An Uncommon Honeymoon Page 14

  Anatoly glowered at James, their faces only inches apart. “No guns.”

  Tingling with nerves, Quinn pressed her fingertips to her temples and watched James stare him down. In a voice loud enough for Yefimov to hear over the thumping dance music, James said, “Tell your boss if he insists on retaining that policy my staggering amount of money and I are walking away.”

  Anatoly didn’t move and continued to glare at James. At least there wasn’t a glimmer of recognition on Anatoly’s part. Quinn dropped her hands to her lap and blew out a breath.

  “Let them pass,” Yefimov ordered in Russian. When Anatoly stepped to the side, Yefimov waved James and LT over. He pointed at two matching zebra-print chairs across the low, round table from him. “Come. Sit.” He puffed on a cigar several times. A cloud of blue smoke shrouded his head. Quinn could almost smell the noxious odor through the monitor.

  James sat. LT stood behind him with his hands clasped in front of him. The two stoic bodyguards stood motionless and engaged in a staring contest.

  Quinn got a good look at Yefimov through James’s feed. No more than forty, he had a wide face and a nose flattened by more than a few fists. His black hair was elaborately coiffed to camouflage his male pattern baldness. The bristly mustache sprouting under the busted-up nose held flecks of gray. She observed a shrewdness in his hazel eyes.

  Exuding a relaxed and confident air, Yefimov leaned back and returned his arms to rest behind his two companions. Quinn hoped the young woman with the burning cigar embers inches from her head hadn’t used a lot of hairspray. Otherwise, a spectacular conflagration was in the offing. “Anya tells me you have business proposition. I do not know what this could be.”

  “My employer will be arriving in Saint Petersburg in a few days. He’ll be hosting a large number of friends at his summer home for a week and would like to procure a fairly substantial amount of a particular product for his and their enjoyment.”

  Yefimov gestured with a hand. The cigar moved precariously closer to the woman’s hair. “Why come here to buy alcohol?”

  “I’m referring to a substance not available from the Bronze Monkey’s menu.”

  Yefimov took several puffs from his cigar and squinted at James through the smoke curling up from his mouth. “Why do you come to me?”

  “You come highly recommended by an acquaintance who has more than a passing interest in the use and distribution of your commodities.”

  “And who is this person?”

  The more Yefimov dodged and parried, the more the acid in Quinn’s stomach gurgled.

  James crossed one leg over the other and brushed at something on his slacks. “It would be rather uncouth of me to name names, don’t you think?” He laced his fingers together and dropped them on his lap. He stared at Yefimov with a bland look. “He is, after all, a well-known actor.”

  Yefimov’s eye twitched. He knew exactly whom James meant. “Who is your employer?”

  “I cannot tell you that either. Given that he is a minor member of a very prominent family in the UK, it is critical his identity remain anonymous. You understand.”

  “Of course.” Yefimov filled the air with more smoke as he stared back at James with a steely gaze. “I can supply what he requests. How much does he want?”

  “One kilo.”

  The Russian’s head snapped up. “It will be expensive.”

  James batted away the comment with a hand.

  “I can give to you tonight,” Yefimov said.

  “No, I would prefer it stay in your possession until my employer comes to town. We’ll make arrangements to pick it up.”

  Yefimov took a puff from his cigar. “I want payment up front. One hundred eighty thousand euros.”

  “One hundred sixty thousand. You will get a down payment today, after I have checked the inventory at your distribution center for myself.”

  “No,” Yefimov said with a frown.

  “My employer will not tolerate inferior quality. No cutting it with baking soda or laundry detergent.”

  “My product is excellent quality,” Yefimov said with an edge in his voice, clearly affronted at being suspected of anything else.

  “As per the instructions from my employer, my inspection of the product and your premises is nonnegotiable. Take it or leave it.”

  Yefimov’s nostrils twitched. “We will not go anywhere until you show me you have money with you.”

  James reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and removed an envelope thick with bills. “Twenty-five thousand.” He lifted the flap and pulled the stack out partway before returning it to his pocket.

  After a moment of quiet contemplation, Yefimov told the women he would be back soon and stood. He indicated a door at the back corner of the room with a jerk of his head. “Come.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Yefimov opened the door and stepped into a deserted alley behind the Bronze Monkey. James, LT, and Anatoly filed out behind him. Twilight was falling, but Quinn could still easily see the surroundings through James’s and LT’s cameras.

  Yefimov spun around and rammed his fist into James’s gut.

  James doubled over and groaned in pain.

  Quinn leapt to her feet. “Son of a bitch!” She threw off her headset and sprang for the back door of the van.

  Yonatan clamped a hand around her wrist and yanked her back into her seat. “You rush in now, you’ll blow up the whole op. Let it play out.”

  She conceded his point with a snarl, jammed her headset back on, and checked James’s feed. It rose from his dress shoes to Yefimov’s face. “What the hell?” James wheezed.

  Yefimov grabbed James by the lapels and yanked him up straight. He expelled a loud grunt when the Russian smashed him against the wall.

  Sharing James’s point of view, she saw over Yefimov’s shoulder that Anatoly had LT’s arms pinned behind him.

  Her cheeks flamed hot with fury. “I’m gonna kill that bastard if it’s the last thing I do.”

  In a freakishly calm voice, Yonatan said, “Dave, be advised. Yefimov is flexing his muscles in the alley. We’ll let you know if it gets out of hand.”

  “Copy,” came his mumbled reply.

  Yefimov’s face filled the screen. Nose to nose with James, he spat, “You come to steal my drugs.” He swung at James’s face.

  James raised an arm and blocked the punch. He broke Yefimov’s grip on his lapel with the other and threw a right cross. Yefimov’s head snapped around when knuckles connected with jaw.

  At the same time, LT spun out of Anatoly’s grasp and put him in a chokehold. The more Anatoly struggled, the tighter LT’s massive arm cinched around his throat. With his eyes bulging, Anatoly’s red, blotchy head looked like it was about to explode like a squeezed balloon.

  James stepped into Yefimov, put his shoulder into the other man’s chest, and kicked Yefimov’s leg out from under him. He landed flat on his back with a thud. Panic flashed in Yefimov’s eyes as he stared down the barrel of James’s Sig Sauer.

  Panting, James asked, “Steal your drugs? What in blazes are you talking about?”

  Yefimov held his hands up to shield his face, as if they would miraculously stop a fired bullet. “You are part of alliance between British and rival Russian syndicate come to take over my drug operation.”

  “I don’t bloody know anything about that,” James said.

  “I came to you with a simple business transaction, and I get punched in the gut. You know what, mate? Bugger off.” James jammed his pistol back in his holster. “There are plenty of others in this city who will jump at the chance to take my money.” He jerked at the front of his suit jacket and smoothed a hand over his hair. “I’m sure your boss will be very understanding when this business you run for him goes down the crapper after I tell my employer about this little run-in.” His voice oozed sarcasm.

  LT released Anatoly when James sent him a sharp nod. The big Russian dropped to his knees and gulped down mouthfuls of air.

&nb
sp; Quinn pressed a palm to her forehead as James and LT stepped over the prostrate Yefimov and strode away.

  “Come on, Yefimov,” Quinn urged under her breath. “Stop them.” She barely dared to breathe as she watched James and LT walk down the alley.

  “Wait!” Yefimov shouted.

  James and LT slowed their gait.

  “Yes,” Quinn whispered in victory.

  “Wait,” Yefimov said again. “One hundred fifty thousand euros. And you speak to no one about this misunderstanding.”

  James and LT stopped and slowly spun around. The Russians were now on their feet. “You sucker punched me, comrade,” James said evenly. “One twenty-five.”

  Yefimov took a step. “One hundred thirty thousand.”

  James stared at him. “Against my better judgment,” he said after what felt like an interminable pause, “you have a deal.”

  The Russians hurried forward and joined them.

  “You touch me again and I will end you.” The restrained yet menacing tone in James’s voice sent a chill up Quinn’s spine. He meant every word.

  Yefimov’s swagger returned as they exited the alley and proceeded down the sidewalk. It was clear he was trying to reassert equal status with James. The furtive, anxious glances he sent James’s way belied his bluster.

  Yonatan tapped at the keyboard of his laptop and pulled up a street map. The red and green dots, James and LT, moved toward the blue one, the signal from Quinn’s phone in Mila’s possession.

  “Dave,” Quinn said, “James and LT are headed for the target.”

  “Roger that,” Dave said in acknowledgement. On the map, his orange dot exited the Bronze Monkey and started for the building one block over, where the kids were held captive and drugs were processed.

  The four men passed a building undergoing renovations, surrounded entirely by scaffolds and green netting, and turned onto a side street. They passed through a set of graffiti-tagged wooden double doors in a brick building discolored by layers of city grime and into a small, gloomy lobby. In its prime, the building would have been impressive, with its façade adorned by small statues and bas-reliefs. Now it was one of many suffering from decades of neglect and urban decay.

  They climbed three flights of dingy stairs and walked down a poorly lit corridor lined with apartment doors. Halfway down the hall, Yefimov unlocked and opened a door on their left. They entered a room furnished with several ratty chairs and a sofa from when Saint Petersburg had been known as Leningrad. Two very large men sat on the sofa watching television. One was the burly and certainly armed Viktor. Quinn didn’t recognize the other. But he was equally intimidating. They both rolled to their feet but then sat again when Yefimov informed them everything was fine.

  A sturdy, middle-aged woman with hair the color of red bricks came into the parlor from a side door. Her face was pinched, with the corners her mouth turned down in a permanent frown. She warily eyed James and LT from under plucked and penciled-in eyebrows. Quinn recognized the voice and sharp tone when the woman spoke. Mother Olga.

  Speaking in Russian, Yefimov informed Mother Olga James was there to check the quality of their drugs before purchasing a substantial quantity. Quinn rolled her eyes when Yefimov bragged he’d so masterfully negotiated the deal James was practically throwing money at him. “What a lying bag of flaming dog crap,” she muttered under her breath.

  LT choked and cleared his throat with a rumble.

  James followed Yefimov through a different door from the one Olga had come. They walked into a bigger room crowded with three large, rickety tables. Three kids sat at each. From their size, she guessed them to be between the ages of ten and fourteen. Quinn couldn’t tell which was Mila or Pyotr, mostly due to the disposable surgical masks each wore. At one table, three kids moved a variety of colored pills from open boxes into small zip-top plastic bags. At the other two, white powder was put on scales before going into the individual bags. Another large, scary-looking man sat at a desk stacked with currency. He scowled at James before running a pile of euro notes through a counting machine. A thin bottle blonde, presumably Zhanna, hovered over the kids and barked at them to work faster.

  “We have high-quality heroin from Afghanistan,” Yefimov said, pointing to one of the tables. “Perhaps your employer would like to offer it to his guests as well.”

  James sniffed. “No, thank you. It’s a little too . . . street.”

  “As you wish.” Yefimov stepped over to the center table. “Our cocaine.”

  James tapped the tip of his middle finger to the mound at the center of the table and rubbed the powder between his finger and thumb. Then he held it near his nose and sniffed. “Very good,” he said and brushed it off his finger. He jutted his chin at the table. “How many workers do you have?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “My employer might be interested in acquiring some domestic help. Perhaps we can purchase a couple of these.”

  “I have fifteen, but they are prized workers. I can sell you others.”

  Quinn hoped the six unaccounted for were asleep and hadn’t been sold off.

  “I’ll take it up with him and let you know.” James removed the envelope from his pocket and handed it to Yefimov. “Twenty-five thousand euros.”

  He snatched up the envelope and thumbed through the notes.

  “You will receive the balance when I come to pick the product here Thursday at noon.” He turned and walked toward the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he looked back over his shoulder. “A friendly warning, Mr. Yefimov. Do not cross me in any way. That would not end well for you.” His words were as precise as they were chilling.

  James opened the door and stepped into the hall, leaving an ashen Yefimov behind.

  LT trailed James and shut the door behind them.

  With long strides, they covered the distance to the stairs and bounded down them two steps at a time.

  “Dave, what’s your location?” James asked.

  “Across the street from the building,” came the reply. “I’ll stay here until you’re clear and make sure no one tails you.”

  “Much obliged,” LT said. He took the lead and opened the doors to the street. Quinn heard a rusty creak behind his voice as he spoke.

  Outside, it was now dark. From Dave’s feed, James and LT were nothing more than shadowy figures striding purposefully down the sidewalk. When they disappeared into the darkness, Quinn studied the map on Yonatan’s laptop. “You don’t want to go past the Bronze Monkey again, so don’t turn at this corner,” Quinn said. “Go up another block and turn right.”

  “Copy that,” James said.

  Three minutes later, the back of the van opened. James and LT climbed in and sat on the floor. Yonatan scrambled into the driver’s seat. He had the engine running by the time Dave hauled himself into the passenger seat.

  Yonatan gunned the engine, and as he pulled the van away from the curb, Quinn took her place on the floor next to James. She laced their fingers together and rested both hands on her lap.

  He took off his glasses and gazed into her eyes. In his, she saw flinty resolve. “We’re gonna save them.”

  She cupped his face and stroked his fake whiskers with her thumb. “Yeah. We are.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Thursday arrived, the day Operation Bear Trap would be sprung. The members of the team gathered in their small hotel room headquarters for one final briefing. Preparations had been made, logistics had been studied, and every facet of the op had been checked and double-checked. Still, they needed to review everything one more time.

  Excited and nervous, Quinn sat cross-legged on one of the beds. She pulled off a bit of pastry she’d bought at the coffee shop down the street with her fingers and popped it in her mouth. It was all she could do not to physically swoon at the flaky, buttery bun laden with chunks of semi-sweet chocolate. Nerves had her stomach twisted in a knot and yet she couldn’t stop eating the little bit of carbohydrate heaven.

  She pinc
hed off another piece and held it up in front of James’s faux beard-covered face.

  Sitting next to her with legs stretched out, he opened his mouth. She deposited the morsel and after only one chew, his eyes widened. “Wow.”

  “I know, right? I’m gonna buy a bunch of these for Mila, Pyotr, and the rest to have for breakfast tomorrow.”

  “Pick up couple of extra for me while you’re at it,” James said.

  As always, Dave stood at the front of the room. “If the newlyweds will quit feeding each other and quiet down,” he said drily, “we can get started.”

  Had she not gotten to know Dave well over the last couple of days, her cheeks would have burned hot with embarrassment. Now, though, she made a show of peeling off a big chunk of the pastry and biting off half before defiantly stuffing the rest into her husband’s mouth.

  The room filled with chuckles from the other members of the team. Dave grinned and shook his head, then dove right in. “Reem is already coordinating with the police to arrest Yefimov and his crew on drug charges. Marina is at the house in Olgino ready to help get the kids settled once all the shouting is over.”

  Marina Khodyreva worked for an organization established specifically to assist liberated trafficking victims in making the transition from slavery to freedom.

  “At eleven-thirty, James, Quinn, LT, and I will each drive one of the passenger vans Yonatan rented to where the kids are held. Let’s not all park right next to each other. Too many vans in one place will draw attention. We don’t want that.”

  Heads nodded in agreement.

  “Job One is to get the kids out, into the vans, and to the house in Olgino. To do that, we neutralize Yefimov and his crew. Use the tranq guns if you can. We don’t want any of the kids caught in potential cross fire.”

  “Everyone have your vests on?” Yonatan asked.

  Each responded in the affirmative. Quinn tugged at the bottom of the bulletproof vest she wore under her blouse and business suit jacket. It was a little lighter weight than the ones she’d trained in. Yonatan had access to some excellent equipment.