Christ, he hated himself right now. Gabe immediately turned off the recorder, got out of his chair, and knelt in front of her. He folded her hands in his and said gently, “Hey, we’re done, okay?”
“I’m sorry if I can’t provide anything useful,” she sniffed. “It’s just that they kept me drugged up most of the time.”
“We got a sketch of one of the guys who abducted you, that’s something,” Gabe said. Not to mention Rhino had mangled his arm.
“What are we doing next?”
“I doubt the guy Rhino injured has sought medical attention in area hospitals, but it’s worth checking out. I’ll callaround.” Gabe looked at her. “Do you mind hanging around DC for a while or do you want me to take you back to the safe house?”
“You can drop me off at BSI if you’ve got stuff to do. I’ll be safe there.”
Gabe rose from his crouch and sat on the table. “Who’s usually at BSI at this time?”
“Close to lunch? Probably, Emily. Sometimes Travis is around,” Beatrice said.
“I don’t want to leave you without a bodyguard. Didn’t Travis mention this guy Sam Harper?”
“Travis called me this morning. Sam can start tomorrow. Let me call Em and see who’s at the office.”
Gabe nodded. He hadn’t worked security in a team in a while. Being an assassin, he worked alone, only using intel he acquired from Crowe. Remembering his former partner reminded him that Ryker’s link to Crowe had yet to be investigated. Judging from the debrief, Beatrice’s abductors had intimate knowledge of Dmitry Yerzov’s kill roll and methods, but it seemed they didn’t know about the fallacy regarding his Angel of Death reputation. Even as Dmitry, Gabe had maintained a strictly professional relationship with Belov/Crowe. Gabe called someone else when it had to do with switching his young victims with corpses. Porter preferred this decentralized system of clandestine work.
“Em said Ed will be at the office,” Beatrice said after she ended her call.
“Ed Shephard, right?”
“Yes. Em’s husband.”
“Fine,” Gabe muttered. He still didn’t like being away from her, but he couldn’t do his own investigation if he didn’t get himself out there.
After leavingBeatrice at the BSI office, Gabe met a mutual acquaintance he had with Ryker. The man was a fixer—a specialist in the fabrication of assumed identities. Alphabet agencies, including the CIA, used the fixer for clandestine operations that were politically sensitive and strictly off the record.
The fixer was reluctant at first to reveal his dealings with Ryker, but since Ryker was dead and apparently owed the guy ten-grand for some falsified documents, it didn’t take long to get some actionable intel—a drop-off place for said documents.
Money talked.
Gabe paid him five grand for the lead, which was more than the man was ever going to get back.
So now, he was back in the Cloverleaf District. Steve Ryker was known as Vladimir Volkov around these parts. That was why the Iron Skulls said he was Russian.
He pulled his Silverado in front of a rundown dry cleaners in a relatively isolated area. These types of businesses were so clichéd as fronts for organized crime, but realistically, still common.
The bell chimed when he pushed open the door. A young Latino man came to the counter, eyes widening as he caught sight of Gabe.
The man was going to run.
The Latino guy turned and sprinted into a back room. Cursing under his breath, Gabe drew his 9mm, jumped over the counter, and ran after him. When he reached the entrance to the room, he leaned past the frame and quickly pulled back when he saw a gun. A shot fired past him. Gabe immediately crouched, thanking his instincts as another bullet punched a hole where his head would have been. He didn’t think Beatrice would appreciate him missing another piece of his skull. He leaned past the door jamb again and squeezed the trigger. He heard a grunt followed by a thud on the floor. Gabe didn’twaste any time getting to the Latino man who was writhing on the floor and clutching his leg. He straddled the man and pointed the muzzle of his gun to his head.
“Volkov. You know where he lived?”
“He’s dead, man.”
“I know that, dickhead,” Gabe snarled. “I said lived. Where did he stay?”
The guy’s mouth clamped shut. Gabe’s fingers tightened around the man’s neck as he jabbed the tip of his 9mm into the Latino guy’s wound.
The man yelled in agony. “Upstairs!”
“You better not be lying.” Gabe hauled the guy up and pushed him toward the stairs. On their way to the floor above, he asked. “Why did you run? Do you know me?”