Target For Terror, page 2
But by the time she was able to leave, a couple of hours after the code blue, she had not seen any of the three men who’d stopped in to visit Josef’s room earlier that evening. She’d mentioned it to the agents, and their names were on the guard’s infamous list.
Their glaring absence, in the face of Josef’s death, gnawed at her on the way home.
Natalia fingered her moon pendant and cross as she rode the red Metro train, grateful for its calming effect. Had she imagined Josef Korolev’s odd reaction to her pendant? Had he recognized it, or was it similar to something he’d seen before? Maybe the design, the symbol of a crescent moon with three stars on one end, was specifically Russian in nature. She could easily picture a little shop in Moscow where dozens of pendants just like hers were sold.
She’d concentrated on finding her birth mother through deciphering her adopted mother’s journal. She’d never considered the necklace design in itself to be important.
Josef’s reaction convinced her that the moon-shaped pendant was a clue. Her chest swelled with anticipation at the thought. She knew her birth mother was Russian, as her adopted mother was. Other than the first name of Anya, she didn’t know anything else about her birth mother. Since her adopted mother had passed away three years ago, she’d intensified her search for her roots. Had become obsessed with knowing who she was and who the woman was who’d given her away. Natalia had collected as much information as she could about Kazan, the city of her birth.
As soon as she got home, she’d add this new puzzle piece to the other bits of information she’d gathered about her birth mother. Maybe researching the pendant on the internet would reveal something she’d missed.
A young man shuffled past her, pressing purposefully against her. She dodged him, slipped a hand into her canvas bag, and closed her fingers around the can of pepper spray hidden in there. The crime rate was notorious in DC, and she was jittery enough after the strange events during her shift.
The guy took a seat across from her on the other side of the train. She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, but she didn’t relax her grip on the pepper spray. Illegal or not, she intended to use the weapon if needed.
Ignoring the man staring at her, she trained her gaze on a spider web in the corner of the car. A fly caught in the silken strands fought to get free.
A shiver rippled along her nerves, and she glanced away. Anxious, she waited for her stop to come up. She wanted nothing more than to get home.
Stepping off the train at her Brookland stop, she hurried up the stairs to the main level, staring straight ahead but screening the people around her from the corner of her eye. The events at the hospital had put her on edge. For a moment, she thought the man coming up on her left side looked familiar, but then he turned and headed off in the opposite direction.
Ridiculous to be so paranoid. She gave herself a mental shake. She was a critical care nurse. It wasn’t as if she were the one in danger.
Not like Josef Korolev had been. Someone hated him or what he represented enough to shoot him. To ultimately cause his death. Although the Cold War had been declared over decades ago, the animosity between Russia and the US hadn’t changed much. If a member of the Russian Mafia was the killer, why wait until Josef was on US soil to finish him off?
Nothing made sense.
She used her rideshare app to get a ride. It didn’t take long for a guy in a black sedan to drive up next to her. “Are you Natalia?”
“Yes, thanks.” Her house was only a dozen blocks from the Metro station, but she didn’t care. She’d pay him extra for his time. “My address is eleven forty-one Girard Street.”
The driver grunted, shrugged, and pulled into traffic. Natalia dropped her head against the back of the seat. Thankfully, she was almost home. She considered having a dish of ice cream to relax after her wretched day. At least tomorrow was Friday and she had the weekend off.
“Here ya go, lady.”
She opened her eyes, realizing the rideshare had pulled over to the curb. He’d stopped in front of the house next to hers, but she wasn’t in the mood to argue.
“Thank you.” She added a tip to the rideshare fare via the app on her phone, then opened the door, swung her legs out, gathered her canvas bag, and stood.
Ka-boom! The blast rocked the stillness of the night. The ground trembled beneath her feet. She stumbled and fell backward into the sedan.
The windows burst outward in a hailstorm of glass. Shards rained down against the car like bullets from a machine gun as a second explosion shattered the night.
It took her a moment to realize it was her house, the precious home she had once shared with her mother, engulfed in roaring flames.
Chapter Two
June 30 – 11:25 p.m. – Washington, DC
* * *
“What the—Get out!” the rideshare driver she’d gone to such pains to overtip screamed at her from the front seat of his car. “I’m outta here!”
Numb from shock, she clamored out of the vehicle, barely clearing the door before he stomped on the gas and sped away. The back passenger door slammed shut when he screeched around a tight curve, then disappeared from view.
She stared at the debris littering the area around her feet. Icy fingers of fear danced along her nape. Her previous paranoia returned in full force. She looked toward her flame-engulfed house and noticed a man standing on the street. He lit a cigarette, and she sucked in a breath when his profile reminded her of the creepy guy from the train. Then he looked straight at her, taking a determined step toward her.
Run. Belgi. Run!
Natalia didn’t question her instincts. She sprinted down the street in the opposite direction from the man and her burning house. People poured from nearby houses and wailing sirens filled the air, but still she ran. Bitter regret swelled, choking her. She imagined the guy was behind her, chasing her. She dodged through neighborhood shortcuts hoping to lose whoever might be following.
To keep moving, she wove through the small space between several houses to another street. Then she took another, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the man who had stood outside the charred remnants of her home.
The image of the explosion ran through her mind over and over, like a video stuck in a loop. Her elderly, half-blind tabby, Peety, had been in the house. He was old, his arthritis preventing him from moving very fast, but he had been her companion since she’d saved him from being put down at the animal rescue center. Silent tears escaped as her breath heaved from her lungs, and she brushed them impatiently. Silly to mourn the loss of her ailing pet when she’d come so close to losing much more.
A few minutes earlier and she’d have been in the house when it exploded.
Her near miss made her stumble, and she fell hard on her knees. The enormity of her loss was too much to bear. All her precious keepsakes, memories of her mother, were gone. Vanished as if they’d never been. Everything she had was lost forever. She pounded her fist on the pavement, inwardly wailing at the unfairness of it all.
Something, a voice in her head maybe, or the gut instincts she normally trusted, urged her to keep going. She pulled herself together and rose to her feet, glancing behind her. She couldn’t see the man from the train, but she continued to run. Her thoughts whirled as she zigzagged through the streets.
Her house had burst into flames. What had happened? A freak accident such as a gas leak? Or something much worse? A bomb? Who would have done such a terrible thing? The man outside who’d followed her from the train? She didn’t have known enemies, yet fear and suspicion wouldn’t leave her alone. Too much had happened for one day. First losing her high-profile patient so unexpectedly, and now this explosion.
The streets were dark and unfamiliar. Where should she go? What should she do? She’d have to talk to the police, she knew, but not now. Not until she’d pulled herself together. Natalia pushed onward, running until her legs felt like cement-filled stumps. Finally, she stopped and bent over, gasping for breath and bracing her hands on her scraped knees.
She needed a plan. A place to go. Gallivanting through the streets of DC was not a good idea. But where? A friend’s house? Who would be willing to take her in for what remained of the night?
Ivan Rasacovich. She wanted to see Ivan. He was her closest friend. Her confidant. She met the Russian interpreter at the hospital four years ago. He was her source of information for all things Russian and had helped tremendously in the search for her birth mother. And right now, with her world falling apart around her, she craved the comfort of hearing Ivan’s thick Russian accent telling her everything was going to be all right.
He’d accompany her to the police station. The idea of not being alone filled her with hope and a measure of relief.
A firm destination in mind, she experienced a renewed spurt of energy. She straightened and slung her canvas bag over her shoulder before turning to head back in the direction of the Metro station. She picked a different location than the stop where she’d gotten off to come home. As she fled through the night, she kept a careful eye out for any possible source of danger. The trains stopped running at midnight, but she could try another rideshare if needed.
She bit back a sob. Don’t dwell on the loss. There wasn’t time to fall apart now. She needed to find Ivan. He would wrap her in his bearlike arms and offer immense comfort. Somehow, she was certain Ivan’s cool, Russian logic would help make sense of this devastation.
* * *
June 30 – 11:38 p.m. – Washington, DC
* * *
Alek Nevsky stared at the dull gray walls of the room, apprehension dark, growing. He’d been here for hours, first for questioning, and now, waiting.
“Alek Nevsky?” They’d both held out their FBI badges as identification. Puzzled, he’d nodded. The shorter man continued, “I’m Special Agent Gerald Harper, and this is my partner, Special Agent Ethan Wilcox. We have a few questions to ask you.”
“Questions?” He hadn’t understood. Up until now, his only contact had been with Special Agent Michael Cummings.
“Where were you this afternoon?” Harper seemed to be the one in charge.
“I, uh, at The Washington Center. To hear the speech by Deputy Prime Minister Josef Korolev.” He frowned when the two agents exchanged a knowing look. “Why?”
“Did you shoot the deputy prime minister?” Harper’s question rocked him back on his heels.
“Of course not!” Shocked, he stared at the FBI agent. “I don’t even own a gun.”
“You don’t?” Special Agent Harper quirked one brow, his gaze raking him from head to toe. “Interesting, since a witness described the shooter, a man about five feet eleven inches tall, in his middle forties, roughly one hundred and eighty pounds with graying hair at his temples.”
The description of himself was less than flattering. Had it been the real reason Lara left him? Oh, she’d claimed not, but what did he really know for sure? “Ridiculous. Why would I do such a thing? I don’t own a gun. And I have no reason to want the deputy prime minister dead. I think he is attempting to do good things for the country and the nation.”
“If you have something to tell us, it’s better to come clean right now.” Special Agent Harper leaned close. “Because we’re in the process of obtaining a search warrant to go through your house. If you’re hiding anything, we’ll find it.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” Alek had responded, although it wasn’t entirely the truth. Several things in his past would be better off to stay hidden. Still, he had to try. “I’d like to speak to Special Agent Michael Cummings.”
The two exchanged a knowing smirk. “We don’t know anyone by the name of Michael Cummings. See, the way this works, we ask the questions and you answer them. Understand?”
The barrage of questions had gone on and on. Finally, they’d left him alone, here in this room, presumably to search his home.
He didn’t like the idea of FBI agents Harper and Wilcox pawing through his things, through the bedroom he’d once shared with his wife, Lara. Since she’d left him, he’d slept on the sofa in the living room, unwilling to use the bedroom until he convinced her to come back. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. What if they broke one of Lara’s sculptures during their search? Should he call her?
No. Lara would only get upset. He’d get in touch with her after they’d released him.
If they let him go.
His head ached, and he could feel tendrils of panic struggling to break loose.
How long would they leave him here?
He closed his eyes again and prayed for God to watch over him and Lara.
Especially Lara.
The door to the interrogation room flew open. Agents Wilcox and Harper walked in; Wilcox held a plastic bag containing a gun.
“Look what we found under your bed.” Wilcox smirked. “Not a very original hiding place, Nevsky.”
The tendrils of panic wrapped tighter around his throat. He struggled to speak. “That isn’t mine. I don’t own a gun. Someone must have put it there.”
“Oh really?” Agent Harper arched a brow. “Then why did we find one of your fingerprints on the barrel? And isn’t it amazing how this gun uses the same ammo pulled from the wound in Korolev’s chest? It’s only a matter of time before we match the ballistics.”
A cold chill seeped through his pores. If his fingerprints were on the gun, it was because someone else put them there. He was being framed. Where was Michael Cummings? He didn’t want to believe his FBI contact had anything to do with this.
Lara. What would Lara think?
“Alek Nevsky, you are under arrest for the murder of Josef Korolev. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as I’ve described them?”
“Yes.” Feeling helplessness, he stood stoic as Harper roughly dragged his hands behind his back, then slapped handcuffs around his wrists.
Humiliation burned as they marched him from the room. For the first time in the year since his wife of twenty-five years had left him, he was glad Lara wasn’t here to see him like this.
* * *
June 30 – 11:45 p.m. – Washington, DC
* * *
Sloan Dreyer slouched in his chair, sipping a ginger ale while staring blankly at the television screen across the room. The rotten taste of failure still lingered in his mouth, and he took another sip of his soft drink, desperate to swipe the bitterness away. Hadn’t he tried to convince Jordan he wasn’t the right man for the job? The fact that he knew how to speak Ukrainian didn’t mean anything, and he’d sure proved it during the fiasco this afternoon.
He’d failed in his job. Again. Security Specialists, Inc. wasn’t going to survive its first year in business if they continued losing the people they were supposed to protect.
The deputy prime minister of Russia was dead. Had been shot right under his nose. Sloan had stuck as close to Josef Korolev as the bodyguards Korolev had brought with him from Russia, but still, when the screaming had started, he hadn’t even realized Korolev had been hit.
The Russian bodyguards had known, though, and they’d gone berserk, creating massive chaos that had taken hours to sort out. They’d managed to get Korolev to the closest hospital, and the guy had actually survived surgery long enough to make it to the ICU.
Only to die of complications a few hours later.
Sloan swallowed hard. He had no business protecting a toad, much less a Russian VIP. Jordan should have known better than to drop the assignment in his lap at the last minute. The fact that he spoke Ukrainian shouldn’t have even entered the picture. Ukrainian was a softer language, nothing like pronouncing the hard consonants of Russian. But had Jordan listened? No. Instead, Jordan had demanded he practice Russian for hours as if cramming for a final exam, yet he’d still only caught a fourth of what the Russians had talked about.
The nurse, Natalia, had spoken in a slow, calm manner to Korolev, but all Sloan could figure out for sure was that she’d said something along the lines of the patient not needing to talk to the three of them.
In his mind’s eye, he remembered the beautiful nurse. The baggy scrubs didn’t detract from her appearance. Her long blonde hair had been clipped back at the nape of her neck, but her high cheekbones, clear green eyes, and husky voice had been more than enough to capture his interest.
And the attention of every other guy standing within fifteen feet of her. After months of not feeling anything for anybody, this sudden awareness disturbed him.
What exactly had Josef told Natalia? Had her patient confided any secrets to her? Or had Korolev babbled nonsense from the pain meds as she’d claimed? The blatant distrust in her eyes when he’d walked in with the two FBI agents, including the assistant director himself, hadn’t been reassuring. But the sound of her voice answering him in Ukrainian sent shivers of awareness darting down his spine. He discovered he had a weakness for a woman who could speak Ukrainian.
Late breaking news on the television diverted his attention from Natalia.
“Firefighters are still battling the five-alarm blaze in the northeast area of DC. One house has been declared as the original source of the fire, and so far the cause of the blaze is unknown. Police are searching for the homeowner, Natalia Sokolova.”
The name had him straightening in his seat, his gaze arrested on the TV.
“At this time, they don’t believe she was in the house during the explosion since she was working the evening shift at a local hospital. But the police have not yet confirmed her whereabouts at this time.”
What? No way could this be a coincidence. He leapt from his seat, snagged his cell phone, and punched in a single number to speed-dial his partner.
