Tales of Chills and Thrills: The Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Novels) (6 page)

Rafe turned the floor over to the rest of the team, who peppered Vlad with one question after another. As he listened to the conversation, Rafe replayed in his mind the strange call he’d had in the middle of the night with Yuri. When Rafe asked him about the Volkov there was a dead silence. For a moment Rafe thought he’d lost the connection. When Yuri finally responded, his voice was quiet, hesitating. Then he proceeded to give a long-winded description of the famous Russian river that Rafe could have read in any travel guide.

While not always 100% forthcoming, Yuri had never, ever before dodged any of Rafe’s questions about the Russian mob, no matter how high level or secret the information. Long ago he and Yuri had agreed, that if there was one person in the world they could trust, it was each other. Knowing that Yuri was holding back information on a critical life and death matter kept Rafe awake all night. Not that he could have slept anyway. Not with the image of Nicki’s stricken face looming in his mind.

Chapter 6

After Vlad signed off, Rafe reconvened the team, assigning specific tasks. Nicki glanced at the fierce-looking men encircling the table. She had been around fighters all her life. It was her life. But she had never known a group of warriors the likes of the ISA men. They were the elite of elite. In the few short years since Rafe created the enterprise, they had become an international force of bad boys to be reckoned with. All of them were ex-military, representing a cross section of special ops veterans. Caleb and Grayson had been on Rafe’s Ranger team, while the others had followed him based on his infamy alone. To a man they shared Rafe’s disdain for the constraints imposed on uniformed fighters by civilian and military leaders. Like Rafe, they thrived in the shadows. They operated so far off the grid they wouldn’t recognize it if they saw it.

Surveying the group, Nicki suppressed an appreciative smile. In addition to being fearsome, each one of them scored at least an eleven on a ten point stud scale. Like every special ops guy she knew, they were gorgeous. It wasn’t only their physical prowess, their extraordinary bodies. It was the enticing vibes radiating off them. Every woman who met them wanted to see for herself if the tales she’d heard about bad boys were true. The ISA men proved their mamas right.

Rafe’s men were hard, dangerous adrenaline junkies. Nicki ought to know: she was as well. Each of them had joined the team for one reason. Rafe. He was a warrior’s warrior. His reputation preceded him and he re-earned the loyalty of his men every day they were together. He was the consummate leader. He headed every charge, and never assigned a task he wouldn’t do himself. Tall and lean, his cultured manner and easy elegance didn’t fully mask the danger simmering just below the surface. To the delight of his men, he thumbed his nose at the establishment—which perversely made him and them in more demand than ever. Jobs that the military wouldn’t touch or the spooks evaded, Rafe took on eagerly, demanding and receiving previously unheard-of fees. There wasn’t a job dangerous enough or suspect enough for Rafe to turn down. As Rafe had told Nicki last night, his goal in life was helping the good guys and taking out the bad guys as viciously as possible.

After Rafe had assigned tasks to the other men, he turned to her.

“Nicki, I want you to hit the social media sites and chase down any possible connection between these two girls. Find out if they participate in similar chat rooms, play the same internet games, shop in the same online stores. Then talk to their friends, their families. Find their nexus. There has to be some connection between the two of them besides their prominent high income parents.”

Nicki silently agreed and went to work. She forced herself not to think about him, to ignore him and concentrate on her task. It might be tedious grunt work, but she knew how critical it was. She was more familiar with the sex trade than many of the men on the team. Over the years, she’d met countless victims, listened in stunned disbelief to their hideous stories, and participated in multiple rescues. Long ago she’d stopped asking how men could be so cruel, so vicious to young girls, and even children. As her father told her sadly, there isn’t a more lucrative connection than the one between sex and money. From the hideous evidence she’d seen, her father, as always, was right.

The Cave hummed with activity. Rafe had called in all of his high level technical staff and put them to work hunting for connections between the victims. While Nicki and Caleb focused on the girls’ personal circles, the others researched family backgrounds, businesses, and social ties looking for the elusive element that might have put both girls on the kidnapper’s radar.

It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon when Nicki allowed herself to put her head down on the desk for a moment, hoping no one would notice. She’d just hung up from a grueling conversation with Sophie’s grief-stricken mother. As gently as she could, she’d asked the hard questions that no parent wanted to face. Who were Sophie’s best friends? Did she have a boyfriend? Was he one her parents approved of? Did she spend time on the internet? Then that particular question certain to elicit denials from even the most informed parents, did she do drugs? Was she active on the party scene? On and on.

She shook off her fatigue and forced herself to tackle the six pages of notes she’d taken from her conversation with Mrs. Schwartz. Hillary’s mother, on the other hand, was much less forthcoming. Rafe had warned her. Mrs. Chambers was either a very good actress or heavily into denial. Probably both, Nicki thought wearily.

She looked up as Caleb shoved a Diet Coke in front of her. She accepted it with a grateful smile.

“This is the last thing I should be giving you, hotstuff. But since you didn’t touch the sandwich I brought you, or the salad, or even the chocolate mints I hid in your desk, at least I can give you caffeine.”

“Thanks, Caleb. I’m not hungry, but the Diet Coke is great.”

Hoping that he would take the hint, Nicki picked up her stack of papers and began adding notes in the margins.

But Caleb wasn’t about to let her off that easy. Instead of leaving her alone, he parked himself on the edge of her desk then reached down and took the papers out of her hands.

Nicki reared up.

“Dammit, Caleb. I need to sort through those. Please. Let me work.”

Holding her papers above his head, Caleb grinned at her but she saw the concern in his eyes.

“Look, hotstuff. I never thought I’d say this but you look like hell. Damn, you can barely keep your eyes open. Plus, if you looked any sadder, you’d break my heart. You tell Daddy Caleb who stole your favorite teddy bear and I’ll kick his ass for you.”

Nicki tried to smile. “I appreciate your concern, Caleb. I’m fine, honest. I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’m just tired.”

Ever the outrageous flirt, Caleb gawked at her. His bright blue eyes twinkled dangerously. Assuming a professorial manner, he said, “Here is my suggestion, Ms. Powers. I recommend we go off in a corner away from prying eyes and play doctor. I’ll be the doctor and you can tell me all your symptoms. All of your problems. Then I’ll strip you naked and, you know, check you out. Just from my cursory examination, I’m confident the problem is something to do with those girlie parts of yours that keep us guys yanking off at night.” Leering at her breasts, he added, “I won’t know which parts, of course, until I do a thorough examination.”

The groans and catcalls from around the room confirmed that the other men had overheard Caleb’s outrageous teasing.

Nicki jumped up and reached up trying to grab her papers, but Caleb held them higher, forcing her to reach up over his strong body.

“Whoo hoo. I knew it. Look fellas. The little warrior woman is trying to jump my bones.”

A sharp voice cut through the guffaws and outright laughter.

“Cut the clown act, Masterson.”

Rafe appeared beside them, anger spitting off of him like grease on a hot griddle. Glaring at Caleb, he took the papers out of his hands and put them on Nicki’s desk.

Caleb flushed. “Hell, Rafe. I was just teasing her. You know I’m crazy about the little sprite. But damn, even a blind man can see there is something wrong with our hotstuff. If I can’t get her to come clean, maybe you can.”

Ignoring Rafe’s fierce glare, Caleb turned to Nicki and chucked her under her chin.

“You know, I’m looking out for you, hotstuff. Always have, always will.”

He sauntered off, whistling under his breath.

Rafe realized he was holding onto Nicki’s arm when she tried to twist out of his tight grip. He let go, embarrassed that he’d lost his cool. Seeing Grayson looking from him to Nicki with a puzzled frown, Rafe chided himself. Fuck. Why not just proclaim it. Nothing like the alpha dog marking his tree and warning the other alphas off in the process.

But Caleb was right. Nicki did look like hell. Her face was pale, strained. She had dark circles under her eyes. He’d kept a surreptitious eye on her throughout the day, although she hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction. She’d dressed in commando gear this morning, a signal not to mess with her. Unfortunately the sleeveless black t-shirt showed off her toned golden arms and soft skin. And no t-shirt tight or loose could hide those voluptuous breasts. Rather than masking her figure, the cammo pants hung low on her hips, straining across her perfect ass. Rafe grimaced. All the tough clothes did was to underscore how feminine she was and how fragile she looked today. Christ, what did he expect? She’d been hit hard last night. By him.

Rafe moved closer, purposefully crowding her. She backed as far away as she could, but the desk behind forced her into his space.

“Look at me, Nicki,” he said quietly so the others couldn’t hear him.

He waited until she reluctantly peered up at him.

“Caleb’s right, Nicki. You need to eat. We have some long, hard days ahead of us.”

She tossed her head and glared at him.

“As I told Caleb, I’m not hungry. When I am, I will eat. Whether I eat or not is none of your concern. I can take care of myself. I always have and I always will.”

She squeezed by him and sat down, pointedly picking up her papers. When Rafe didn’t move, instead assuming Caleb’s pose leaning against the edge of her desk, she glanced up and flushed at the look on his face.

She whispered, “What do you want from me, Rafe?”

He quirked a brow and smiled at her. “It’s like I told the Senator: my company, my rules. I require all my “men” to be in top physical condition. And that means eating whether they want to or not.”

Nicki flushed even brighter, her eyes were spitting fire. She asked in a harsh whisper. “What are you going to do, force feed me?”

He smiled at her but his grin didn’t reach his eyes.

“If necessary.”

Or, he thought to himself, ignoring her shocked gasp, turn you over my knee and spank your bare ass, after I fuck the hell out of you. Shoving down the mix of anger and lust that had his dick straining at his pants, he turned to the men in the room.

“Gray, Caleb, Dylan, Sergio, Nicki…. Everyone, gather around.”

After the men surged forward and he was reasonably confident his shameless body wouldn’t embarrass him, he moved to the aisle.

“There’s new information. I just got off the telephone. We have a third girl. Cindy Peterson. The eighteen-year-old daughter of Judge Henry Peterson.”

“The Affiliate Court judge in line to be a Supreme?” Caleb asked, his eyes wide, astonished.

Rafe nodded.

“One and the same.”

Grayson whistled.

“Volkov?”

Rafe gave a grim sigh. “Volkov.”

Chapter 7

Brooklyn, New York

Boris glared at the brazen young man in front of him. How dare this piece of shit threaten him? Didn’t he know who he was? He glowered at him but the kid just grinned and tossed back the shot of vodka Boris had poured for him. Quaffing his own, Boris waited for the burn to subside, to numb the wrenching agony in his gut. Christ, even the NaOH inhibiters he popped like Tums didn’t help. His medicine cabinet looked like a fucking pharmacy, but nothing worked any more. Dubie was right. He was going to have to give in. Have the fucking surgery. Hell, at this point they could take his whole damn stomach out. As long as he could still drink vodka, what the hell did he care if he had half a gut or a quarter. He could get better a whole lot faster if he didn’t have to deal with penny ante shysters like this piece of crap in front of him. He longed for the days in Russia when Leonid was running the gang. When just a pointed look from the towering man would have had bums like this cowering in their boots, begging for mercy. How had he fallen so far, so fast? He thought with a groan, he only wished it had been fast. But it hadn’t; it had taken almost a quarter of century to get to this point. One fucking year after another from Russia, to Chechnya, to London and now finally New York City.

This was supposed to have been where he turned around his life. Made up for the past. Redeemed his family’s name and once again became a respected, and yes, Goddammit a feared member of the
Vory
. He longed for the old days when being a Vor meant something. When clan members valued their membership in the family above all else. When the Vor was honored and feared. Instead, he had to rely on punks like Aiden.

Aidan for god’s sake, what kind of a name was that? Like some fucking rock star instead of a cold blooded killer. But then Boris reminded himself, Aiden was indeed a cold blooded killer and a scary one at that. He killed for pleasure like all punks did. But the unsettling, downright scary thing about Aiden and the assholes who hooked up with him was the way they killed. Slowly. Building up to the final moment with every imaginable torture woven into the fabric of the kill.

Even though the little punk made him want to reach down his throat and rip his guts out, Boris admitted that Aiden was effective. Those All-American golden boy looks opened doors Boris could never open. Boris was suspect. Foreign. So much for the melting pot of America. He knew what those patrician assholes saw when they looked at him. A thick-jowled, fifty-year-old Russian immigrant. A guy with a heavy body and a heavier accent. No matter how expensive his clothes or how much he paid his barber, his harsh Slavic looks were getting harder and harder to tame. A telling contrast to the suave gym rat looks of an Aiden. Boris poured himself another shot of vodka and tossed it back glowering at the cocky kid in front of him.