Thirty-One

“Change of plan?” I mutter to myself. “What the hell!”

We had discussed the plan over a dozen times and agreed that Pinch was to accompany me into the building to make sure I didn’t get my ass shot off.

Now I was on my own and having second thoughts about not involving Frank. Of course, he would have been thrilled with that conversation: “You think a friend of yours is being held captive by Russian mobsters. And based on a tip from a back-street bookie, you want me to get a SWAT team and execute a search warrant?”

Despite his great fondness for me, there’s only so much rope Frank is willing to wind out. At least Pinch, until he deserted me, hadn’t questioned my twisted logic.

I study the gun: Italian-made Beretta 92FS semi-automatic with a non-reflective black finish. I eject the magazine and count fifteen rounds of 124-grain 9mm jacketed hollow-point. It’s a nice gun—not as comforting as my own, which Pinch told me to leave at home—but solid and reliable. I just hope I don’t need to use it.

After double-checking the safety, I slip the gun into the rear waistband of my jeans and move to the corner of the building opposite the one where Bailey is being held. I work on my breathing as I wait, trying to slow each inhale as though I’m running a marathon or swimming laps in a pool. My lungs convulse, fighting me, wanting to race like greyhounds with an electric rabbit in their sights.

Across the street, a broad-shouldered man with distinct five o’clock stubble and nicotine-fueled eyes steps out of the doorway and lights a cigarette. His gaze takes in the breadth of the street—mentally ticking off the junkies, whores, welfare bums, and storeowners that he knows on sight—before heading north for a casual stroll. If he’s bored, he isn’t showing it. Every muscle moves like a coiled spring.

I wait two heartbeats before stepping out of the shadows and crossing the road. Out the corner of my eye, I notice the guard turn his head to check me out. I’m dressed casually in dark jeans, leather boots, loose T-shirt, and my long green trenchcoat.

I don’t hold his interest for long, especially when the wrestlers turn the corner ahead of him.

Bulldog’s boys are boisterous, pushing and shoving each other as they fight over a glass jug of Tennessee whiskey. I watch the guard’s pace falter as he takes in the collective size of the encroaching group.

I reach the doorway but freeze in place when the guard suddenly swivels back toward me, a silent alarm tripped somewhere in his brain. Time slows and my panic rises when he tosses his cigarette aside. I watch it spin and spark as it bounces into the gutter.

When our eyes meet, I sense recognition, and wonder if Lebed has warned him about me. But how could the Red Swan possibly believe I would attempt this when even I think it’s crazy?

The guard’s right hand reaches inside his jacket, but whether to grab a phone or a gun, I’ll never know, because in the same instant the gang of rowdy wrestlers swallows him whole.

I immediately push through the door and head up the stairs.

Nobody blocks my way to the first landing and I waste no time in rounding the bend and moving swiftly to the second. This is all part of Lebed’s plan, I remind myself to keep my confidence in check. Lebed wants Joe to make it to the third floor.

It’s getting back out that’ll be the problem.

As I round the second floor on my way to the third, I hear a steel bolt sliding back from one of the closed doors on either side of the stairwell.

I don’t stop to look. That’ll come later.

On the third floor, I stop on the landing to catch my breath. There are four doors to choose from, but the guard has made it easy by leaving one of them slightly ajar.

Sweat beads on my scalp, pools under my arms, and runs between my breasts. I smell my own fear leaching from my pores. It’s sour and unpleasant.

As soon as I go through that door, everything changes. Does Lebed want a dead journalist on his hands? I’m betting heavily that he doesn’t. But even if that’s the case, has he told his team of hired thugs in the room above?

You should have thought of that before you came this far, says an inner voice with such sarcastic clarity that I almost look around to see who’s spoken.

“Shit!” I curse under my breath and move closer to the door. “Now or never, Dixie,” I tell myself.

Now or never.

I push open the door and vanish inside.