Ring of Conspiracy (The Volya Series Book 2), page 3
Her rear tire screeched in protest and fishtailed dangerously, but she somehow kept her balance and soon found herself tearing the wrong way down a one-lane, one-way street.
Stealing a quick glance behind her revealed the Mustang had engineered a successful turn as well, but it'd cost him several car lengths.
They raced through one of the residential sections of the district, hurtling down a narrow street the wrong direction at over sixty miles per hour. It was a recipe for disaster. It felt suicidal.
But Shannon knew better. Residential areas in this part of town had narrow cut-through streets, barely alleys, roads that a car—even a souped-up Mustang—wouldn't be able to traverse. She just needed to find one.
It wasn't more than a couple blocks before one such opportunity presented itself. It wasn't even a street, per se, but more of a driveway that narrowed into a dirt path into a backyard.
Shannon hit the brakes again on the bike and skidded into the driveway, carefully maneuvering the bike along a cobblestone path, before bursting into a grassy area behind a set of brownstones.
The Mustang couldn't follow her here, and no one from that middle-of-the-night rendezvous would be able to afford getting caught trespassing through private residence yards. She finally exhaled and cut the bike's engine to catch her breath. In the sudden silence, her own heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out the din of cicadas and crickets chirping. She walked her bike into the shadows beneath a large tree and waited.
She was out of sight now, but listened to the Mustang as it braked and slowed to a crawl as it passed the driveway, but after thirty seconds or so, she heard its engine pick up again and it drove away.
She waited for a full twenty minutes before daring to start her bike up again. Many of these housing units shared backyards, or had connected yards, so she puttered slowly and softly past a few homes until she found a safe exit point on the other street, that ran parallel behind the one she'd just exited. When she felt safe, she poked her head out an inch and scanned both directions. No Mustang to be found; they'd abandoned the chase.
She carefully extracted her phone from her pocket and dialed a familiar number for someone she knew would still be awake. He wouldn't be thrilled to see her, but she needed a place to sleep and they needed to plan next steps.
Chapter 4
F ranklin spent a few minutes scouring his notebook for any connections or new revelations, but nothing jumped out at him. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Or maybe the alcohol, but he couldn't make heads nor tails of the intelligence placed in front of him.
Best he could figure, the woman known as Phoenix—the apparent mastermind of the DC bombings, if not beyond that—had surfaced in the United States about a year before the attacks. No address, no family, not even a real name. The only thing anyone seemed to agree on is that she was ruthless. Her infamy centered around a particular penchant for violence and brutality. She didn't have a paper trail, but a trail of bodies had been left in her wake.
With help from Eve and Sloan, Franklin had tied over two dozen murders directly to her in the DC area alone and there were a few dozen in other cities stretching back to her first emergence in a town called Grozny, the capital city located deep in the heart of the Chechen Republic. The federal republic of modern-day Russia was ruled by corruption under a man named Ramzan Kadyrov.
Violence was commonplace in Chechnya—in fact in the entire Caucasus, from Dagestan to North Ossetia. Violence had a brutal history and near-mythic status among the people who created folk heroes out of anyone who stood up to Mother Russia. The First and Second Chechen Wars, separatist conflicts aimed at seceding and building a new, ethnic-based state created hundreds of those heroes. And despite relative stability in the region since around 2000, there's still a strong militant undercurrent. No matter how stable the provinces appeared to be, they were always like a hornet's nest, quietly hanging from the eave of a house by a thread, but one wrong move and the whole thing would go up in a swarm of fury.
Somewhere in this mess of oppression, political confusion, and separatist ideology, Phoenix had risen. They'd tracked the first mention of a red-haired woman with a taste for cruelty to a survivor of a mini-massacre seven years ago. A mysterious woman had personally executed a half-dozen men, purportedly corrupt local officials. This man claimed to have witnessed the whole thing from a hiding spot in a closet and his description of the woman fit, from her ice-cold eyes to the slight curl of her lip as she gloated over her victims. From there, Franklin uncovered nearly one hundred kills, most reportedly by her own hand, a handful ordered to subordinates as she consolidated power and rose within the ranks of various criminal organizations.
It bothered him that they'd been unable to find anything further on her identity.
No family. No ID numbers. No immigration papers. No name. No past.
It was as though she didn't exist until seven years ago.
He groaned and rubbed his temples before knocking back yet another of those tiny bottles from the minibar. Suddenly, a shrill ring from his cell on the end table startled him and he cringed. The tone pierced painfully through the fatigue and his growing headache, interrupting his disjointed thoughts.
Who would call him this late? What time was it? 3:09am. That wasn't a positive sign.
The phone continued to ring. He stretched out an arm and snagged the device off his bedside table and yanked out the charging cable one-handed. Squinting at the bright screen in the dimly-lit room, he stabbed one finger and hit 'Answer.'
"Hullo?" he mumbled.
****
A sudden knock at the door interrupted Congressman Marcus Hartwell's meditation, jolting him back to reality. Irritated, he glanced at the clock sitting on his desk.
4:22am.
It was too early for his staff to have arrived. Even his main assistant normally didn't typically arrive at the office until five o'clock.
"Come in," he rasped before coughing. His voice was normally deep and resonant, one of the reasons his party often called on him as their face, the one picked to give speeches and answer questions to the press. But this morning, he felt a slight catch in his throat. Maybe he was coming down with something.
"Come in," he called out louder.
He watched as the knob turned and the heavy wooden door swung inward with a loud creak.
A muscular man in an ill-fitted suit slipped in, his alligator shoes squeaking with every step. Congressman Hartwell rose to his feet.
"Typhos, what are you doing here?" he hissed. "I told you we were never to meet at my office. We can't be seen together."
"My apologies, Congressman," Typhos growled and rolled his eyes as he uttered the title. "But you and I both know that isn't your call. We both answer to a higher power." He reached one hand inside his suit coat pocket and Hartwell instinctively flinched. But Typhos only revealed a small velvet bag, which he dropped onto the large mahogany desk with a heavy thunk. "Besides, I assumed you'd want to know we found what you've been looking for."
"At the cemetery?" Hartwell arched an eyebrow. He was skeptical. He'd been fooled before.
"Tucked in the old fool's arms like his most prized possession."
"Excellent!" Hartwell smiled, then laughed and snatched the bag off the desk. He undid the strap that cinched the bag closed and turned it upside-down.
A heavy gold ring landed with a dull thud on the desktop. Hartwell grabbed it greedily and peered. It was old, worn and scratched after many decades of use, but its high quality was still evident.
"And we're sure this is the one? From Alexander the Second?"
"As sure as we can be. It's his."
"Good, good. It's perfect," Hartwell crooned, as he slid the giant ring over his middle finger. It fit nicely. "This will solidify my standing. No one else has a relic like this."
"Sir," Typhos interrupted. Then again, "Sir?"
"Yes, what is it?"
"My payment. You promised…"
"Of course, of course. I have it all right here." Hartwell opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a duffle bag, dropping it on the desk. He slid the zipper open just enough to reveal the contents inside. "You're welcome to count it, but I assure you…it's all there."
"Counting isn't necessary. If it isn't enough, I know where to find you."
Hartwell nodded and waved his hand dismissively.
"Uh sir, there's one more thing," Typhos muttered, shifting back-and-forth on his feet.
"Yes," Hartwell didn't look up, his gaze lingering on the ring. "What is it?
"Well, you know the Rock Creek Park meeting tonight. The one you missed?"
Hartwell finally glanced up. Typhos was a stoic man, who barely showed emotion, but he kept biting his lower lip and fidgeting. Something was wrong.
"What happened?" he demanded.
"Well, someone else was there. A woman who was taking photos. She escaped on a bike. One of our men chased her, but lost her in a residential area near Columbia Heights. We aren't sure how much she overheard."
Hartwell absorbed the news with all the emotional demeanor of a statue. He had a suspicion about the identity of this mysterious biker, but either way, this was bad news.
Finally, he whispered, a hint of a tremble in his voice betraying a building rage. "I guess it's a good thing I wasn't there to be photographed. You will handle this," he ordered. "Find her. Destroy the camera."
"Yes, sir." Typhos nodded and departed.
The congressman took a deep breath to clear his head and put the escaped biker out of his mind. He shook his head; he'd told them an in-person meeting was too risky, but they'd insisted.
After a few seconds, he went back to staring at the ring. He couldn't believe it was his. After all this time searching, he owned the actual royal ring of Tsar Alexander II of the Russian Empire. Despite being known for his many reforms, the Romanov royal been the target of multiple assassination attempts. He'd survived a misfired pistol, an errant gun-wielding student, and a mistimed bomb, among others, but eventually had been taken out by an attack on his carriage by the anarchist group, the Narodnaya Volya.
No one quite knew how it happened, but the Romanov ring went missing that day. Long rumored stolen by the Volya, it remained vanished for nearly a century. Many suspected it had been smuggled out of Russia, but no one knew where until Hartwell tracked down its current owner, a wealthy Russian-American businessman living outside Detroit.
Hartwell twice tried to buy the jewelry off him, but he'd been refused. The man refused to even acknowledge his ownership of the ring. But he was old and without children, so when he passed, the treasure would be buried with him. And after ensuring a hastened passing and waiting for the man to be buried, all that stood between Hartwell and the Romanov ring was six feet of dirt. From there, it had been easy.
And now, having that ring would establish himself as worthy. Despite his status within the organization, he wasn't a true descendant like most of the other ranking members and that meant that to many, he was second class Volya. But not anymore. Now, he had a piece of Volya history—the piece of Volya history. With a piece of jewelry like this on his finger, he'd never have to listen to Phoenix or any of the others again.
They would have to take him seriously.
Chapter 5
S hannon rolled into the lot behind Franklin's motel in Fairfax ten minutes later and parked behind a row of bushes, concealing her bike from the main street. He met her at the door to the motel room, a corner unit on the second floor, and after a glance both ways, she slipped inside.
"Did they follow you?" he whispered.
"No, I lost him cutting through the backyards of some rowhouses," she muttered as she marched past him and took a seat in the armchair. She glanced around the room, noticing several empty bottles of alcohol littering the table—vodka, it looked like. She removed her camera from her pocket and placed it on the end table. "But my bike's probably useless. They'll have people watching for it now."
"I'm sorry," he moaned as he dropped onto the edge of the bed and stared at her. "Did they get a good look at you?"
"Not enough to identify me, I'm pretty sure. It was too dark." She wasn't as convinced of that as she insisted aloud, but it wouldn't matter. She was already on their radar at this point.
"What if they run the bike plates?"
"All faked. Eve worked up false registration papers a while ago," she shrugged and pulled out her phone. "If they track the license number, they'll turn up at a retiree's home in Arizona."
"Well, did you get anything useful?"
"Dozens of photos. I'm texting them to Eve, so she can cross-reference them with facial recog software. One man named Mark. Another named Andrew." She frowned and tapped on the screen of her cell, then paused and peered up at him. "Does the word 'Igloo' mean anything to you?"
"You mean like an Eskimo house?" Now it was Franklin's turn to frown.
"I don't think so. One man referred to Igloo as 'they,' and then a second later, as 'it.'"
"That…doesn't make much sense."
"I know. Maybe it's a codeword for something. Or a location? I'm not sure," she trailed off, focusing her attention on texting those photos. She needed to get these sent as soon as she could.
"We'll ask Sloan when he's back in the States. Maybe he'll recognize it."
"Maybe," she grunted, then continued, "but I'd like to have another crack at Graham O'Brian."
"O'Brian? But we haven't talked to him in over a month. He had nothing else to give us," he grumbled.
"I know, but I now have new information. New names. It's a long-shot, but we need something. We've been hitting our heads against a brick wall for too long."
Franklin sighed, but he knew she was right. It felt futile to keep returning to a dry well, but they needed to do something. Maybe the names would jog a memory.
"We'll run it by Sloan in the morning. Why don't you get some sleep?" he suggested.
"What about you?" she countered. She felt deep worry wrinkles appearing on her forehead, a genetic trait she'd gotten from her mother, and quickly shook her head to get rid of them.
"I haven't been sleeping much lately. I'll keep watch. And I can look through your photos from tonight…maybe something triggers a memory. Maybe I'll recognize a face from my time in the Brotherhood."
"Fair enough." She nodded, then yawned. Her nerves had been on high alert all night, but she felt them finally relax, as though his suggestion gave them permission to unwind. She stood and trudged over to the bed, allowed herself to collapse onto it.
She was asleep before her head settled on the pillow.
****
"Franklin, wake up! Wake up!" Shannon's frantic whispering jolted Franklin from the stupor into which he'd fallen, head resting on the wooden desk. He wiped away a tiny spot of drool that dripped from the corner of his mouth and staggered to his feet. He glanced at the clock. 5:01am. So early. Too early.
"What is it?" he slurred.
"We have to go. Now." Her tone was firm, leaving no room for argument.
"Wha—why?" he stammered. He rose and began to stuff papers into a brown satchel he kept beside the bed. He shook his head to clear the tired cobwebs, but it was to no avail. The mental fog was stubborn; it was there to stay for now. "Did they find us?"
"I think so. There's someone on the first floor, dressed in a dark hooded sweatshirt, moving room to room. He drove up in a dark sedan about ten minutes ago. His engine woke me."
"Maybe it's motel staff." Even as he uttered it, he knew that wasn't right. He'd picked this motel mainly because they weren't nosy. They didn't check on their guests and certainly not at five in the morning. Many paid heavily for that level of privacy.
"With a gun? I doubt it."
"How'd they find us? You promised you weren't followed."
"I wasn't. I don't know. Maybe they caught the license plate number, started asking around, hacked into traffic feeds, tracked my bike's GPS…or maybe they tracked you somehow. I dunno. But we don't have time to figure it out right now. We need to MOVE."
Franklin slung his bag over his shoulder, stuffed his handgun into his waistband, and followed her to the door. A large window, which they'd kept covered with a heavy curtain, looked out over the parking lot. Shannon used one finger to open a slit and peaked out.
"Let's go," she directed and turned the rusted knob.
Franklin's heart began to race as she pulled and the door swung inward. He watched Shannon move a hand to the grip on her firearm, strapped to her waist, and he instinctively did the same. The two edged out onto the second-floor walkway.
No one was in sight, which only made Franklin jumpy. The motel wasn't large and it had been constructed in the shape of an 'L,' so if the man hunting them wasn't visible, that meant he likely searched directly beneath them.
"Where's your car?" Shannon whispered. "We can't exactly take my bike." Franklin pointed, indicating a gray sedan at the far end of the lot. He always parked as far from his room as possible so anyone stumbling onto the car wouldn't be able to identify his room, but that was feeling like a stupid rule at the moment. Being able to reach a vehicle and escape quickly seemed more important now.
Thankfully, Shannon didn't mention it and just nodded. Leading the way, she began slinking along the wall in that direction. Franklin followed.
They moved deliberately, but quickly, and reached the crux of the 'L'-shaped building in less than twenty seconds. Pausing here, Shannon peered over the railing at the rooms below. She nodded in the direction and Franklin leaned over to follow her gaze. A man dressed in all black was peering through the glass window into one of the rooms on the lower level.
