Cold Silence (A High Stakes Thriller) (32 page)

She couldn't think straight. Just keep talking, she told herself. "It's okay, Jennifer. Just wait. Hang in there."

There was no response.

"Damn," Steve whispered.

"I hope she doesn't have a weapon," Allen said.

Andy snapped at Allen to shut up.

"Where are you?" Mei said into the line. "Jennifer, are you there?"

"I'm dead, Mei. They're going to kill me."

There were voices in the background. The cops were yelling out to her.

Jennifer screamed.
"On umer. On umer!"

"What? What did you say?" Mei asked, trying to hear Jennifer for the background noise.

"I think it's almost over. I took a bottle of pills, Mei. I took them all."

"What did you take, Jennifer?" Mei asked.

"I took them all." Her voice slurred.

Andy reached out, but Mei registered the change in Jennifer's voice. "Hang in there, Jennifer."

"I feel better now," she said, her words slowing. "Much better..."

"Jennifer. Stay with me," Mei yelled.

There was no answer.

"Jennifer!"

"Bye, Mei."

In hazy focus, Mei could see the mouths moving around her, but the only sound she heard was the whisper of Jennifer saying good-bye over and over.

Chapter 30

The pain in his gut had grown worse since they'd left the airport. He remained doubled over as the Jeep floundered its way along the lake, the chains on the tires crunching against the ice. The snow was high and the road not plowed, and each tiny chunk of ice on the frozen path tossed him up and down.

He closed his eyes and leaned his face out the open window. The cold air reminded him of home.

The men in the back complained about the bitter cold, but he called them sissies and told them to be silent.

He glanced at his watch and then back outside, trying to remember the last time he'd taken a Dronabinol. The nausea was growing unbearable again. The medications weren't working, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Everything made him sick.

Even his vodka had lost its appeal, though he still carried a flask with him for times when the pain medication alone didn't help.

He was almost done. This was his last battle. After this, it was all up to Dmitri.

"We're not far now," the driver said.

Oskar nodded, the closest he'd come to a smile in weeks. He pulled out the flask and swallowed two pills with a swig of vodka. The smell made him nauseous again, so he leaned his head back out the window.

He must have dozed momentarily because when he woke, the car was parked in front of a cabin.

Ivan, Pyotr, and Sasha were out of the car, pulling their bags from the back. He'd brought Pyotr since Mikhail was dead, but he was not sufficient replacement. It would take time to find another like Mikhail. Probably Oskar would be gone before then. The driver was still in his seat.

Oskar handed him a wad of cash and waved him off. The Jeep pulled out as soon as Oskar had closed his door, the driver seeming more than happy to be gone.

Ivan unzipped his bag and was pulling out a gun when Oskar snapped at him. "Not here, moron," he said in Russian. Ivan looked up, his expression blank.

Oskar couldn't believe how dumb he was. He had been too hard on Dmitri. Dmitri, at least, had some sense. Ivan had been born with none.

"Wait until we are not in the open," he explained.

Ivan seemed to finally understand and gave a low grunt in response.

His hand pressed into his thigh for balance, Oskar checked the address of the house. This was it.

He motioned to Pyotr and told him to go around the back of the house and be ready to move in. The kidnapper had promised Oskar that he would be alone with the child, but Oskar didn't trust him. He trusted no one.

He wasn't going to lose the money and the kid. In fact, he didn't intend to lose either.

He let Pyotr head around the side of the house and then told Ivan to stick with him. Oskar took the .38 special out of his bag and tucked it in his belt. It was the gun his father had given him when he'd turned sixteen and he'd never missed with it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd fired it, but that didn't matter. That was why he had his men.

Ivan carried the bag with the money and his own guns and Sasha followed behind. Ivan had two semiautomatics and an Uzi in the bag. Sasha carried a semiautomatic and a Browning rifle. It was too much gun power, but better too much than too little when money was involved. Not that Ivan had six hundred thousand dollars in his bag—not even close to that.

Oskar was still trying to recoup the damage that Feliks and Gary had done, and at the moment he wasn't worth six hundred thousand. The thought made him cough. If he were younger, he would worry. But he'd be dead within weeks. Some days death was coming faster than he would have liked, but most days it wasn't coming fast enough.

The bag Ivan carried contained around fifty thousand dollars—stacks of clean fives with hundreds on top. To an amateur, it looked like a ton of money. To a pro, it wasn't nearly enough. The extra gun power was in case they ran into a pro. The kidnapper, a man named David Murphy, certainly hadn't seemed the part.

He reached the door and raised his arm to knock. The drugs had fogged the pain and he was able to lift his arm without more than an uncomfortable tug at his middle.

He knocked and then licked his fingers and used them to smooth his balding hair across his scalp.

"Who's there?" came a voice from inside.

Oskar nodded back to Ivan. "It is Oskar Krov," he said, pronouncing his name like the word for "blood" and knowing the irony was lost on whoever stood behind the door.

He could hear the click then slide of Ivan's gun chambering a round. Ivan tucked it back into a holster under his jacket. The sound was followed by a second slide and click of the door being unlocked.

A man about Dmitri's age opened the door with a worried smile.

"Mr. Murphy?"

He nodded, looking at the three of them. "You're Krov?"

Oskar smiled. "Yes."

Murphy waved them in and Oskar took stock of the room. Unlike Mr. Murphy, the place reeked of money, and he wondered how Murphy had come upon it. Or who he had borrowed it from. If Murphy were dead inside it, Kirov needed to know who was going to find him.

"This is a nice place."

"Thank you," he answered as though he owned it.

"Where is Ryan?"

Murphy frowned.

"The boy," Oskar said. "Where is the boy?"

Murphy glanced toward the back of the house, and Oskar assumed the boy was still there—in a back room or the basement. "Where's the money?"

Oskar smiled and waved Ivan forward. "It is here. Six hundred thousand, just as promised."

Murphy kept an eye on Ivan as he opened the bag.

Murphy stared inside, his expression like a kid's at Disneyland.

As he reached in to grab a stack, though, Ivan smacked his hand hard.

Murphy complained, shaking his hand.

Oskar frowned at Ivan. "I apologize for him," he said to Murphy. "But we need to see the boy first. You understand."

Murphy nodded. "What about the gambling debts? With Kinzhalov?"

Kirov had promised to settle Murphy's gambling debts with Grigor Kinzhalov. His name translated to "of daggers," and there was trust between them—as much as anywhere within the Russian community. "Settled."

"What proof do I have?"

Kirov tightened his lips. "You have my word. Or if it is not enough, you may call him."

Murphy looked at him and then gave a brief nod. "I think I'll call." He turned his back to go to the phone when Kirov nodded to Ivan.

Ivan went to check the other rooms while Sasha stayed with him. Oskar crossed through the entry-way into a living room with skylights and an open dining area. His instincts told him it was clear.

Murphy came back with the phone in his hand. "Where's the other guy?"

"He went outside to relieve himself."

Murphy glanced around again and, after a small hesitation, he placed the phone to his ear. "Kinzhalov's not answering."

Kirov nodded. "We will wait until you reach him," he lied. "But I would like to see the kid."

Murphy nodded and turned around.

Kirov could feel the excitement in his gut.

When Murphy returned, he had Ryan by the collar. "Here. Take him." Murphy headed right for the bag of money just as Ivan returned to the room. He looked at Ivan, and Oskar could see his brain working. He lifted the bag and started to back up.

"Keep him here," Oskar directed in Russian.

Murphy turned and ran, but Ivan was there. Murphy called out. Oskar didn't respond. Instead he ordered his men to keep Murphy quiet.

He reached out for the boy, waving his fingers. "Come here, Ryan."

The boy didn't move.

Oskar had seen Ryan Riggs only one time, and Ryan had been hardly three, but Oskar had a picture of the couple—Megan and Mark Riggs—that he had looked at almost daily since his Viktor's death. And this little boy had his father's nose and mouth.

"Don't you remember me?" he asked.

The boy shook his head.

"I'm a friend of your mommy and daddy's. From Chicago."

The boy's gaze narrowed, suspicious.

Oskar smiled. He had some of his mama, too, right there in the eyes. What a pleasure this was going to be. He only wished he'd get to see the expression on Megan Riggs's face.

"What the hell is going on here?" Murphy screamed.

The boy turned around.

Murphy was kicking and clawing at Ivan and Sasha, who held him between them. "We had a deal."

The boy was watching Oskar now, those eyes staring. He looked so tough, so brave, just like his mother had. Oskar wondered how long that façade would last. Not much longer, he guessed.

"What do you want?" Murphy screamed. He lashed out at Pyotr and caught him in the jaw. Pyotr dropped his grip and Murphy reached out for Ryan. Sasha pulled out his gun but Oskar yelled at him to stop.

Oskar motioned Sasha toward the stairs. "Take care of him. Downstairs," he said in Russian.

His men stepped forward and Murphy began to backpedal. "We had a deal," he repeated.

"I'm afraid it didn't work out," Oskar said.

Murphy struggled as Ivan took hold of him again and dragged him toward the basement stairs, Sasha following.

Ryan watched them go before turning back to look at Oskar.

"We've come to take you back to your mother. She's been worried." Breathless, Oskar sat down in a chair and waited for the men to return. If Ryan tried to run, he could get his men fast enough. But now Oskar needed to sit.

The pain started to crystallize again. He pushed it away. He wanted to savor this moment, take his time with it. There was no hurry. Dmitri hadn't shown up with the boots in time to come to California with Oskar, but life was handling his part of the deal. Jennifer Townsend. The end of it. He had promised Dmitri. He would still send someone for Megan, but he couldn't wait for her himself. It was time they moved on. Oskar knew he didn't have much time left, and he ought to spend it with Dmitri. There was a lot to pass on before he was gone.

The boy stood motionless. Oskar watched him, and the boy returned the stare as though it were some sort of contest.

Oskar conceded the first round and motioned to the couch. "Come sit. I'm going to call your mother now."

The boy began to rock from foot to foot but remained rooted to the same spot.

Oskar pulled his phone from his pocket and checked for messages. Dmitri hadn't called yet. He was surprised it had taken so long, but perhaps his son had wanted one last night before he took care of his friend. It wouldn't have been Oskar's way. He had always taken care of business first, but things were different now. Times were easier, and so his son didn't take the work as seriously. Dmitri had always been that way. Viktor less so, but still, he had played the risks. And in the end he'd lost for it.