Dead Reckoning: to navigate by deduction

through knowledge of current position,

speed, and heading.

Chapter One

The howl of Hurricane Igor followed Kellee O’Neal into her second story Panama City apartment—the warning from the car radio replaying in her mind like a klaxon. She closed the door against the wind and noise, and hurried to the bedroom to find her overnight bag.

She should’ve left the stakeout much sooner. And would have left sooner, had the subject not pulled into his alleged mistress’s garage just as she was putting her camera away. Getting those photos was important—to the client and to Kellee’s new career.

She smiled as she laid her camera next to the bag, pleased with the success of her first assignment. The pictures were proof the client’s husband was cheating. Well, maybe not definitive evidence of unfaithfulness, but after a week of trailing the target, Kellee had finally photographed the man entering and leaving a house that was not his. Probably making sure his lady friend was safe from the impending storm when he should have been home taking care of his family.

After stuffing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt inside the duffel, she put her camera on top, and zipped the bag shut—ready to head out the door. Thank goodness her mother, God rest her soul, had taught her how to travel light. In fact, since moving from Washington, D.C., two weeks ago, Kellee’d been living out of boxes, more concerned about the new job with Collins Services than settling into her new digs.

Satisfaction from a job well done took the chill out of this blustery day. She was good at this kind of work, and she liked it. This step was the first of many toward solidifying her career choice.

So far, the biggest danger she’d come up against was a hurricane. She was relieved to have gotten through the streets and back to her apartment before the storm hit for real. There wasn’t enough time to evacuate from the city, but she’d make it to the closest community shelter about four miles inland from her apartment building.

Grabbing her bag, she’d turned to leave the bedroom when a loud pounding sounded on the apartment door. Who, besides herself, or a cheating husband, was fool enough not to have evacuated the surge zone?

Turning out the lights, she hurried into the living room and frowned at the black sky beyond her front window. Maybe her visitor was the landlord coming to board up the window. Better late than never. If this little place survived the storm, she’d definitely consider making it a more permanent home.

The pounding came again, louder this time. “Hold on, I’m coming.” She dropped her overnight bag beside a small table next to the door and turned the handle.

The door flew open with a rush of wind, knocking her against the wall. Pain shot through her shoulder as she struggled to regain her balance. “Whoa! That is some wind.” Pushing away from the wall, she fought to capture the door and hold it still. As she stepped back in the doorway, a hulking, leather-clad man entered across the threshold. Once inside, he grabbed the door and slammed it closed, blocking out the storm.

The man heaved a sigh as he shook rain off his jacket. “Terrible weather.” His voice rumbled from the depths of his boots, and he stared at the streams running down the window. He muttered something in a language she didn’t understand before facing her. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, making a jagged scar along his cheek stand out. The smile, if she could call it that, looked rarely used. This man wasn’t the landlord.

“Who are you?” Kellee backed away and bumped into the little table, nearly tipping over the lamp. Light wavered, casting eerie shadows across the apartment’s gloomy living room.

The man took a step toward her on thick legs. The scent of body odor, tobacco, and damp leather wafted around him. He glanced at an object in his palm, then squinted at her with black, narrowed eyes before tucking the item into his pocket.

Her heart thudded against her ribs. She backed up to the wall under his bald assessment. “Who are you?” she asked again. “What do you want?” She hated that her questions came out in a choked whisper.

He smiled again. “Forgive my manners, Katya. I was afraid I would not find you before this storm hit. My name is Petre. I come to take you to your father.”

She frowned at his thick accent. Having inherited an ear for languages from both parents, she guessed Petre came from somewhere in Eastern Europe. Relieved that he wasn’t one of her employer’s case-gone-wrong clients who had somehow tracked her down, she eased away from the wall. This man was simply in the wrong place, looking for someone else. Her heart resumed a less frantic pace.

“My name isn’t Katya, but maybe she had this apartment before me. I’ve only lived here a couple of weeks.” Kellee gestured toward the window, where the storm was visibly growing in strength. “This area’s being evacuated. The person you’re looking for is probably at one of the centers. I’m leaving to go there now. You can follow me if you’d like.” She reached down to pick up her bag.

This time, she braced for the wind as she opened the door, then stepped aside for Petre to leave first. Rain slanted inside the apartment and water pooled on the tiled floor. She gripped the knob tightly to keep the door from ripping out of her hand.

“I am not mistaken.” He scowled at her. “We do not go to evacuation center. You will come with me.”

The door only partially protected her. She shivered at the rain soaking into her clothes, but stood her ground. Although he spoke English, it was obviously not his first language, so she tried again more slowly. “Maybe you didn’t understand. I’m not Katya.” She motioned for him to leave. “If you need to find her, you don’t have much time. The storm is getting worse.”

“Stubborn girl.” He growled under his breath and yanked the bag from her hand. Clammy fingers locked around her arm. “Come now.”

Kellee’s insides turned cold. “Let go.” What was wrong with this guy? Couldn’t he see he had the wrong person? She jerked her arm but couldn’t break free. “I said, let me go!”

He started to pull her through the door. Confusion and panic crowded her vision. She swallowed a scream. Was he really trying to kidnap her? She wedged her feet against the threshold to keep him from dragging her outside. “My name is Kellee O’Neal,” she said between clenched teeth. “You have the wrong person.”

A frown crossed his face. He pushed her back inside and closed the door. “I understand why you resist. It is not good for you to be afraid. I will show you something to make it better.” He dropped her bag, reached into his jacket pocket, and brought out a photograph. “Look.”

Even though his grip wasn’t as tight, she still couldn’t pull free. Glancing down at the hand clamped on her arm, she spied crude tattoos of crosses, stars, and Cyrillic letters across the back of his fingers. A sick feeling hardened in her stomach. She’d seen pictures of similar tattoos while working on the files in her father’s private security office back in Washington, D.C.

The tattoos resembled those worn by Russian Mafia.

Not good. No way had her father sent this man. She had to get him to leave—convince him she was not the person he wanted. Time was running out with the storm bearing down on them.

Pretending to cooperate, she looked at his photograph. The black-and-white picture appeared twenty, maybe thirty years old. Despite the crease through the middle, the image clearly showed a woman with high cheekbones and exotic eyes laughing into the camera. Her long, dark hair fluttered in a breeze. It seemed the photographer had captured the carefree moment with a loving touch.

Something about the woman’s smile looked familiar. Then Kellee realized her own features bore an uncanny resemblance to the woman in the picture.

“You see, Katya?” Petre waved the picture in her face. “Dis is Yelena, your real mother. Nikolai Orlov, your real father, took this picture. I work for him. He wishes to see you.” He tugged on her arm and started once more toward the door. “We go now.”

“That’s not my mother.” Photographs could be manipulated. “My mother’s dead.” She touched the chain around her neck that held the pendant her mother had given her. It was still there, hidden under her blouse. The reassurance she always felt when she touched the keepsake gave her the calm she sought.

“My name is not Katya,” she repeated. “My father’s name is Byron O’Neal. I’ll show you my ID.” She dug her phone wallet out of the pocket of her shorts and handed it to Petre.

He opened it and looked at the photo on her driver’s license. Then he glanced at the old black and white. The scar on his face curved in his almost-smile. “You are Katya Orlov. See?” He held the wallet next to the other picture for comparison.

The driver’s license photo was awful. Even so, Kellee couldn’t deny the similarities between the two photos, but that still didn’t prove anything.

“No.” She jerked both the wallet and photo out of Petre’s hand and tossed them away. The wallet flew across the room, but the lighter photo floated to the floor and landed by his feet.

Petre grunted and bent to retrieve the picture. As he did, his grip loosened.

Kellee took the opportunity to slip free. Putting distance between her and the would-be kidnapper, she ran into her bedroom and locked the door.

The flimsy door wouldn’t keep him out for long and the token lock was a joke. She looked around the room for something to brace against the door and spotted the futon mattress she’d purchased last week. That wouldn’t work, either. Instead, she leaned on the door, realizing her hundred and twenty pounds was no match for any real assault.

Petre’s thunderous pounding vibrated the thin wood. “Come out, Katya.”

“You’ve got the wrong person,” Kellee shouted. “Please leave!”

The door handle rattled, then the pounding started again.

Kellee leaned harder against the door. As suddenly as it started, the pounding stopped. She eased back slightly. Maybe he’d realized his mistake and had given up. Then the door burst open, splintering the frame at the lock and hinges. The force of Petre’s entry knocked her to the carpet.

His bulk blocked the faint light from the lamp in the other room, yet she could make out his determined expression. “I guess we do the hard way.” His hand slipped into his jacket and came out holding a knife. When he flicked it open, a six-inch blade caught a glint of dim light.

Hot and cold flushed across her skin.

“Come, dyevushka.” His voice was almost apologetic. He gestured to the knife. “No one has to get hurt. I only wish to bring you to your father.”

Petre might not want to kill her, but she had no doubt he’d cut her if she didn’t cooperate. “Get out!” She scooted backward and stumbled into the futon.

“Nyet.” He stepped closer and stooped over to grab her.

Kellee ducked under his outstretched arm and scrambled on all fours to get away. She was almost out of his reach when he pivoted with cat-like reflexes that seemed unnatural for a man his size.

He caught the back of her shirt, stopping her escape. One pull of his massive arm brought her to her feet. His arm snaked around her, but Kellee spun the opposite way until she was free.

He let out a guttural growl.

She didn’t need to understand his language to recognize a curse.

He turned to face her. “You are wildcat!” he said, thrusting the knife toward her.

Taking advantage of his momentum, Kellee applied an Aikido technique by guiding his knife hand forward and twisting his wrist in a quick reversal to disarm him. Unfortunately, his grip was too strong. His muscular body never slowed.

Instead of pointing harmlessly to the side, the knife shifted to a lethal angle. The blade plunged into his stomach. The sensation of flesh giving way to the weapon was nauseating. She released his hand and the knife, shocked that the disarming technique had turned deadly.

Petre grunted, backpedaled, and looked down in surprise at the hilt protruding from his middle. “You bitch!” He raged. Blood soaked into his black shirt and coated his hands where he clutched the wound.

Kellee’s stomach heaved in response, and she swallowed rising bile. What had she done? In all her years of training, she’d never had to use the techniques against a real attacker. “I didn’t mean to—”

He pulled the knife free, coughed once, and then rolled his shoulders.

She backed out of the bedroom.

Petre came at her again, like some inhuman machine.

She hesitated too long before turning to run. He grabbed her hair and yanked her against his chest. Twisting, she inadvertently tangled his fingers into strands of her hair. Better to lose some hair, than her life. Except he didn’t release her. His other arm slid around her neck and the knife’s sharp edge nicked tender flesh just below her ear. The cut stung like a wasp bite.

“‘Dis is a sample of how it feels, Katya.” His mouth brushed her cheek as he spoke. Hot tobacco breath washed across her face. “Do not make me hurt you more.”

Everything inside screamed to resist. She struggled to slow her ragged breathing since the blade still rested on her throat. If he cut deeper, she’d bleed out.

Calm down. Let him think you’re giving in. “This Nikolai, umm, my father…he must want me alive.” Her voice rasped, barely audible under his chokehold.

“Da,” Petre agreed. “But he did not say you must be conscious when I deliver you. I think maybe you are too much trouble to leave awake.”

His forearm tightened around her throat. Gasping for air, she pulled and scratched at his leather-clad arm. She was no match for his height and strength. He could hold the choke until she blacked out, then tie her up and take her wherever he wanted.

Her head felt ready to explode. A dark, ugly fear filled her mind. She was going die. Her family…her real father, didn’t even know where she lived. Their last words to each other had been in anger. Not once had she phoned to tell him she was sorry—or that she’d finally succeeded in her new job.

Petre’s hold was relentless. Her throat burned. She struggled with the little strength she had left. In response, his hold tightened. Warm blood from his wound soaked into her shirt, plastering it against her back. Gray spots swirled in front of her eyes, but she couldn’t give up. Giving up meant death.

With one last effort, she threw herself into his huge body, hoping the knife wound had weakened him. He grunted, but his hold didn’t change. Her vision blurred and blackness closed in.

Then, she felt his knees buckle. A spark of hope glittered inside her. He started to sag atop her. Realizing he was falling the wrong way, she tried to spin free, but he toppled heavily, taking her with him. Her head struck the wall—fireworks exploded behind her eyes. As they crashed to the floor, his choking arm fell away, but his weight pushed the air from her lungs.

****

Kellee came to with a deafening roar in her ears. She tried to shake the muzziness from her brain and sit up. Something—no—someone pinned her down. The overwhelming stench of body odor left her gasping and magnified the horrendous pounding in her head.

She tried to remember where she was, what had happened. Then, like a fractured movie reel, events rolled through her mind.

The muscular, leather-clad man. The knife!

But she was still alive. A sob escaped.

Stay calm—Dad would admonish her—stay focused. Except her father had sent this man.

No, that wasn’t right. Katya’s father had sent Petre. And Kellee had killed him. Another sob broke free.

What if Katya had been waiting for Petre? Had Kellee saved her look-alike from being kidnapped? Or was Katya stranded somewhere in the hurricane, and Kellee had just destroyed the girl’s chance to reunite with her father?

No. Kellee wouldn’t go there. That goon wasn’t anyone’s hero. She squeezed her eyes shut—tried to settle down—using breathing exercises she hadn’t practiced since leaving the dead-end assistant’s job at her father’s security agency.

Five counts in—five counts out. In… Out…

The panic eased a little, and she turned her attention to escaping Petre’s dead weight. Arching her back, she tried to push off from her stomach, but he barely budged. Trying another tactic, she began creeping along the carpet. Her knees and elbows burned from the friction. For every two inches of progress, his body dragged along an inch.

The lights in the apartment living room flickered, then went out. A faint illumination came from the glow of a battery-powered clock perched on the table beside the front door. The roaring tempest grew louder. The temperature in the apartment had dropped. For a moment, Kellee didn’t understand why, until she saw the flimsy curtains tangled in a tree limb that protruded through her broken front window. The hurricane had grown much worse during the time she’d been blacked out.

Focusing on the clock light, she buried her fear of the dark, and concentrated on a single objective.

Escape.

Another scent mingled with Petre’s body’s odor, and permeated the air so thick she could almost taste it. The smell of blood made her gag, but she refused to throw up. Pressing upward, she finally freed her legs. Once on her feet, she ran her hands along her body, feeling damp stickiness on her clothes. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw the black smear on her hands. Petre’s blood. Holding her breath, she waited. Watched. He didn’t move.

Dashing to the table, she noticed the time on the clock. At least thirty minutes had passed since Petre had burst into her apartment. She reached for her phone wallet, then remembered she’d tossed it somewhere across the room. With no power and no lights, she’d never find her wallet. Her shoulders sagged. A relentless voice in her head shouted for her to get away. Find someone to help her.

She stopped short of opening the door. Wind shrieked through the apartment. The storm had worsened. Did she still have time to make it to the evacuation center for help? Going outside now seemed insane, but she didn’t want to stay here with a dead man, either.

A hand grabbed her ankle. Her stomach clenched in terror. Looking down, she made out the white of one malevolent eye glaring at her. Petre was still alive and had dragged himself across the apartment to get her.

“Katya.” A guttural growl rumbled in his throat. His face was set with ugly resolve.

“No! Get away from me!” She kicked his arm with her other foot until he let go and his head dropped limply to the floor. Gasping for breath, she backed against the door. The storm might be deadly, but staying inside with a killer was suicide.

She groped for the handle. The wind tore the door out of her grasp and banged it against the wall. Rain whipped inside and immediately drenched her shirt and shorts. Without a second thought, she stepped into the storm. A furious gust stole her breath as an otherworldly shriek pierced the night.

The wind. Only the wind.

The reassurance didn’t quell her racing heart or ease a sickening dread jelling in her middle. She had to face the hurricane head-on with no protection.

Shoving her fear aside, she lowered her chin and headed down the stairway. Her running shoes skidded on the wet, slippery concrete. She grabbed the wrought iron railing in time to prevent a tumble to the ground below.

Wind clawed at her blouse, lifting it away from her body, exposing her to the storm. She reached the ground level, ran to her car. No keys. They were still in the apartment, with all her other possessions. She glanced at the door. She wasn’t returning—not with that man still there…waiting.

If she couldn’t go back or take the car, she needed to find shelter. Now.

The gale roared like an out-of-control locomotive through the narrow breezeway between her apartment building and the one next to it. She ran from door to door, pounding, testing locks, shouting for someone to let her in.

No one answered. Everyone had evacuated, exactly as they were supposed to. All the doors remained secure—deaf barriers to safety.

She was alone. Saturated to the skin and barely standing. And out of options. Looking up at the dark stairway to the apartment, she wondered if Petre had given up. Unwilling to take the chance that he’d follow, she opted for more distance.

The apartment complex’s laundry room was about twenty yards away. It shouldn’t be locked and might offer temporary sanctuary. Not wasting any more time, she shielded her face, leaned into the wind and ran for all she was worth.

Rain surged in sheets of opaque gray against the waning light. Her shorts pasted against her legs like a second skin. The cutting water pelted her until, mercifully, her exposed flesh grew numb.

Over the wail of the storm, she thought she heard her name. She spared a glance behind her. No one followed. Only trash, broken tree limbs, and other debris tumbled through the passages between the buildings.

Once she turned the corner toward the laundry room, the wind eased a little. The adrenaline that had spiked during her escape began to seep away. Her legs trembled from the strain of running, and constant shivering racked her body. She’d only gone a few more steps when an ominous sound rumbled ahead. Squinting into the night, she saw a wall of foaming water plowing straight at her.

“No!” She cursed between clenched teeth. Changing direction, she sprinted for another stairwell. With luck, the second-story platform would be high enough to avoid being swallowed by the surge.

As she reached the stairs, churning water gushed under her feet. She braced herself along the wrought iron handrail as the current’s force stopped her from moving forward. Water rose to her ankles, then her knees. In desperation, she leapt for the top landing that would put her above the flood.

And missed.

With flailing arms, she grabbed the railing. Her body jerked to a sudden stop and her head whiplashed, striking the sharp corner on the concrete landing.

Then the world went silent.