Russian Connection Read online

  “Look,” the detective said, “I’m going to send a man over to bring you in. We can talk more then.”

  “Let me think about it, Detective. I’ll call you back a little later.”

  Nikki hung up, feeling she’d learned at least one thing. Someone besides the police had followed them last night. She rubbed her arms. Maybe she wasn’t as safe here as Dayd thought.

  While nibbling on the Egg McMuffin Dayd had left for her, Curt’s whispered words replayed in her head: There’s something you need to know. What had Luke told him? Curt would be waiting for her at the police station at ten. Dayd had said it might be a trap. How could it be? A safer place couldn’t exist. She glanced at her watch. She had three hours to make up her mind. What could it hurt to hear him out? And it would get her out of here. She dialed Curt’s office and when he came on the line she said, “I may not be able to make our meeting at ten. Couldn’t you just tell me what Luke said over the phone?”

  “He made me promise to tell you in person,” Curt said, sounding too suave. “Do you want to make it a little later, like for lunch? I could meet you in the Raddison restaurant.”

  Nikki rubbed her aching head. “No. No, let’s keep it at ten at the police station. I have some other business there anyway,” she said, making the decision to let Sinclair send a man to pick her up.

  Curt agreed, but his tone had lost its smoothness.

  She didn’t care. Sinclair was her best bet. If she didn’t like the deal, she’d just leave. They couldn’t hold her if she didn’t want to stay. She called Sinclair back and told him she was ready to come in. He said a police officer would be there within thirty minutes to pick her up.

  To kill time, she flipped on the TV. The War Of The Roses was on the movie channel. She’d seen it before and once was enough to watch the couple in that failed marriage destroy each other. She flipped to a news channel. Ugh, more about the rising crime rate. She settled for Designing Women. At least she hadn’t seen this episode before.

  Twenty minutes later, she heard a tapping at the door. She peered out the peephole. She couldn’t see anyone. “Who is it?” she asked.

  A loud crunch and the sound of nails separating from wood made her jump back. Someone kicked the door. It gave. A huge man charged inside and jabbed a gun to her head, shoving her back into the room. Two other big men followed. The tallest one tossed the crowbar he held aside. They began searching the room, hurling things about as they worked.

  “Where is it, Mrs. Brown?” the man holding her in a neck-lock asked in a thick Russian accent.

  Her heart pounded, flooding her veins with adrenaline. “What?”

  His hold around her neck tightened. “At the airport, you picked up something in a satchel. We want it. Now.”

  Trembling, she let her gaze travel to the table, chair and the knife she’d used on the vent screws, then to the vent, hoping they’d take the bait.

  The men spewed a barrage of Russian words. One moved the table and chair out of the way, grabbed the knife, and then the other man bent while the man with the knife hoisted himself up on his shoulders.

  The man holding the gun to her head shifted position.

  It was now or never. She butted him in the nose with her head. His hold loosened. Using moves she’d learned in the military, she whirled and punched him in the windpipe with her fist. He dropped the gun and released her. She kicked the side of his knee and shoved with all her might, thrusting him into the man balancing the other on his shoulders. All three men thundered to the floor in a heap.

  Breathing hard, she bolted from the tepee and ran toward the motel office. She passed a blur of stucco wigwams and parked cars. The office was farther away than she remembered. She didn’t look back. Her focus was on getting to the office, and to safety. The glass door was ajar.

  She peered inside. Her stomach knotted. The manager was slumped over the counter. His head was bloody. She prayed he wasn’t dead, but had no time to check. Not with those two big Russians racing toward her. The third had climbed into a Cadillac. She heard it start up.

  Where were the police?

  Near the exit driveway, a BMW slowly backed out of its parking stall. If she could get inside and leave with it, she’d be safe. “Wait!” she called.

  She ran to the car, praying the passenger door was unlocked.

  Nikki pounded on the window. “Please stop. I need help.” Darkly tinted windows kept her from seeing inside. The slow moving car stopped. She grabbed the door handle. It was unlocked. Thank God.

  She yanked open the door and jumped inside. “Quick, go! Men are after me.”

  The car began to move. She sighed in relief. “Thank you. I…” Her eyes focused on the driver. “Curt!” Gratitude flashed, and died. Nikki’s neck prickled. She hadn’t told him where she was. How did he find her? He didn’t have caller ID on his office phone.

  “Thanks for making this so easy,” he said, pointing a gun at the side of her left breast.

  “Oh, God. You are mixed up in this!” As she grabbed the door handle, the clunk of the electric locks engaging sent a chill up her spine. She jiggled the handle. Futile. “Unlock the doors, Curt.”

  Nikki heard shouting. She turned and glanced through the rear window. Police ran from a narrow alley at the back of the motel and pointed guns at the Russians who’d been chasing her. A police car swung into the front driveway. Curt veered left and shot over the curb with a jolt, eluding their attempt to block his exit. They blocked the escaping Cadillac. One of the cops on foot stared after their fleeing BMW with hands on his hips, his face contorted in anger.

  Her throat went dry. What had she done? The police had come to rescue her. She would’ve been safe. If only she hadn’t called Curt. “Where are you taking me?”

  His hand tightened on the gun. “Sit tight, Nikki, and you won’t get hurt.”

  Hearing him say her name gave her hope. They’d been friends. If she jumped him, could he really shoot her? The safety was off. Her stomach knotted. He could and would, without one second of regret.

  A Buick with darkened windows left the curb and followed them. An unmarked cop car? Something about its ominous look sent a shiver down her spine.

  Curt floored the accelerator and began to weave in and out of traffic. The Buick stayed with them.

  Nikki caught a fleeting view of parked cars and a blur of the businesses along Foothill Boulevard. She heard police sirens. “It’s not too late, Curt. Put the gun away and let me out. I’ll smooth things over with the cops.”

  He took a corner on two wheels, went down a dirt alley, spewing brown clouds of dust, and turned into the driveway of a junkyard. He sped through the open gates, drove straight through the yard, and, taking some fencing with him, he charged back out onto a street on the other side of the block. The Buick stayed close on his bumper.

  Nikki’s fingers gripped the armrest so hard they ached. “How did you find me?”

  “Ever hear of caller ID?”

  “But you don’t have that feature on your office phone.”

  Curt gave a low amused laugh. “I do now.”

  It had to be true. How else could he have found her? “I want out of this car, now, Curt.”

  “Whatever you say.” He pulled over to the curb near a boarded up warehouse. The Buick skidded to a halt behind them. As Curt disengaged the locks, he clamped his hand over her wrist. His face was frighteningly calm. She screamed and tried to twist free.

  Two men from the Buick ran to the BMW and grabbed Nikki. One pressed a gun to her temple. “Scream again and you’re dead,” he growled in a thick Russian accent. With savage strength, they rushed her to their car, her feet hardly touching the ground. They shoved her inside, the biggest man sliding into the seat beside her, forcing her tight against the driver.

  Dear God, a switch of cars. Switch of captors. She was in big trouble.

  Her pulse throbbed. She couldn’t stop trembling.

  Curt sprinted from the BMW and got into the backseat of the
Buick beside another man, who said something in Russian. The pock-faced driver, who looked familiar, eased into the flow of traffic. Her hope that the police would rescue her died.

  She exhaled slowly, trying to bring her wildly pounding heartbeat back to normal. Find your calm place, she told herself. Above all, don’t panic.

  Nikki rubbed her sweatshirt-covered arms. Four men to guard one woman. What chance did she have? None of them bothered with masks. That meant they didn’t intend for her to be around to identify them later.

  Avoiding the freeways, their route took them east away from Rialto. They used Waterman Avenue to skirt downtown San Bernardino, then skimmed the west line of the city of Loma Linda.

  Foul body odor turned her stomach. “Could someone please open a window?”

  Curt said something in Russian to the driver. Nikki was stunned. He sounded just like one of them. She’d known he spoke several languages, but she didn’t know Russian was one of them.

  The driver cracked the window open an inch.

  Did he think if he opened it wider she’d disappear through it like a puff of smoke? She wished.

  Being trapped in close quarters with these big foreigners who spoke words she couldn’t understand made her feel small. Nikki squared her shoulders, refusing to let the sense of helplessness overwhelm her. She had to watch for a chance to outsmart them, a chance to escape.

  Dayd, where are you? Had he run out on her? She recalled the torture in his eyes when he’d told her how he’d unknowingly betrayed his brother. A man who regretted his mistake that much couldn’t forsake her, could he? With all her heart, she wanted to believe in him. Still, doubt swirled in her head. It hurt deeply to consider that money could have been all he ever wanted and that he might be on his way back to Russia, forgetting Glenda’s rescue. Leaving her.

  She didn’t want to die without knowing whether he’d kept his vow. No thoughts of dying allowed, Nikki reminded herself. Survive at all costs.

  The driver maintained a legal speed. Too bad Pock-face didn’t have a heavy foot. It was the first time she’d ever prayed for a speeding ticket.

  She recognized the driver. Dayd had shown his picture to the manager of the truck rental place. What was his name? Peter something. It started with a Z. Identifying these men might be important later. She had to pay attention to everything they said—maybe pick up a name buried in their barrage of Russian words. Minutes later, she heard the name Ziyakbusky when one of the men spoke to the driver. That’s right! The driver’s name was Peter Ziyakbusky.

  They left the shopping and residential areas behind and entered a wilderness of dry piñón scrub brush and rolling hills. After a few miles they turned onto a dirt road and cut across a county landfill, heading toward a rocky, hilly area. Based upon the plat maps she and Dayd had studied, she knew they were entering the northeast corner of the nudist colony land on the east side of Reche Canyon.

  The road ended, and they all got out of the car. Curt grabbed her arm, and the two of them walked ahead of the others.

  “How did you get mixed up in all of this?” Nikki asked in a low voice, trying to psychologically isolate Curt from the others.

  “Money,” he said. “Gambling debts. Luke offered me a way out. He wanted to use you as the contact for an illegal air-freight deal, but he learned quickly that you were too pure to cooperate.”

  “This isn’t like you.” She wanted it to be true, wanted to make him see how wrong this all was.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Never been good at judging men, have you?” The truth of his words and the coldness in his voice cut through her.

  Small rocks crunched and skittered under her steps. Loose dirt along the path sifted over her black walking shoes, covering them with a fine, whitish powder. The steep incline tightened her leg muscles. Sparse pines and occasional scrub brush wouldn’t give much cover if she tried to bolt. Curt’s grip on her arm tightened as though he knew what she was thinking.

  She glanced up at him, looking for a little humanity. “One of these men killed Luke,” she said. “When you’re no longer useful, they’ll kill you, too.”

  “No way, Nikki. I’m one of them now. It was different with Luke. He betrayed us all, even you. The bastard deserved to die. That’s why I lured him into that alley.”

  “You killed him?” She fought the tremor in her voice.

  A voice came from behind and said in precise English, “No. I did.”

  Nikki hadn’t heard Ziyakbusky slip up on them. Her heart pounded. He wouldn’t admit being the killer unless he was going to kill her, too. If only Dayd were nearby watching, ready to come charging to her rescue. She wanted to believe it was possible, but she had to face it. Any escape was in her hands. Alone.

  Chapter Forty

  By nine o’clock that morning, Dayd had deposited the Mafia money in safe deposit boxes at a nearby Loma Linda bank, then returned to the nudist colony land. Now, he waited for Boris on the outskirts of the camp near a row of eucalyptus trees. When Boris arrived in the rented four-wheel-drive Jeep, Dayd joined him. Dressed in fatigues, they headed across the rocky terrain and up the hill. “Stop ahead near those olive trees,” Dayd said after about a mile. “If we drive any closer we’ll risk being spotted.”

  They got out of the Jeep and stood under the shelter of the trees. Dayd studied the pictures The Bear handed him. He’d shot about thirty frames from the helicopter.

  “This is the main compound with its buildings and pools,” Boris said, speaking in Russian. He pointed with a smoking cigarette clamped between his fingers. “And these show each of the cabins scattered throughout the hills.”

  “See anybody hanging around?” Dayd asked. “The camp manager told me the buildings outside the compound are no longer used.”

  Boris shook his head. “You won’t see people in any of these pictures. It was barely dawn when I took them.”

  Dayd shifted his weight. Had Nazar reached the dumpsite on the other side of the hill? He needed the little man’s report. There were too many unknowns.

  Earlier, posing as a television talk show scout, Dayd had offered the nudist colony manager free coverage. The manager didn’t even crack a smile at the pun. Dayd had set an appointment several weeks away to return with his nonexistent film crew to tape an interview that would never happen. The manager was thrilled with the idea of gratis publicity and gave him a tour of the facilities.

  “No sign of Glenda inside the compound,” Dayd said. He was convinced if she were held on colony land, it would be in one of the cabins nestled in the hills outside the main compound.

  “What about Sinclair? Is he going to be any help to us on this?”

  “He promised backup if we locate her.” Dayd had come to respect Sinclair. Although the detective was still suspicious, other than tailing Dayd around, he’d stayed out of his way. Maybe when this was over, Sinclair would accept that they were on the same side.

  Dayd’s beeper went off. Using his cellular, he dialed the unfamiliar number. He stiffened at the sound of Margo Bettmore’s voice. This had to be an indirect call from Godunov.

  “Dayd, I need help,” she said.

  “What’s up, Margo?” Dayd gripped the cellular phone in a chokehold.

  The Bear leaned against a scraggly pine watching him, smoking his cigarette, blowing lopsided smoke rings. His eyes gave away his intense interest in the call.

  “You told me if I ever wanted out, you’d help me,” Margo said with trembling desperation in her voice. “Well, I’m ready.” A sob escaped her throat.

  Dayd felt a rush of sympathy for the woman-child. “What happened?”

  “When I tried to help Glenda escape, Godunov beat me bloody.”

  Warning alarms went off in Dayd’s head. “Why take risks like that for someone you don’t even know?”

  “I haven’t had a woman to talk to for years. Glenda told me I didn’t have to live like this. That I didn’t have to be Godunov’s whore.”

  Margo’s words sounded rehear
sed. “Go on,” he said, willing to at least hear her out.

  “I’ve been feeding Glenda, making her comfortable. At first, Godunov didn’t mind. He even found it funny for some reason.”

  Dayd frowned. This wasn’t making sense. Margo had been with Godunov for too many years to run away now. There would have to be a life-and-death reason for her to leave him. She hadn’t left even when Godunov cut off her little toes. “He’s hurt you before.”

  “But it’s different now,” Margo said. “He’s lost interest in me. I heard him tell Zimsky that he was shipping me to China, selling me to the sex-slave market. I’d rather be dead.”

  Dayd felt torn. Margo lied for Godunov all the time, did his bidding. But what if she was on the level? He’d offered help to her. How could he refuse now? “Where are you?”

  “Arrowhead Springs Hotel.”

  He swore in Russian. He might have known. She was miles away on the other side of the valley. Her call might be a ploy to get him out of Reche Canyon. “I thought you’d cleared out of there.” He hoped to catch her in a lie.

  “Godunov had business with someone here, so we came back. Just for tonight.”

  “Is Glenda all right?”

  “Not for long.”

  “Is she there with you?”

  “They took her to a cabin in Reche Canyon. Nudist colony land. But she isn’t your only concern.”

  Dayd stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “They have Nikki Brown.”

  Dayd’s heart thundered in his ears. His fingers tightened on the cellular until they ached. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “You don’t. But Godunov told me his men grabbed her from a tepee in Rialto. Does that make any sense to you?”

  Dayd tightened his jaw as despair gripped him. How had Godunov’s men found her? His gut churned. “Are they holding her in Reche Canyon too?”

  “Godunov told Curt Harrison to take her there.”