Xtreme (14 page)

“I don't understand.”

“Ah, well, I'm afraid I can't really fill you in on the details. Not yet, anyway. I just thought you might want to know…how shall I put this? I think I may have been a bit hasty in judging your new boyfriend.”

Chelsea was stunned. Was Stone trying to tell her that the case against Ricardo was a mistake? That they were unsure about all the accusations against him after all? “I just spent an entire day telling Vega everything I know about Ricardo,” she said. “He's killed people. He deals in stolen art. Whatever he's done is bad enough that a whole lot of Russian gangsters want him dead.”

“Yeah, he's got a colorful resume, I'll give him that.”

“Then what are you trying to tell me, Stone?”

He squeezed her hand one last time and then pulled his hand away. “I gotta say, Chels, I'm really glad you guys came to see me, but I'm worn out. I don't mean to be rude, but I think I better get some rest.”

“No,” Chelsea protested. “No no no. Don't do this to me. Come on, Stone, please!”

He yawned, then looked at her through heavy-lidded eyes. “Chelsea. The whole time I've known you, I've never seen you get excited over a guy. This was the first time. And while he might not be the one I would have picked for you myself—hell, I probably would have found you a nice accountant or something—getting nearly killed has changed my perspective a little. All I can do is tell you that things may not be what they seem…and maybe you should give him a chance.”

“But—but I have no idea where he is! And stupid Agent Vega won't let me out from under his thumb!”

“Kind of funny,” Stone said, pulling the covers up under his chin and closing his eyes. “I always thought you were tough. As far as I know, no one's charged you with anything. And somehow you've managed to hook up with de Santos any number of times in the past, even without having any way to get ahold of him. Oh, and one more thing—the lines down in the cafeteria are
really
long. Which is probably why it's taking Tabby so long…”

His eyes drifted down until it looked like he'd be asleep in seconds.

Chelsea would never know, however. Because she was out the door almost as soon as he finished speaking.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Smith.”

Chelsea almost yelped for joy. When she'd been sequestered in the hotel room with Ricardo, he'd forced her to memorize a phone number for use in emergencies. She'd protested that Smith had preloaded his number on the phone he'd given her, but Ricardo had been adamant.

“Hi Mr. Smith, it's Chelsea.”

“What an unexpected pleasure.”

Chelsea could picture the unflappable, cultured man's slightly sardonic smile. She breathed a sigh of relief, her first since sneaking out of Stone's hospital room, racing down the stairs and practically jogging down the street to a grimy pizza joint where she begged to borrow a phone to make her call. The only other people in the place were the teenager behind the counter and an older man spinning pies along the work counter.

“I wasn't sure if this number would still work.”

“Indeed.”

“But I'm really glad it did…listen, I wonder if you could get Ricardo a message?”

“I think that might be possible.”

“Tell him…” She read the address of the restaurant off a takeout menu. “I'll be here for the next hour. Tell him I could really use a ride somewhere.”

“Consider it done.”

#

Marco Vega checked caller ID and took the call, even though chaos reigned all around him. Every member of the Art Crimes team had been called in this morning, following an unexpected and shocking call from Interpol. Now he was standing in a stinking alley behind a Russian tenement with officers from three different agencies, including the Peruvian National Police and the FBI gang unit. More officers were en route to control traffic and transport the half dozen men lying face down with their hands above their heads, while screaming sirens signaled the EMTs would be here in moments to deal with the wounded.

Two of his men had sustained non-life-threatening injuries in the melee that followed the bust.

The Russians had not fared as well.

“This better be good,” he said. “The shit's coming down fast around here.”

“I'm so sorry,” Tabby said. “I didn't think she'd run.”

Vega rubbed his temple. “You've got to be kidding me. You lost Chelsea Ryder?”

“I…yes. I would say I thought Stone was watching her, but…”

“But since he was stabbed nearly to death you thought you might want to pitch in?” Vega thought about kicking the dumpster he was standing next to in frustration, but technically it was part of a crime scene. “Goddamn it, Bledsoe, are you a goddamn rookie?”

“I—”

“Never mind that. I've got my hands full. Find her. We've accounted for most of the known
bratva
members, but not all. Be careful.”

“Yes, sir. Where shall I look, sir?”

“Aw, come on, Agent Bledsoe, you're going after an unarmed woman who's on foot. Use your head!”

After a final, “Yes, sir,” Tabby hung up.

Vega turned back to the scene as the first ambulance appeared at the end of the street, shaking his head.

None of this was playing out the way he expected. Interpol's intelligence had upended the entire investigation, and now he and his team, along with the other agencies, were on the brink of shutting down one of the biggest drug rings in the city. All because of the work of one man, whose identity was shrouded in as much secrecy as the black market art world that he inhabited.

A week ago, Vega would have staked his entire career on bringing that man down. Now, he owed the same man for practically gift-wrapping the biggest bust in department history.

And it would be awfully nice to thank him by not getting his girlfriend killed.

#

The smells of garlic and tomato sauce were making Chelsea feel faintly nauseous as she sipped the cup of water the kid had given her and waited in front of the restaurant, trying to stay hidden under the awning. The problem was that she had no idea what vehicle Ricardo would be driving, assuming Smith had even been able to reach him.

Come on
, she silently prayed, her sense of unease growing. Stone's cryptic words echoed in her head. “Things may not be what they seem.”

What was she supposed to make of that?

A red Audi came screeching around the corner and pulled up to an abrupt stop in front of the restaurant. Chelsea stepped out onto the sidewalk and squinted to get a better look at the driver, just as a man burst from the passenger door. He grabbed her arm and savagely yanked it to the side, twisting it up painfully while the driver jumped out and opened the back door.

Chelsea started screaming. Ricardo was nowhere to be seen.

And the men were yelling in Russian as they shoved her into the car.

She struck her elbow painfully as she landed, face first, in the backseat. The car was already moving as her assailant pulled the door shut behind him and covered her with his body, seizing her arms so she couldn't struggle.

“Where is he!” she yelled, and a hand was clamped over her mouth.

The car accelerated through traffic, dodging and weaving, barely missing a pedestrian crossing the street.

No one answered—at least, not in English. She had never seen either of the thugs before. Both of them were powerfully built, one in his twenties and the other, the driver, a decade older. They kept up their rapid-fire argument, but she couldn't make out a single word until the man in the backseat leaned close enough to bathe her with a cloud of terrible breath. “You will wish you never met de Santos,” he growled, as the car lurched violently and she was thrown against him. As she tried to get her balance, the man slid his hand around her and grabbed her breast. “Now he will be sorry.”

Chelsea struggled against him, trying to pry off the fingers that were kneading and squeezing her breast. Was she really going to die like this, abused by two Russian gangsters the very same day she had finally decided that a life with Ricardo was worth
the risk? And how could she have been so stupid as to wait for him out in full view of anyone who passed by?

The driver cursed and switched lanes again, looking angrily in the rear view mirror. Chelsea twisted around to see out the back windshield just as the sound of a single engine surged above the roar of traffic.

A man in a familiar black helmet, hunched over the handlebars of a motorcycle she had once ridden through the Hollywood Hills, came into view as he steered the powerful machine between lanes of traffic.
Ricardo
. As her captor finally let go of her, she saw him level a gun directly at her and ducked down.

The sound of a bullet shattering the windshield was followed by a hollow, “Oof,” and the man in the seat next to her slumped against the window, a blooming red hole in his face.

The motorcycle pulled abreast of the car as traffic opened up. Other drivers, hearing the shots, tried to avoid them. The sound of screeching tires was punctuated with the sickening crunch of metal as cars collided. But the Audi screamed ahead, its driver yelling nonstop. She heard more shots as the motorcycle pulled abreast of the side windows once again. She could see nothing behind the tinted shield of Ricardo's visor, but when he stabbed his finger in her direction, she knew he wanted her to stay down. She threw herself against the heavy bulk of the dead man, pressing her body as far into the seat as she could. Then she braced herself.

Two more shots glanced off the car's frame, and the driver twisted the wheel hard to the right. Then one more shot found its mark and the car lurched and careened, a tire blown out. Chelsea was thrown sideways, striking her head on the side window as the car collided with something she couldn't see.

For a moment, she teetered on the dizzying, frightening brink of consciousness, wondering how many of her bones were broken, the smell of blood and gasoline and smoke mingling with the crunch of metal and glass.

The door was yanked open. Strong hands found her shoulders and pulled. She didn't resist. Wasn't sure she could have if she'd tried. As her eyes fluttered shut, she heard the voice of the man she hadn't expected ever to see again. He held her in his arms, muttering urgently while darkness closed over her.

“Stay with me,
querida
, I need you.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sounds, first. The murmuring of voices, their words indistinct. The steady, soft, chirping of a machine somewhere above her.

Chelsea's mouth felt cottony, her thoughts jumbled. She was lying under cool sheets. A hospital? She wiggled her fingers experimentally, touched fabric.

So far, so good.

She opened one eye partway and saw that her guess had been a good one. At the foot of a hospital bed, a man stood with his back to her. Not Ricardo—not tall enough, not dark enough. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a dry croak.

The man turned. He wasn't familiar, but the insignia on his uniform was: FBI. Beside him, a woman in scrubs pushed glasses up on her forehead and smiled at her.

“Hello there, Chelsea. I'm Dr. Gordon. So pleased to see you waking up!”

“Ri-Ricardo.” It took her two tries to get the word out, and Dr. Gordon picked up a pitcher of water from the table next to her bed and filled a plastic cup and held it out to her.

Chelsea reached for it, taking inventory of the rest of her body as she did so. Everything seemed to be more or less in order. There were no obvious major wounds that she could see other than several bandages taped to her forearms. Gingerly, she touched her face, sliding her fingers over her cheek until she found another bandage near her chin.

And a very large one circling her skull.

“How bad?” she rasped, bringing the straw to her lips to sip.

“Mostly superficial though we had to shave a small patch of hair to stitch up a cut. It isn't serious, and you'll have only a small scar which will be covered by your hair as it grows back. We will want to monitor you closely, obviously, but your scans reveal that there has been no significant injury to the brain.”

“Where is he?” Chelsea said, addressing the FBI agent.

“If you're asking about Ricardo de Santos, he's been in the waiting room ever since they brought you in,” the man said. His tag read Stanacek.

“Have you arrested him?”

Stanacek's eyebrow shot up. “Arrested? No, kind of the opposite.” He grinned. “Guess you kind of slept through the news. Turns out de Santos has been working for the Carabinieri Art Squad all along. Interpol kept that information from the FBI until after the sting because they suspected a leak from inside.”

“Wait,” Chelsea said, struggling to catch up. “You mean he's not…”

“Not a criminal? Well, I guess that depends on how closely you want to look at his activities. Fortunately, that's under Italian jurisdiction. We aren't holding him on any charges.”

Chelsea said nothing, thinking about the two men that Ricardo had killed since she met him. Both had assuredly deserved to die. The world was a better and safer place without them. In neither case was Ricardo apprehended.

Did that, coupled with a job in Italian law enforcement, make Ricardo innocent?

“What about the art?” she asked. “The deals he was involved with?”

“They're still sorting all of that out,” Stanacek said. “It's going to take months, frankly. But best I can say at the moment is that it appears much of the art in question was either on loan to the
carabinieri
or known to be stolen. They expect to recover nearly all of it, especially since the Russian gang presence in Los Angeles is going to be seriously compromised for a while.

“You arrested them all?”

“Six arrested,” Stanacek said. “Four Russian and two Chechen. Three dead. One of them was in the car with you and the other two gave fire when they were apprehended. And that's not all. There's a team in Peru right now going after one of the biggest cocaine bosses in Lima. Russians gave him up the minute they realized it was over. The art was used as collateral for hundreds of kilos making its way into the US last year.”