Relentless Pursuit (20 page)

“Mr. Marucci?”  A voice Carlo didn’t recognize called out his name.  Should he answer?   Was it a trap—had Dubshenko found him after all?

He stood, brushing his hands down along his jeans.

“I’m Marucci.”

“Foster sent me.  Get in, please.”

Carlo stared at the driver, trying to read him.  Short blond hair, cut in a stylish fashion.  The dark gray jacket encased a body that looked like it saw a gym and weight room regularly.  A moneyed vibe oozed from every pore.

Who the hell is this guy and why’d Foster send him?

“Who’re you?  Carlo walked around the front of the car, running his hand across the hood.  The car was gorgeous and had to have cost a bloody fortune.

“A friend.  Foster told me you’re in a bit of a bind with Vladimir Dubshenko.”  There was an accent there, pretty well hidden beneath a Texas twang, but Carlo caught the occasional undertone of carefully pitched diction.  British maybe?

“Foster obviously needs to keep his big mouth shut.”

The stranger laughed while Carlo buckled in, and hit the gas as soon as the catch clicked.  Carlo expected him to floor it, show off the horsepower under the hood.  Instead, he eased along the alley’s broken and pitted pavement. He paused at the end before pulling out into the parking lot, driving past each storefront.

“What do you know about Dubshenko?”  Carlo couldn’t bite back his curiosity at what Foster might have revealed to somebody outside of the agency.  Things were spiraling out of control, with Dubshenko at the eye of the storm.  He wanted this over and done.  He rubbed at the bruise on his chest.  Remembered the gun pointed directly at his head.  The flashback played through his head like a full color video—his sister Jinx’s scream, his frenetic wrestling with Dubshenko over the gun and the fiery explosion of pain at the bullet’s impact.

Jinx—wherever she was, he prayed the cop was keeping her safe.  Carlo's sole purpose coalesced into a single-minded focus, taking down Dubshenko and keep his plans for his beautiful, naïve baby sister out of his control.  Dubshenko’s taunts about raping Jinx and selling her to the highest bidder—well that would happen over his dead body.

The long silence after his question to the stranger driving the car had the hairs on the back of his neck itching with suspicion.  Why hadn’t he answered the question?

“Dubshenko’s only the tip of the iceberg, Marucci.  Taking him down may be important to you, and I’m praying you bury him beneath the prison, but once he’s taken out of the picture, there are a dozen more just like him to take his place.  He’s dirty, nasty and evil, but the people pulling his strings are the bigger picture here.  That’s where I come in.”

“Yeah?  What’s your angle?”

“Not important.  Right now, let’s get you to Foster and your little friend.”

Damn, he knew about the girl?  That wasn’t good.

“Who are you?”

“Samuel Carpenter.”  Carlo’s brow rose at the name.  Samuel Carpenter, A.K.A. The Ghost, was infamous throughout the DEA grapevine.  He’d been the rising star, on the fast track to the highest ranks, until a botched operation derailed his career.  He’d left in disgrace and basically disappeared off the governmental grid.  Instead, he’d become the biggest playboy of the western hemisphere, money and parties, women and decadent excess overflowing. 

“Okay, I’ll bite.  What’s your interest in this whole thing, Carpenter?”

“Foster contacted me.  I knew him from my days with the DEA.  We’d worked a couple of cases together.  He knows I speak fluent Russian, and asked me to come and talk with your friend.”

Okay, that made sense.  Foster couldn’t have gotten in touch with Carlo anyway, since he’d been flying under the radar, trying to stay one step ahead of Dubshenko.  Still, bringing somebody else into the picture complicated things.

“She able to tell you anything?  Last time I talked to her, all she could say was no and cry.  A lot.”

Carpenter stared ahead through the windshield, a cold dark expression clouding his face.  Carlo knew he never wanted to find himself on the wrong side of this stranger—that was one scary dude.

“Can’t really blame her.  She’s barely fifteen, kidnapped from her home and smuggled out of her country.  All she wants is to go home.  A couple of bastards walked right into her exclusive boarding school and snatched her up before anybody knew what had happened.  She was then taken aboard a private plane to an island off the coast of Alaska, where she was put on a boat.”

“Damn, poor kid.  I knew something bad was going on.  Dubshenko’s got a real hard on to get his hands on her.”  Carlo’s mind whirled at the possibilities.  The girl was obviously important to somebody, or Dubshenko wouldn’t have a use for her.  But who?

“Any idea who she is?”

“You want the bad news or the really bad news?   Her name is Isabella Sokolov.  Her father is Anatole Sokolov.”

Carlo groaned.  Might as well stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger.  If Sokolov thought he had something to do with snatching his baby girl, Carlo knew before he finished with him, he'd pray for death.

“No way.  Even Dubshenko wouldn't be that stupid.  Kidnap the daughter of the head of the Sokolov syndicate?  Think he's got a death wish?”  As he said the words, Carlo knew this was exactly something a manipulative bastard like Dubshenko would try.  His overinflated sense of entitlement as a big fish in New Orleans had obviously given him delusions of grandeur.

“My sources say Sokolov has kept this quiet.  Nobody outside the immediate family is aware the girl is missing.  But he'll be in the United States in less than 24 hours, and all hell will break loose the second he's wheels down.”  Carpenter's hands tightly gripped the steering wheel while he spoke, his grip causing the black padded leather encasing it to creak, and Carlo grimaced.

“I need to think.  Dammit, how do we diffuse this situation with minimal bloodshed, without creating an international incident and dragging this half-assed kidnapping all the way to the front door of the White House?”  Carlo scrubbed his hand across his face, grimacing as he encountered the stubble of beard.  Things were spinning out of control so fast and furious he wasn't even sure what day it was anymore.

“Foster said you're DEA, right?”

“Yeah, undercover at the moment.”  Dammit, Carlo needed to have a serious talk with Foster.  He thought the guy knew how to keep his trap shut.  One word to the wrong person, and chances were good Carlo really would be floating face down in the bayou.

“Who's your boss?”  Carpenter swung right onto a barely paved road, with live oaks creating a dense canopy overhead.  Rutted holes pockmarked the drive, and Carpenter cursed when his Italian baby scraped against the rock-strewn asphalt.

“Branson.”  Carlo answered, holding onto the armrest, and Carpenter swerved sharply to avoid another huge hole smack dab in the center of the road.  He jolted forward when Carpenter hit the brakes before throwing the car into park.  He swiveled around in the seat, his gray-eyed stare boring into Carlo.

“Do you trust him?  Don't think about it—gut instinct—yes or no?”

“No.”  Carlo answered spontaneously, realizing it was the absolute truth.  Throughout the entire time he'd been assigned to Branson for the Dubshenko case, he'd had an instinctive dislike for him.  He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly; the guy seemed squeaky clean.  The men working for him never spoke ill of him, in fact they sang his praises about what a great and fair boss he was.

“Think you could trust him with something as big as Sokolov's missing daughter?”

Carlo didn't even pause before he answered.   “Hell, no.  I wouldn't trust him to baby-sit my cat, if I had one.  I don't have any reason not to trust him—but something's always been a bit off.”

Carlo watched as Carpenter pulled out his wallet, extracting a business card from inside.  He raised a brow in question, but remained silent.

“Your instincts are probably right.  Branson's department has been under investigation for a while and we're pretty sure he, or somebody in his upper echelon, is dirty.  Case is ongoing, nobody has enough evidence to move them—yet.”  He flicked the business card with his finger before handing it to Carlo.

“Here's the number for a friend with the FBI.  Give him a call and tell him what you know.  Everything about Sokolov, his daughter, Dubshenko, and especially Branson.”  Carpenter chuckled before putting the car back in gear and easing forward, veering to the left to avoid still another pothole.

“Of course, that would mean you'd have to trust me to be helping you and not setting you up to be exterminated the second we drive up to the house—which is right around the next corner.  So think fast and make the smart choice.”

Taking one hand off the wheel, Carpenter leaned forward and flipped open the console in the dash, and pointed to the Browning nestled atop a stack of papers.

“Grab that—you probably need one.”

Carlo reached forward toward the open dash, fingers outstretched toward the weapon, and gently flipped closed the door with a soft snick.  He leaned back against the soft upholstered leather, sinking deeper into its buttery depths, and he smiled for the first time in what felt like days.

“No thanks,” he replied.  “I've got my own.”

Chapter Twenty-One

D
amn, dawn came much too early in the heart of the bayou.  The sounds of wildlife penetrated the walls of the sorry excuse for a cabin. Remy wanted nothing more than to bury his head between the sumptuous breasts of the goddess next to him, and let the world outside wait.  Instead, he stretched and climbed out of the narrow bed, the same bed he'd spent such a wonderful night with the woman currently occupying it.  He debated whether to wake her, deciding against it when she burrowed beneath the cotton sheet, her arm stretched forth across the spot he'd vacated moments earlier.

Instead, he walked to the itty-bitty excuse for a bathroom, and quickly took care of business, thankful that even though it was tiny, at least it was indoors.  He'd always despised having to use those outhouse bathrooms.  Something about them just gave him the willies.  Ugh.

First things first, he thought.  Coffee.  Please, by all that is good and holy, let there be a coffee pot in this shack. Quietly opening the cabinets one by one, in the third one he hit pay dirt.  An old-fashioned, but usable coffee pot.  Next step, coffee.  He'd spotted a can on the upper shelf the day before, when checking out the supplies.  At this point, he didn't care how old the stuff was, he'd drink it.

Once it was on the stove and gurgling away, he scratched his belly, and surveyed the contents of their limited pantry.  Wasn't much, but they wouldn't starve before they made it back to civilization.  Two arms twined around him from behind, and a soft curvy body pressed against his.  A naked curvy body.  He turned within her hold, smiling down at the tousled auburn curls and pillow creased cheek.  Amazing that without all the artifice of makeup and hairstyling, she still looked gorgeous.  Her big blue eyes reflected the smile curving her lips, and he couldn't resist leaning forward and kissing that appealing mouth.

“Mmm.  Good morning, sunshine.”  He said after the kiss ended.

“Hello yourself, handsome.”  Jinx's husky, just-woke-up voice whispered back.

“I've got coffee on.  We really need to get moving pretty soon.  Should make it back to town in a couple of hours, and I'll call the guys.”  He moved back and spun her around, giving her a gentle tap on the butt, and a nudge toward the bathroom doorway.  “Get dressed and I'll have breakfast ready when you get done.”

Within minutes she was back, seated on the edge of the bed and putting her shoes on, then finger-combed her hair into some semblance of a style.  She joined him in the kitchen when he started pouring the coffee into two mismatched ceramic mugs.

“Sorry, it'll have to be black.  I couldn't find any creamer or sugar.”

“That's okay, I'll make do.”  She took a sip and made a face at the bitter brew.  Remy tasted his and scowled.  The stuff was horrible.

“Are you sure you want to call East Texas?  Involve more people in this walking disaster I call a life?”

“I promise, Jinx, they'll watch over you, keep you safe.”

“No.  I told you before—if you don't come with me, I'm not going.  They may be the best trained military experts in the country, but I don't know them.  I know you—I trust you.  If you're not staying, I'll find my own way back to New Orleans and confront Dubshenko.  I'll—”

“No.  There's a price on your head, and the son of a bitch has everybody in the state looking for you.  Hell, we barely got away from those two yesterday.  The second he gets his hands on you, you'll disappear, and nobody's ever gonna see you again.  Is that what you really want?  Think about it.  What about your family—what are they going to do when you've vanished off the face of the earth?  Or Carlo?  If you're not around, there's no reason for Dubshenko to keep him alive.”  Remy hated throwing the harsh words out at her, but she needed to face reality.  Vladimir Dubshenko was a powerful man in New Orleans and the surrounding parishes.  The minute Jinx got within a hundred miles of New Orleans he'd snatch her up, and she'd be gone. Like every other person who stood in Dubshenko's way.  The thought of her in the clutches of a power-hungry sociopath like the Russian churned in his guts.  He couldn't do it—couldn't let her make herself a target.

“Fine.  You win.  We'll call and have my friends pick us up—both of us.  I'll stay until we hear from Captain Hilliard or Max that Dubshenko's been taken care of and it's safe.”

“Thank you, Remy.”  She flung herself into his arms and Remy pulled her tight, enjoying the feel of her soft body pressed up against him as she hugged him, her cheek on his shoulder.  Leaning forward, he pressed a soft kiss to her temple, inhaling the fragrance of her.  No artifice, no fancy perfumes or lotions—she smelled like soap and skin and woman.  A unique blend of scents that was hers and hers alone.

He didn't know when it happened, or even how it happened, but somehow she'd wormed her way beneath his defenses and into his heart.  He loved her.  No more denials or evasions.  In just a few short days she had come to mean everything to him, and he’d be damned if he'd lose her before they even got a chance to see where things might go.