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Sky’s eyes widened. “Yes, of course. Were you put into legal jeopardy?”
“No. My foster mother, who was cowed by the bastard, told the police what happened. I was never punished for it.”
“Then what happened to you? I’m sure the state wouldn’t allow you to stay in that family?”
Lauren shrugged. “I was glad to go. After that, I became a real handful. I was angry. I fought. I rebelled. I was out of control. So, I went through six different foster homes until I turned eighteen.”
“You had a right to be angry because of how you were abused.”
Her mouth tightened, eyes growing hard. “Now you know why I don’t trust men. I can pick up, like radar, on a man who wants sex with me, in a millisecond. And maybe, in a sick sort of way, that all-terrain radar I developed as a very young child has served me well out on ops. I can sense things long before anyone else can, so there’s a positive side to it, I guess.”
“You’re like Cal in that regard. Sometimes, he’s scary. He’s so psychic. He says he isn’t, but I swear, he senses like an animal does out in the wild.”
“That’s about right,” Lauren said with a short laugh. “We’ve been reduced to our animal, limbic, primal self. If nothing else, people like us know how to survive and read subtleties most others will never sense or see in another person or situation unit it’s too late.”
Sky hurt for Lauren. What she’d just revealed told her so much about the way she was presently. “Maybe, over time? Give Alex a second chance? He does like you. And yes, he says you’re beautiful, which you are. You can’t damn him for that, Lauren. He’s a good person. Cal thinks the world of him, and he doesn’t give that kind of respect to another operator unless he’s earned it.”
“Yeah, that’s what Cal told me privately later when I left the room after refusing to shake Kazak’s hand.”
“Have you thought what might happen if you two get thrown together on an op?”
Grimacing, Lauren growled, “That will NEVER happen. It wouldn’t be pretty.”
June 2
The June windblew cool and chilly, which was unusual for a summer day. Yerik Alexandrov knelt in front of his son’s gray tombstone, thinking it was because of climate change. He carefully placed the dozen white roses into a permanent gray vase that sat nearby. Lifting his eyes, he felt tears burning in them. Vlad’s face stared back at him. Below, in Russian, was, “Here lies my beloved son, Vladimir Alexandrov. Rest in Peace.” Below that in smaller black engraved letters was, “Beloved son of Darya and Yerik Alexandrov.”
His heart was so torn that Yerik knew he would never be the same after hearing Vlad had been murdered in Peru four months earlier. The wind blew in a gust, rustling the white roses. He looked up, hot tears running down his face, soaking into his blond and gray trimmed beard. Yerik had so many grand plans for Vlad. His son was a strapping six foot five inches tall with blond hair and green eyes, just like himself. He’d taken strongly after him in every way. If only… oh, God, if only he hadn’t been killed in Peru! Pressing his hand against his black topcoat where his heart lay, Yerik sobbed openly. He had never cried as much as he did now. When Darya died giving birth to Vlad, he thought he’d cried more than was humanly possible. Now, with his strong, brave son gone, he’d cried his soul away in a river of unending tears that rose in him at the most inopportune moments.
He slowly struggled to his feet. At forty-nine years old, Yerik sometimes felt like he was in his seventies. Today was one of those days. He came to see his son every week, to speak to him, to tell him about what was going on. Resting his hand on the top of the smooth, gray granite, Yerik whispered, “I promise you, my son, I am going to find Sky Lambert.” He patted the gravestone as if he were patting Vlad’s cheek.
Turning, Yerik stood on top of a small knoll in the cemetery outside Brooklyn. The island of Manhattan stood glittering in the distance. This was his turf. As the Russian Mafia leader, he should feel pride. Since Vlad’s death, he’d felt nothing but pulverizing grief. But now, rage was rising in him, and he swore on Vlad’s grave to fulfill his son’s dream.
Grimly, he pushed his hand across his beard and noted his two bodyguards standing nearby, looking around for any threat. As a mafia chief, his life was always at risk. His men were ex-Spetsnaz black ops. Oleg, who was six-foot one inch tall with black hair and blue eyes, stood a few feet away. Beneath his long black wool coat was an assault rifle. To his left was Pyotr, six foot three inches tall, two hundred pounds of mean muscle. He was further down the hill, carefully watching for any unusual movements. His driver, Vadim, a blond-haired blue-eyed operator, stood watching around him as well. These men were the blackest of the black ops. They were killers who enjoyed killing. And they had sworn their loyalty and their lives to him.
Moving down the hill, Oleg joined him at his side.
“There is a call from your source,” he said quietly. “He said it was about that woman, Sky Lambert.”
Yerik’s eyes lit up. He took the cell that Oleg handed him. Maybe an answer to his prayer? He hoped so. His source came from the Russian ambassador’s residence in New York City. Yerik often did business with this mole. No one knew he worked for him and that’s the way it would be kept.
“Helge, my old friend,” he greeted as he walked down to the black limousine, “you called?”
“Yes. I have an address for you. It is where Sky Lambert is staying.”
Yerik hesitated, focused. “You found her?”
“Yes, by a great deal of sifting and moving quietly,” Helge said, talking in a low tone into the cheap burner phone. He gave him the address.
“What else do we know?” Yerik demanded, committing the address to memory. In their business, emails and phone calls must remain untraceable.
“Nothing, so far.”
Nostrils flaring, Yerik said, “I will find out. Thank you. As usual, you can expect a sum of money to appear in your offshore account for your fine work.”
Yerik felt like yelling triumphantly. Instead, he kept his poker face on and entered the car. Vadim shut the door and climbed in. Pyotr rode in front. Oleg, in back with him. On the way into Manhattan, Yerik made several phone calls. He would find out more about where Sky Lambert was hiding. A feeling of glee flowed through Yerik. At last, months of hard work, and a lot of money spent, had paid off. Now he knew where his son’s wife-to-be was at. It was only a matter of time until he had her.
Lauren dropped Sky off at her home after finishing the mid-afternoon appetizer. Before she could get her Jeep Wrangler in gear, Alex Kazak appeared almost magically at the driver’s side door. She had the window down, her arm resting on the frame. Instantly Lauren scowled at him. The man was sweating, somewhat out of breath. This afternoon, he was wearing an olive-green t-shirt across the massive expanse of his chest, black cargo pants, and black combat boots. He wore a harness around his waist that contained two quarts of water and probably some protein bars, she guessed. He’d been running hard. Most likely a daily discipline in his life, like it was in hers. Lauren ran five miles a day with a fifty-pound pack on her back to stay in shape for the demands of her job.
