and pulled out a small, square leather purse covered with gold studs. “Not good place for nice tourist,” she said in English, her accent thick and lustrous.

Sophia tucked her comb back into her purse. “I’m not a tourist,” she answered in Russian. “And I’m not always nice.”

The girl’s eyes widened, and she laughed. “Very good Russian. Not native, but good enough.” She looked strangely pleased.

Sophia smiled and then pulled out her burgundy lipstick.

“American?” the girl asked. She had produced a cigarette case and lighter from her BDSM purse.

“Maybe,” Sophia answered.

“Relax. I not trying to bother you, okay?” said the woman in broken English. After she lit her cigarette, she extended her hand. “Tatiana. You?”

Sophia shook it. “Sophia.”

Tatiana smiled. It was mischievous, but genuine. Her eyes lit up. “What are you doing in a place like this without a man?” She was back to speaking in Russian now. Her smile slipped a bit and she became more serious. “This is not a good place for a young woman to be alone.” She turned her head to blow the smoke away from Sophia. “I saw you sitting alone, looking nervous. I came in to warn you.”

Sophia carefully applied her lipstick. It gave her a few minutes to think of a response. She was a stranger, and she found Tatiana’s curiosity a bit unsettling. “I am alone,” she finally answered.

Tatiana stubbed out her cigarette. “Then you must join my table.”

“That’s very kind of you, but—”

Tatiana cut her off with a wave of her hand. “Come. It is for the best. Trust me.” She stood up, tossing her white-blond hair behind her.

“Okay.” Sophia stood, too. She was half relieved to join a group, but half terrified of the strange woman beside her. “Thank you.”

She followed Tatiana’s bobbing blond hair and long legs back to her table. It was right next to her old one, and one of the girls had already pulled up a chair for her.

“This is Sophia,” Tatiana said when they arrived. The girls said nothing, but didn’t object when she sat down.

Tatiana jerked her head up, and the waitress appeared. “Top shelf vodka shots for the whole table,” she said. “Double for her.”

The waitress smiled and promptly returned with the shots. Tatiana grabbed the double shot and placed it in front of her. “Drink,” she said. “You look nervous.”

“Oh, I don’t—”

“Drink,” Tatiana said. The girls at the table began chanting, too: “Drink! Drink! Drink!”

Against her better judgment, Sophia tipped the glass back and drained it, slamming it back down on the table when she’d emptied it.

Tatiana clapped her hands and smiled. “Welcome to Russia,” she said.

DMITRI

Dmitri took a sip of his sake, ignoring Gram’s stares. They’d had a big meal. He had not been hungry for it, but refusing a meal in Japan was a massive insult, and Dmitri was not in the habit of insulting a potential business asset. He was interested in the future of Hitoshi’s business. East Asia was a tough market.

They’d settled into a darkened, empty restaurant down the street from the safe-house where they’d met Hitoshi. He sat across from them now, hands folded in front of him, bodyguards hovering in the background.

“I am listening,” Dmitri said.

Hitoshi glanced off to the side before answering. Dmitri read his movement as a lie or embarrassment. He wasn’t sure which one it was yet. “You can stop this,” Hitoshi said in a low voice, even though the restaurant was empty.

“I do not understand how that is possible,” Dmitri said. “I am not equipped nor inclined to fight the S-Triangle. It would not be good for business. This is not my war.”

Hitoshi cracked his knuckles. “There would be no need for war.” He rested his hands on the table again. “They know you. They respect you. They would not be interested in fighting you.”

“This is true, but I do not understand what you want me to do here,” Dmitri said.

“If Naomi was already promised, then I can say no and it would be respected and honored. If she was promised to the right person, that is. One with money and power so they wouldn’t interfere. You are that person.”