Her Deadly Secrets Page 28

  “Fine.” She handed Trent the flash drive. “But do not lose that. It’s important.”

  Jeremy checked his watch again and glanced impatiently across the lobby at the gift shop. Finally, Erik made it to the front of the line and paid for his breakfast. After getting his change from the cashier, he collected his purchases and walked over.

  “Hungry?” he asked, offering Jeremy one of his two protein bars.

  “No, thanks. I’m parked out front.” Jeremy nodded toward the driveway, where he’d left the Escalade parked, much to the displeasure of the valet attendant.

  As he and Erik reached the door, Detective Diaz walked through it. He wore a dark suit, no tie, and had a big manila envelope in his hand.

  “Hey.” He looked from Erik to Jeremy. “Is Kira with you?”

  “She’s upstairs. Why?”

  “I’ve got copies of those mugs for you guys. Bruno and Sasha Duric.”

  Diaz handed over the envelope, which wasn’t sealed. Jeremy pulled out several pages, each showing eight-by-ten photographs of Anatoly Markov’s hired gun. The top two pictures were candids, evidently taken when Bruno was under surveillance.

  “You recognize him?” Jeremy handed the photos to Erik, who studied them and shook his head.

  The next photo was Bruno’s mug shot. Based on the words at the bottom, he was in the custody of Italian authorities when the photo was taken. The last page was Sasha Duric’s mug shot, also apparently taken by Italian authorities.

  Jeremy stared down at the picture. His pulse quickened. “I’ve seen her,” he said.

  “Who? The wife?” Erik edged closer.

  “Yeah, Sasha Duric.”

  Jeremy stared at the woman. She had long dark hair in the picture, and her eyes looked familiar. And the tattoo on her neck—a butterfly.

  “The delivery.” He handed the picture to Erik. “She delivered a pizza here two nights ago.”

  “Wait,” Diaz said. “Sasha Duric was here?”

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  Jeremy turned to see Trent standing there. Jeremy glanced over the man’s shoulder. “Where’s Kira?” he demanded.

  “Up in the suite.”

  “You left her alone?”

  “I’m bringing her evidence down for the detectives.” Trent frowned. “Why? What’s the problem?”

  Jeremy rushed for the elevator. He jabbed the button, then looked up to see that both elevators were on the tenth floor. Cursing, he ran for the stairs.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  KIRA STOOD beside the bed that she and Jeremy had shared last night. She heaved her suitcase onto it and unzipped the top. Inside was her surveillance equipment. She scooted her camera over and stuffed a pile of dirty clothes in beside it. She needed to do laundry, and unlike Brock, she hadn’t availed herself of the hotel’s same-day service, which charged twelve dollars a shirt. She moved her tripod over, stuffed another pile of clothes in, and then went into the bathroom to pack her cosmetics bag.

  Kira’s phone chimed just as someone rapped on the door to the living room. She glanced at the phone on the dresser and let the call go to voice mail as she crossed the suite.

  “Yes?” she asked, looking through the peephole.

  “Room service.”

  “I didn’t order anything.”

  “Champagne breakfast, compliments of Logan and Locke.”

  They’d sent her champagne?

  Kira opened the door, and a uniformed server pushed the cart inside. On it was a silver dome and a goblet of orange juice covered in cellophane.

  “Are you sure this isn’t for next door?” Kira asked the woman as she wheeled the cart into the center of the room.

  She said something, but her back was turned, and Kira didn’t hear it. The server removed the dome from the plate, and the scent of scrambled eggs wafted over.

  Kira watched the server with interest. She was tall and slender and had a long blond ponytail. Her uniform was much too small, and Kira could see two inches of skin between her black sneakers and the cuffs of her pants. Kira noticed the bulge beneath her jacket.

  The back of Kira’s neck prickled.

  The woman whirled around and pointed a gun at Kira’s face.

  “Where’s the camera?” she asked.

  Kira stepped back, bumping into the couch. The gun had a silencer affixed to the end.

  “Where is it?” She aimed at Kira’s chest. “The memory card for Oliver Kovak’s camera. Where?”

  Kira’s throat went dry. Her mouth wouldn’t work. Her phone started chiming again from the bedroom.

  “Where? You have three seconds!”

  “I—It’s . . . in my suitcase.”

  She grabbed Kira’s arm and shoved her toward the bedroom. “Get it.”

  Kira stumbled into the bedroom. She darted a glance at the door to the hall, but it was too far away, and even if she made a dash for it, the security latch was still engaged.

  “I want the camera and the memory card.” The woman shoved her from behind. “And you’re going to show me what’s on it, so I know it’s real.”

  Kira approached the bed with the suitcase on it. “It’s still in the camera.” She glanced over her shoulder and came face-to-face with the gun. Her stomach knotted as she turned and opened the suitcase. “It’s right here.” She reached for the camera but grabbed the tripod instead. Ducking and spinning, she swung the tripod like a bat, hitting the woman’s arm. She yelped with surprise.

  Kira bolted into the living room. A hand clamped around her arm, and Kira whirled back, smashing the tripod down on the woman’s hand.

  She shrieked in pain, and the gun cartwheeled across the carpet.

  Kira lunged for it.

  Pain zinged up her arm as the woman jerked her back, yanking her off balance. Kira caught herself on a table as the woman scrambled for the pistol. Kira jabbed an elbow into her ribs, then kicked the gun, sending it sailing underneath the sofa.

  The woman shouted something in a foreign language. Pain blazed across Kira’s face as she landed a blow. Kira staggered back, dazed, then rushed forward, shoving the woman aside as she made a dash for the door, but the woman caught her arm and threw her against the wall as she managed to flip the security latch.

  She whirled to face Kira, and her expression was feral. Kira glanced at the door behind her, frantic for an escape. The only other way out was the bedroom, but she had to reach the door with enough time to flip the latch and get out. Which meant she had to disable someone who outweighed her by probably thirty pounds.

  Kira ducked her head and plowed into her, sending her reeling backward against the food cart, and everything crashed to the floor.

  Gripping his pistol, Jeremy took the last flight of stairs three at a time and reached the top. Kira’s voice emanated from the phone in his left hand. I’m sorry I missed your call . . .

  Cursing, Jeremy plowed through the door into the hallway and sprinted down the corridor. Turning the corner, he stuffed the phone into his pocket and pulled out the key card to Kira’s room.

  Kira raced for the bedroom. Her attacker hauled herself to her feet by the food cart and chased after her, grabbing Kira by the ponytail. Fire blazed up her scalp as the woman dragged her backward by her hair.

  She slammed Kira to the floor and flipped her onto her back, then landed on Kira’s chest with her knees, knocking the wind out of her. The woman’s face was flushed and furious as her big hands closed around Kira’s throat. Panicked, Kira bucked and twisted, but the woman didn’t budge. Kira gripped the woman’s wrists, but they wouldn’t move. Kira’s throat burned. The edges of her vision started to blur.

  “Kira!”

  Jeremy.

  The door opened but caught on the security latch.

  “Police! Open this door!”

  Jeremy peered through the gap.

  “Who’s in there?” Diaz asked behind him.

  “Call backup!”

  Jeremy raced down the hall and
found a glass cabinet containing an ax and a fire extinguisher. He broke the glass and grabbed the ax, then sprinted back to the room, where Diaz was taking aim at the security latch with his Glock.

  “Move! And cover me!” Jeremy raced up to the door and swung the ax. The latch burst apart, and Jeremy kicked open the door and reached for his pistol.

  A toppled food cart was on its side, plates and glasses spilled everywhere. Where the hell were they? Diaz darted into the bedroom.

  A wheezing noise came from behind the armchair. Jeremy rushed over to find Kira on the floor, coughing and sputtering.

  He dropped to his knees as she rolled onto her side, struggling to catch her breath.

  “Where are they?” he asked.

  Kira looked up at him, her eyes red and watery. “She’s . . . balcony,” she croaked.

  Jeremy whirled around. The balcony door was closed. He yanked it open and readied his pistol.

  Glass shattered on the neighboring balcony as Jeremy stepped outside. He leaned over to look, just in time to see a blur of movement. A metal chair sat inside the hotel room on a pile of glass.

  Jeremy raced back inside.

  “The bedroom and bathroom are clear,” Diaz said.

  “She’s next door.”

  Kira was on the sofa now, bending over and catching her breath. She looked at Jeremy and seemed to read his conflict.

  “I’m fine. Go.”

  “Take my SIG.”

  “No.”

  “Take it, Kira.” He put it into her hand and folded her fingers around the grip.

  Grabbing the ax from the floor, he raced into the hallway after Diaz. The detective stood before the neighboring door, aiming his gun at the open door.

  “Police! On the ground!”

  Sasha Duric looked unarmed. The woman was flushed and panting, and the sleeve of her black jacket was torn at the shoulder. She started to rush back into the room, but Jeremy lunged forward and grabbed her.

  “On the ground!” Diaz commanded.

  She shot a furious look at Jeremy. Then she dropped to her knees. Diaz took out his handcuffs as Jeremy gripped her arm.

  “On your stomach, hands behind you,” Diaz ordered.

  Jeremy stepped back as Diaz slapped the cuffs on. He patted her down, but she didn’t have a weapon. At least, not anymore.

  “You got this?” Jeremy asked him.

  “Yeah.”

  Jeremy rushed back into the suite. His heart lurched when he saw that it was empty. Then he heard water running in the bathroom.

  Kira stood at the sink, his SIG on the counter beside her. She tipped her head and examined a ring of red welts around her neck.

  Jeremy’s chest clenched. She’d needed him, and he wasn’t there. It was his worst combat nightmare come true. He stared at the marks on her neck, and the floor seemed to sink under his feet.

  She met his eyes in the mirror. “Did you—”

  “Diaz has her.” He closed the door behind him and locked it, then turned Kira to face him. She’d almost died. Thirty more seconds, and he could have lost her forever.

  Kira glanced down at the ax in his hand, and he let it drop.

  “Come here.” He pulled her into his arms and held on tight.

  Charlotte checked the clock on her phone. Where the hell was Diaz? She glanced at the hotel entrance, but didn’t see her partner, only the stocky valet attendant who’d been glaring at her since she pulled in.

  He walked over, and Charlotte reluctantly lowered the window.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m going to have to ask you to—”

  “HPD.” Charlotte held up her ID. “I’m waiting for someone.”

  The man stared at her a moment. He started to say something but then seemed to think better of it and walked away.

  Charlotte looked through the windshield and sighed. Up ahead—also illegally parked—was a dark green pickup truck. There was a black Escalade sitting out here, too, and Charlotte could see why the valet guy had his shorts in a twist. Deciding to do her good deed for the day, she put her Taurus in gear and pulled in behind the pickup, freeing up space in the driveway.

  Charlotte gazed at the pickup with its dented bumper. A man sat behind the wheel, probably waiting for someone like she was.

  Jeremy Owen’s words from the other night niggled at her. There was a dark green pickup in the vicinity . . .

  Charlotte studied the truck, the driver. Her heart rate quickened. She pushed open her door and slid from the car. Resting her hand on her service weapon, she slowly approached the vehicle.

  Suddenly, the engine roared, and the truck surged forward.

  “Damn it!” Charlotte rushed back and jumped behind the wheel as the truck took off down the divided driveway. Charlotte thrust the car into drive as she reached for the radio and called for backup.

  The truck was halfway to the main gate, and Charlotte punched the gas. She swerved, bouncing over the curb as she careened over the grassy median, then bouncing again as she hit the street.

  A horn blared, and she swerved, narrowly missing an oncoming car. She set her gaze on the gate up ahead and stomped the gas, and her trusty V6 responded with a throaty growl. She was almost there, almost there, almost . . .

  Charlotte reached the end of the median and jerked the wheel right, then hit the brakes. Tires shrieked, and she braced for impact.

  He hit her like a torpedo, and the car spun out. Charlotte shoved it into park and blinked down at the steering wheel, dazed, for maybe a second. Then she drew her pistol and jumped out.

  Bruno Duric was fighting the airbag and struggling to get his door open, but it was smashed to hell. He scrambled over the seat as Charlotte rushed to the other side.

  “Don’t move!” She pointed her gun at his chest. “Hands up!”

  She saw the fury in his eyes. Not just that he was caught but that he was caught by a woman with a badge.

  “Hands up, asshole! Now!”

  Slowly, his hands went up, and Charlotte stepped closer, amazed that he looked exactly like the suspect sketch, right down to the dimple on his chin. But the look in his eyes now was pure hate.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  KIRA STEPPED into her house and disabled the burglar alarm as Jeremy brought her luggage inside.

  “Where do you want these?” he asked.

  “Um . . . that’s mostly equipment, so it goes in the office.”

  He walked past her, carrying her two giant suitcases like they were lunch boxes.

  What a long, strange day. Her suite at the Metropolitan had become a crime scene, so Kira had decided to check out. She would have left soon anyway, now that Logan & Locke had discontinued her security arrangement and was no longer footing the bill. And she was eager to get home.

  After Diaz and Spears arrested the Durics, a horde of law-enforcement officials had descended on the Metropolitan—police detectives, FBI agents, even a few ICE guys. It turned out that Anatoly Markov’s business was already under investigation by the feds. It sounded like the shipping company was a front for a drug- and people-smuggling operation, and Craig Collins may have been involved as a low-level employee who got in over his head and owed Andre Markov money.

  Kira and Jeremy had spent several hours talking to investigators at the scene before going to the police station for additional interviews that had dragged on and on. When that was finished, Jeremy had taken her to check out of the hotel and offered her a ride home. They’d even stopped by the store to buy a few groceries—which felt totally bizarre, as though they were some normal couple picking up dinner for a quiet night in together.

  Kira set a bag of groceries on the counter now and returned Ollie’s goldfish to the kitchen windowsill. Then she grabbed her roll-on bag and wheeled it down the hallway.

  Jeremy stepped from the office. “Want everything else back here, too?”

  “It can wait by the door,” Kira said. “I have to sort through some of it and put stuff in the laundry.�
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  He flipped the light switch on the wall and looked down at her, his brow furrowed with worry. He reached up and lightly traced his finger over the bruise on her neck from where Sasha Duric had tried to strangle her. Jeremy had been looking at her neck all afternoon, his eyes tormented.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. “But I’d like to jump in the shower before dinner. You mind?”

  “Take your time. I’ll get the grill going.”

  “It hasn’t been used in a while, so I’m sure it’s really dirty.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll handle it.”

  He walked away, leaving her staring after him and wondering what the hell she was doing.

  She hadn’t formally invited him home with her, it had just been understood that that was what was happening as they left the hotel. She was glad he’d come. Relieved. And not just because of how rattled she felt after being attacked. She didn’t want to be alone tonight, but she also didn’t want to deal with saying goodbye to him yet. Her emotions felt raw right now, too close to the surface, and she worried about what she might say if she got into a serious discussion with him.

  Kira went into her bathroom and stripped off her clothes. She stood under the hot shower spray, letting it steam up the room as all the events of the day swirled through her mind. Despite the two arrests, they were still waiting for news from Charlotte Spears. Police had attempted to pick up Andre Markov for questioning, but he seemed to have disappeared, which catapulted him to the top of the FBI’s Most Wanted list.

  What had started as a straightforward PI job had spun out of control, and Kira felt as though her life had been hit by a tornado. It had ripped through everything with dizzying ferocity, and she didn’t know how to get her equilibrium back, or if she ever would.

  She stepped out of the shower and toweled off, feeling ridiculously grateful to be back in her own house, in her own shower, with towels that smelled like her laundry detergent. She would sleep in her own bed tonight—with Jeremy—and just the thought of it put a warm tingle inside her.

  She dressed in cutoff shorts and her softest sweatshirt and was combing her hair when someone knocked on the back door.