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Authors: Richard Doetsch
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before him. The address was in Boston, a foreign land to Michael: 22 Franklin Street held no meaning. To a Yankee fan, it was the land of the enemy. He had only been up to the New England city a handful of times, preferring Cape Cod, a place that had held special meaning for him and Mary, a place to run to for their weekend escapes.
Michael’s mind was a swirl of confusion as he thought on the single business card. It was no coincidence that it matched the address that Mary had given him, the ticking of the grandfather clock at four a.m. driving home the point.
Michael picked up his glass, downed his Jack Daniel’s, and immediately snatched up the bottle for a refill. His mind was a jumble as he ran the past four hours over again, so sure that he was missing something, so sure that a simple clue eluded him. Then it hit him.
His mind was so consumed with the card, he had forgotten about the water-soaked purse. He picked it up and laid it on the coffee table. It was simple, tan leather with a brass clasp and woven strap. He triple-checked every empty pocket and seam and realized it was the deviation from the typical that underscored the significance of the single item found within. There were no personal effects, none of the usual female accoutrements, grooming or otherwise, that clutter a female bag. It was empty but for the business card the water had not managed to wash away.
And then a chill raced up Michael’s spine and grabbed hold of his mind. He stepped back and looked at the purse again. He was not captivated by the design of the purse, nor the card that was found inside; a truth of recognition percolated to the surface.
There was no question in Michael’s mind—he had seen this purse before.
Chapter 8
I lya Raechen was at the Delaware Bridge when he finally exhaled. He had driven the Chevy Suburban with tinted windows the last four hours without so much as a whisper or touch of the radio dial. He flew down the Jersey Turnpike, happy for the EZ-Pass convenience of avoiding a toll clerk; the less people who saw him the better. It was so cliché to be riding with a victim bound and gagged in the rear cargo space, but he had had no choice. Vans and panel trucks drew attention in this post-9/11 age and he couldn’t hide behind his Russian diplomatic credentials if he was pulled over. Not too many excuses for riding around with a trussed-up woman in the back of your vehicle.
For all his life, Raechen had told his son, “Don’t worry, Daddy will protect you, he will never let anything happen to you.” It was a promise that every parent made to their child, it was a promise that every child believed. And it was a promise that Raechen wasn’t living up to as he watched his son slipping away, wasted by disease. But things were changing, hope would be reborn for not only his son but for himself. No more broken promises—he would save his son no matter the cost.
He had waited until five-thirty in the morning before leaving the motel. The lights were dimmed and the parking lot was empty; never much traffic at dawn. He loaded both pistols, sliding them in his waistband at the small of his back. He hadn’t fired his Glocks in seven years, since he retired from the field to start a family. Raechen prayed before entering the Suburban that the day ahead wouldn’t break that streak.
As he crossed the border into Delaware, he picked up his cell phone and called for the plane. It would be fueled and ready at a small airstrip in rural Maryland, diplomatic clearance processed for a smooth exit from the country. Raechen would accompany Genevieve and personally deliver her not out of loyalty or pride; he would do it to ensure payment, to obtain the treatment that his son so desperately needed. He was counting on them, but more importantly, his son was counting on him.
Chapter 9
T he loft was a big boys’ playground, a private room upstairs in Valhalla. Busch designed it to his exact
Michael’s mind was a swirl of confusion as he thought on the single business card. It was no coincidence that it matched the address that Mary had given him, the ticking of the grandfather clock at four a.m. driving home the point.
Michael picked up his glass, downed his Jack Daniel’s, and immediately snatched up the bottle for a refill. His mind was a jumble as he ran the past four hours over again, so sure that he was missing something, so sure that a simple clue eluded him. Then it hit him.
His mind was so consumed with the card, he had forgotten about the water-soaked purse. He picked it up and laid it on the coffee table. It was simple, tan leather with a brass clasp and woven strap. He triple-checked every empty pocket and seam and realized it was the deviation from the typical that underscored the significance of the single item found within. There were no personal effects, none of the usual female accoutrements, grooming or otherwise, that clutter a female bag. It was empty but for the business card the water had not managed to wash away.
And then a chill raced up Michael’s spine and grabbed hold of his mind. He stepped back and looked at the purse again. He was not captivated by the design of the purse, nor the card that was found inside; a truth of recognition percolated to the surface.
There was no question in Michael’s mind—he had seen this purse before.
Chapter 8
I lya Raechen was at the Delaware Bridge when he finally exhaled. He had driven the Chevy Suburban with tinted windows the last four hours without so much as a whisper or touch of the radio dial. He flew down the Jersey Turnpike, happy for the EZ-Pass convenience of avoiding a toll clerk; the less people who saw him the better. It was so cliché to be riding with a victim bound and gagged in the rear cargo space, but he had had no choice. Vans and panel trucks drew attention in this post-9/11 age and he couldn’t hide behind his Russian diplomatic credentials if he was pulled over. Not too many excuses for riding around with a trussed-up woman in the back of your vehicle.
For all his life, Raechen had told his son, “Don’t worry, Daddy will protect you, he will never let anything happen to you.” It was a promise that every parent made to their child, it was a promise that every child believed. And it was a promise that Raechen wasn’t living up to as he watched his son slipping away, wasted by disease. But things were changing, hope would be reborn for not only his son but for himself. No more broken promises—he would save his son no matter the cost.
He had waited until five-thirty in the morning before leaving the motel. The lights were dimmed and the parking lot was empty; never much traffic at dawn. He loaded both pistols, sliding them in his waistband at the small of his back. He hadn’t fired his Glocks in seven years, since he retired from the field to start a family. Raechen prayed before entering the Suburban that the day ahead wouldn’t break that streak.
As he crossed the border into Delaware, he picked up his cell phone and called for the plane. It would be fueled and ready at a small airstrip in rural Maryland, diplomatic clearance processed for a smooth exit from the country. Raechen would accompany Genevieve and personally deliver her not out of loyalty or pride; he would do it to ensure payment, to obtain the treatment that his son so desperately needed. He was counting on them, but more importantly, his son was counting on him.
Chapter 9
T he loft was a big boys’ playground, a private room upstairs in Valhalla. Busch designed it to his exact
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