Chapter 24

Jason

T here are so many cops outside the hotel. Blue and red flashing lights are everywhere. Neighbors and passersby have gathered around the yellow tape as the crime scene investigators buzz in and out of the building, constantly liaising with detectives and a few suits—my guess, federal agents.

Whatever happened in there was serious enough to close off the entire street. Reporters are moving closer and closer to the scene, only to be dispersed by carefully positioned beat cops. Everybody has a job to do, and each one revolves around keeping the ground floor of the hotel clear of any interference.

I'm in the driver's seat of my car, parked a safe distance away but close enough to see everything that's going on. My contacts in the police department aren't picking up; I'm guessing there's probably a lid on the whole thing, and our friendship doesn't supersede their duties. I get that, and I can't blame them. I am, however, frustrated and angry because I can't see Audrey anywhere.

Cautiously, I get out of the car and make my way across the street, my gaze constantly scanning every person in sight. I catch bits and pieces of conversation from people surmising what happened even though they weren't around when the incident in question occurred. I try not to pay them any mind, but the buzzwords coming out of their mouths still get to me.

"Mob hit," a lady tells her friend.

"Russian," another guy says. "Somebody got shot. They took a girl."

I stop in my tracks and give the man a startled look. "Where did you hear that?"

"Officer Friendly over there," he says, pointing out a rookie cop with big eyes and not enough meat on his bones to keep everybody at bay. His partner keeps giving him dirty looks, but he's busy getting a statement from one of the waiters, so I have a window of opportunity, albeit a small one.

Arkady told me where to find Audrey. But I shouldn't have heeded his advice on timing. Clearly, that was a massive mistake. I should've been here last night. Whatever has happened—I pause and take a deep breath, not yet ready to berate myself for trusting the wrong Russian—I am ready to accept that none of those Bratva fuckers are to be trusted. Ever.

I reach the rookie cop and give him a slight nod. "Hey, officer. Sorry to bother you. I'm supposed to be meeting someone in there. What happened?"

"Who were you meeting, sir?" the rookie replies.

"My girlfriend." That is not exactly a lie.

"You'll have to meet elsewhere. We've sealed off the entire ground floor, and guests have been advised to use the service entrance."

"I suppose you have officers stationed there, as well," I say.

"Yes."

"What happened?" I insist.

The rookie glances over his shoulder, briefly content to see his partner is still busy. "A shooting," he tells me.

"I heard somebody was taken?"

He looks around again, growing increasingly nervous. "I can't give out any more information."

"Who was taken?" I ask, my tone clipped as my patience wears thin.

"A woman," he finally says. "I didn't catch her name, but the detective said they're putting a BOLO out on her."

As if summoned, I hear engines roaring as a slew of black SUVs come rolling past the roadblocks. Camera phones are snapping. Murmurs rise from the swelling crowd behind me. The detectives in charge are agitated and start barking orders. This is it. My window is closing, and I need to get more information, one way or another.

Somebody took Audrey right out from beneath the Fedorovs' noses. It makes me sick to my stomach, knowing I am back to square one or worse. I feel like a complete fool as I keep replaying my conversation with Arkady Abramovic in the back of my mind.

Urgency blows through me, yet I need to keep my wits sharp and my temper in check as I analyze the situation and take a few steps back.

I can't speak to anybody among the investigators, but I can still watch the scene unfold and pick up a few more details before I leave. I have no idea where to go from here, though. I can't go back to Arkady. They won't even let me back inside the building after I threatened to kill him. I bet they'd shoot me on sight.

The cops are definitely out of the question. They're here cleaning up what looks like a mess of amplifying proportions. I have friends in the Bureau, and if my instincts are correct, this has the potential to grow into a massive RICO bust.

I have information they might be interested in. I'm sure they have plenty of data already gathered on the Fedorov and the Abramovic Bratvas over the years. I might as well try that avenue.

I spot a couple of detectives coming out of the hotel with a Fedorov bouncer in tow. The man is scared out of his mind, pale-faced and covered in sweat, his black suit soiled with dust and cobwebs. Where the hell was he hiding? Some closet, probably. Slowly, I slip past the yellow tape line and slide between crime scene investigators, casual in my approach as I try to get closer.

"Where'd you find him?" an agent asks as he gets out of one of the black SUVs. His windbreaker says he's ATF.

"Broom closet," one of the detectives chuckles.

They cuff the guy and keep him standing outside the SUV while the ATF agent asks him questions. I can't hear everything on account of all the commotion unfolding around me, but I do get enough bits and pieces to figure out what happened.

"Abramovic bought them off," the disheveled bouncer says. "The guys discussed it and decided to take his money. They offered me money, but I didn't want it."

"But you had to take it," the agent replies, playing the sympathy card. "Otherwise, they would've killed you. They couldn't risk a rat, right?"

"Da," the guy says. "I had to take it. But I wanted no part in what they were planning."

"I need a gurney," a paramedic shouts from the crowd.

Tape tears somewhere to my left.

Reporters are clamoring closer, the beat cops no longer able to effectively hold them back, but ATF backup comes in—broad-shouldered gentlemen with the authority and the ability to push the media farther away from the front of the hotel.

"Old man Grigori will kill me," the bouncer squirms as they shove him in the back of a van.

"You'll be fine," the ATF agent tells him.

He'll go into protective custody, most likely. They'll cut the guy a deal if he talks, which means a shit show is about to hit Grigori's doorstep. But if Audrey was taken, I doubt the bastard even cares about what's happening at the hotel right now. I need to find him.

My phone rings. It's Rita. A perfectly efficient distraction. "What's up, Rita?" I ask as I make my way back behind the yellow tape and lose myself in the crowd.

"You need to come home now."

"I thought you and Lily left this morning," I reply, a knot quick to form in the back of my throat. "What's wrong?"

"Now." She hangs up.

My senses expand as fear grips me tightly, its claws digging deep into my flesh.