The Fugitive's Secret Child. Geri Krotow
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bastard’s face. After what felt like hours, Vasin motioned with his head toward Rob, shouting orders to his goons. “Get him up and let him take a piss. Then put him in the chair at the table.”
He faced Rob again and leaned in, his breath heavy with vodka and bile. “I’m going to let you tell me everything you know. If you’re lucky, I’ll leave you for dead here, before my boss shows up.”
Rob didn’t have to ask what would happen if he wasn’t lucky. Vasin would torture him until he begged to die.
Time to reel the monster in.
* * *
Trina peered around the corner of the building, her weapon drawn. The puppy had given her enough time to see the ATVs before she’d done something stupid and unforgivable for a US marshal: walk into a danger zone uninformed. Someone hadn’t done their job, because clearly Vasin was not alone and all of her reports indicated otherwise. She’d worry about the lack of communication later. Right now she wanted Yuri Vasin in cuffs.
Security cameras were mounted under the roof’s overhang on the four corners of the building; she’d only discovered them once she was up under the eaves herself.
She flattened herself to the side of the wall and started to inch her way back toward the opposite side of the building where she’d noticed the other, probably faux, doors. But she had to determine if she could see inside the structure and make out what the hell was going on. Trina sent a quick text to Mike, telling him to head in. She’d wait for him to apprehend.
As she crept along the twenty yards of solid steel building, she was conscious of the puppy shadowing her, quiet and stealthy. She couldn’t risk the noise of shooing the dog away, and was annoyed that he distracted her at all. Her fingers hit the corner of the building and she made sure the area was clear before she turned the corner and made straight for the doors. The security cameras had to not be working, or she’d have been stopped by someone by now.
When she lined up with the “doors,” her fingertips felt the smoothness of the corrugated steel—and the paint that had been used to create the illusion of entrances. Except in the middle of the one large garage-style door, where she immediately felt the cut of steel-on-steel. An opening. Maybe not one that was used much, but an entrance or exit of some sort. Further inspection revealed a painted-over window. She slipped a razor out of her front pocket. Slowly and carefully scraped away the black pigment. She kept her free hand over the working one—she didn’t want to alert anyone inside with a flash of light. The paint was thick and chipped off in the tiniest of pieces. That was fine. All she needed was a pupil’s worth.
As soon as she had enough of an opening, she stood on tiptoe and looked inside. Shelves, all stocked with what appeared to be cans of paint—no shocker there—and ammo, the boxes emblazoned with US ARMY. It was hard to see much farther than five or six rows of shelving.
Ammo. Crap. She couldn’t see past the stacked army boxes. Double crap. Either this was some kind of clandestine military ammunitions depot she didn’t know about, or she’d been mistakenly sent to get this Vasin dude at his place of business. He was supposed to be alone, separated from the ROC and far from its head honcho, Dima Ivanov. Intelligence reports revealed that Vasin might have had a falling-out with Dima and that’s why he was working alone. That was another factor that supposedly made him an easy suspect to bring in. But it looked like Vasin had decided to protect himself in the process. And whoever was with him in the building.
Trina sank down onto her haunches, lifting her cowboy hat enough to wipe the sweat off her brow and out of her eyes. She had two choices: go in with Mike, or call for backup and wait to go in with Mike.
She sent a quick text to both Mike and their team leader, Corey. They had to understand that Vasin was not alone, and she told them that she needed direction on whether to abort the apprehension or not. While she waited for the return texts, she headed back to the front of the building. Her boss would need exact details for whatever additional law enforcement they sent in, and she wanted to tell him the license plate numbers on the ATVs.
A sharp rustle behind her startled her and she whipped around and trained her weapon on the source. She let out a sigh of relief as it was only the puppy, making funny growling noises as he ran in a circle in front of her. Her relief turned to trepidation as she realized he was trying to tell her something.
“What, boy?” She mouthed the words as the back of her neck prickled. The tiny animal didn’t want her to go any further and was trying to keep her from moving forward. Intuition tightened her gut and her hold on her weapon but as an explosion sounded in the building she realized she might be too late.
Rob had done it. He’d convinced Vasin that he was worth keeping alive. For a bit longer, anyhow.
It was enough time to get hold of the tear gas that was on the shelf. If that was what was in the box marked US ARMY TEAR GAS, that is. He’d also spotted several box cutters scattered around the shelves.
“I have to piss.” He spoke to the ROC member through swollen lips, dried blood tasting foul from where his teeth had cut through his cheeks with each blow from Vasin earlier. He played along with Vasin’s order to let him use the bathroom.
“No funny business, or phwwwt.” One of Vasin’s men swiped his finger across his neck while his smug smirk dared Rob to challenge him. Rob had no doubt that the finger would become a switchblade with little provocation. He also knew he’d take this little jerk down.
“I can’t go without my hands, man.”
“Let him go, Aleksey.” Vasin’s voice slurred from the vodka, but the thug listened to him nonetheless. Vasin’s word was law, drunk or sober, superseded only by Ivanov’s.
Two clicks of the very knife Rob feared freed his wrists. Painful jolts of pins and needles hit his arms, hands, as his blood flow returned full force. He fought to flex his fingers and roll his shoulders.
“I give you both but you only need one for your small dick.” The man with the smirk laughed at his poor humor. Rob remained silent and waited for the feeling to return to his hands and fingers.
“The bathroom?” He spoke through clenched teeth.
“The bathroom for you is over there.” Aleksey took him past the ammo and to a small latrine, which was little more than a hole in the ground. Nothing Rob hadn’t experienced before.
Aleksey left him alone so that he could walk over to the table where Vasin sat. He shot down a glass of vodka that Vasin had poured for him, his ura an underscore to the laughter and leers at Rob from the other men. That was the Russian military response to a toast, or more historically, a battle cry similar to the U.S. Marine Corps’ oorah. Aleskey, and the others, were trying to intimidate him.
Have your fun now, suckers.
As they mocked him, he mapped out his route and plan of attack. It might be his last. But he’d have accomplished his mission—take out Vasin and in the process, Ivanov. Rob wouldn’t be the one to actually kill Ivanov, but he’d make damned sure the other LEAs knew where to find him with little effort.
Trina.
He couldn’t risk not surviving this mission, after all.
Because Rob knew Ivanov was in this building, or somewhere very nearby. Most likely in a basement. The type of underground, clandestine, over-the-top living structure that ROC was famous for. Ingenious locations with even more clever hideaways.
Rob forced himself to urinate, finding that indeed, he’d had to go. Funny how pain distracted one from basic needs.
“Can’t find it, you capitalist pig?” Vasin laughed and slammed down another empty shot glass. Rob bided his time, acting as if he were fumbling with his zipper.
Truth was, he’d be hard-pressed to re-zip