The Bodyguard Contract Read online

  “She’s fine. Nothing that a few bandages couldn’t solve. You should have that chair checked, though.”

  “We did.” Novak’s eyes glinted. “But Bernard found nothing.”

  “Really?” Ian lifted an eyebrow. “You sure he had the right chair?”

  LARA HEADED FOR the main door of the casino. She glanced at her watch. Just past noon. Lara figured that gave her less than three hours to find the antidote.

  Time was ticking. But what she’d done last night, she wouldn’t take back. If they had only that night then so be it. Her heart squeezed just a little. Ian was going to be part of their child’s life whether she wanted him there or not. The trouble is she wanted him there. Too much.

  “Miss Mercer.” Lara swung around and saw a man, midthirties, with a small neat mustache and wearing the standard black suit. “Yes?”

  “I’m Maurice, the hotel concierge.” He pointed to the front entrance. “There are several reporters outside waiting for you.”

  Lara glanced through the French doors. “Maurice, would it be possible to have Mr. MacAlister’s Hummer brought around to the employees’ entrance?”

  “Yes, mademoiselle.”

  Since becoming the Vice President’s daughter, she’d had her fair share of interviews. However, Lara had always done a good job of keeping her answers geared to the political, not the personal.

  Lara slipped the concierge some money. “Discreetly? They’re probably watching his car.”

  “I’ve had experience, Miss Mercer.” Maurice smiled. “If you’ll follow me, we can leave through the kitchen.”

  “Of, course—” A flash of black caught her eyes. She looked, but the features blurred through the etched windows. “I’ll meet you there, Maurice.”

  Quickly, Lara stepped outside.

  Flashbulbs sparked, microphones appeared in bouquets. Most of them shoved mere inches from her face.

  “Miss Mercer, is it true you’re pregnant?”

  “Is the baby’s father Ian MacAlister?”

  “How far along are you?”

  “Miss Mercer, what did your father say when you told him you were pregnant with his first grandchild?”

  “Miss Mercer, where’s Mr. MacAlister?”

  “Are you planning on getting married?”

  “Look, guys.” Lara held her hand up, stopping the influx of questions. “You’re not going to get a story today. So be patient and keep watching from the sidelines for a while. Then when the time is right, I’ll answer your questions.” Her eyes scanned the crowd, checking features.

  “Miss Mercer?”

  Lara stopped, her eyes homed in on a woman reporter.

  She wore a slim-fitting suit. A crisp, light vanilla number that showed a tad more thigh and cleavage than most on camera, but in no way sacrificed her professional appeal. Now free from the band, her hair hung straight, like a black sheet of silk that stopped just inches past a tight, determined jaw.

  The baby, Lara noted, had been replaced by a microphone. Still, Lara had no trouble recognizing the woman from the restroom. “You are?”

  “Sarah Kwong, Las Vegas Courier.” The slant of her almond green eyes deepened with caution, but still she stepped forward.

  Lara arched an eyebrow. “A little low using children, don’t you think, Ms. Kwong?”

  “Niece and nephew,” Sarah replied. “Call it fate. My sister was in another stall.” Her chin lifted, tempting Lara to knock it back down. “You’re not the type to hold grudges, I hope.”

  “Grudges? Sometimes.” Lara’s lips thinned. “I just haven’t decided if this is one of those times. Give me a month. Then give me a call,” she said, pleased when the other woman’s jaw went slack with shock.

  Lara turned on her heel and walked away.

  QUENTIN MACALISTER cherished three things in life. His family. The slow bite of a fine single malt whiskey. And poker.

  By the time Ian had turned double digits in age, he’d become his dad.

  “So, MacAlister…” asked a portly man, with a blotchy face and heavy jowls. “You like poker, eh?” Bogdon Kuznetsova tossed fifty thousand dollars into the middle of the table.

  “Yes.” Ian glanced at his cards. A pair of tens. “But there are many things I like more.” He paused and added his fifty to the growing pile of money in the middle of the table. “And less.”

  Everyone gave a perfunctory laugh, which did nothing to ease the tension-filled air.

  For the first hour, things remained typically quiet. But soon liquor and curiosity loosened the conversation.

  Over the last thirty or more years, Russian organized crime syndicates in America had jumped into overdrive. Growing at a steadier incline than most other organized syndicates, including the Italian and the Chinese.

  The fact that Ian seemed to be the only non-Russian, non-Mafia of the six sitting at the table, told him how much power Davidenko held with these men.

  “There are many things I like more, too,” said Orel Petrov, the player to Ian’s immediate left. A bull of a man with thick eyelids and a scar that slashed from the left corner of his mouth up to his temple. He was a known arms merchant and money launderer. Because of the scar, when he smiled, his lips curved into a lopsided sneer. “But that will come later, won’t it, Mikhail?” He raised the bet another fifty thousand, then leaned toward Ian. “Mikhail is known for his stable of working girls. Beautiful, accommodating and best of all, they don’t speak Russian.”

  “Nothing is worse than a woman who can speak Russian,” Sergei Uspensky responded, a meaty guy with a unibrow and a missing earlobe. He threw down his cards, disgusted. “I fold.”

  The last Ian heard, Uspensky was the Russian go-to guy for drug trafficking, white slavery and prostitution.

  “Why are Russian-speaking women so bad?” Ian asked, only because it was expected.

  “Russian is perfect for song, for poetry, even for opera. But not for anger,” Uspensky responded. “Too many comrades go deaf from screeching Russian wives.”

  The men laughed, huge booming shouts that reminded Ian of drunken sailors. Ian joined in, because that, too, was expected.

  “Anton, another drink. Pozhaluista.” Please.

  “Certainly, Mr. Toltov,” Novak answered. But Ian saw the slight hesitation before he took the offered glass.

  Ian glanced across the table. Vas Toltov, rumored the Godfather of the Russian Mafia, was a soft-spoken man. Older, almost eighty, with a frail build and sharp, bony features.

  Tolstov had massacred two families, simply because the eldest daughter of one had declined to date Toltov’s grandson. At the time, she’d been engaged to be married.

  Both families of the engaged couple died the night before the wedding. Fifteen people butchered in their homes.

  Novak, for the last two hours had watched the game from the bar. He smoked the occasional cigarette and ran interference when one of the men needed food or drink. Ian hadn’t seen any waitresses. Or other bodyguards, not even for the Russian guests. Only Alexei and Novak were present.

  A rule of Davidenko’s? Or a custom of the game?

  “I don’t think Ian has need for more beautiful women,” Davidenko commented. He folded his cards, then reached for the handful of chips he’d brought to the table. With one hand, he shuffled his chips with a practiced cadence. Boring, consistent. “He has a woman already.”

  “Who’s to say he can’t have more?” Petrov questioned.

  Good poker required a steady rhythm of bets, raises and folds. A good poker player never changed that rhythm.

  Davidenko was a good poker player.

  “I think his woman would,” Davidenko continued. “Especially since she might be pregnant.”

  Ian understood the statement. Fear crept down his back. Davidenko was letting Ian know he was aware of Ian’s Achilles’ heel. Ian smiled easily. “That’s the rumor.”

  “I call,” Toltov said, and tossed in his money. “Then the pregnancy is only a rumor, Ian?” Toltov asked
, his blue eyes keen with interest. “If it were fact, we would toast you and your new family.”

  Ian met the bet and called. For the past two hours, no great sums of money had been won by anyone. Small amounts had changed hands—enough that everyone at the table had touched the contaminated money.

  “I’m not in the market for a new family,” Ian replied with derision, letting them know that Lara didn’t mean anything to him.

  Uspensky, the designated dealer for this hand, flopped the first three cards. A seven, six and three. All different suits.

  “All in,” Petrov said with a leer. “That’s—” he counted his money “—four hundred and forty-five thousand to you,” he said to Toltov.

  Toltov vacillated, then threw in his cards. “I think you’re bluffing, but I don’t have anything strong enough to prove you don’t have a straight, comrade.”

  “Too much for me,” Kuznetsova wheezed. He folded his cards, leaned back and lit a cigar.

  Ian deliberately waited for a moment to make his bet. It was time to test the waters. “I call,” he said easily.

  Ian glanced at Petrov, saw the man blink. Gotcha. Without breaking his expression, Ian flipped over his cards. “A pair of tens.”

  Petrov stood. “You call me with a pair of tens!” He let out a stream of curse words. “I raise you four hundred thousand and you call me with a pair of tens. You think I don’t have the straight?”

  Ian leaned back, deliberately not saying a word.

  “He must think that or he wouldn’t have called you,” Toltov stated. “Lay your cards down, Orel.”

  Petrov threw down his cards. A jack and four—off suit. “All I need is a five for my straight. Or a jack to beat your pair,” he sneered.

  Ian said nothing.

  Uspensky turned the fourth card. “Two of spades. That gives you a pair, Orel.”

  Ian waited, calm. He’d watched these men for the past few hours, learned the Russian’s tells. Orel had been bluffing, and although the odds favored Ian, they both understood either could win.

  Uspensky flipped the last card. “Another eight. You both have two pair, but the ten-eights beat the eight-twos. The Scot wins, Orel.”

  Davidenko got up and patted Ian on the back. “Good hand, son.” Then he turned to Petrov. “If you want to play the next hand, Orel, stop swearing and put up more money. The boy beat you fair and square. We all knew you were bluffing.”

  Petrov scowled and Ian kept quiet. He didn’t touch the money.

  “Here, Mr. Petrov,” Novak offered smoothly and handed Orel a double shot of vodka. Orel looked at Ian, then grabbed the glass from Novak. He swallowed the liquor in one gulp, his eyes never leaving Ian’s.

  After a few moments, he slammed the glass onto the table. “Good call, MacAlister.” The big man raised his hand.

  “Thank you.” Ian nodded, shook the man’s hand, recognizing—in a span of a few seconds—he’d come close to dying.

  After, he pulled in his winnings.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Friday, 1200 hours, Noon

  St. Stan’s housed their priests behind the rectory in a small three-story adobe brick building that backed up to a narrow alley way.

  Lara didn’t have time for caution. So instead she parked the Hummer behind the building, against the residence’s back walk and directly below a second-story window.

  A dog barked from down the alley. On its heels came a cat’s screech and the rattle of metal garbage cans. After a quick glance, she climbed on the vehicle’s roof. She wrapped her jacket around the tire iron she’d grabbed earlier from the back of the Hummer. With one sharp jab, she broke the glass, cringed at the sharp echo, then scraped the jagged edges down to the window frame. Quickly, she threw the jacket on the sill, pushed back a mud-brown gingham curtain and hoisted herself in.

  Old lamps, television and couch decorated what looked to be a bedroom turned den. One wall contained a built-in bookcase. A montage of books and picture frames filled its shelves.

  Deliberately, she left her gun holstered, not wanting to take the chance on shooting an innocent. Lara opened the door, listening for movement before she stepped lightly into the hall.

  Five doors lined the hall, including the television room. Three bedrooms and one bathroom, Lara reasoned.

  She sidled up to the first and looked in. Top level stereo equipment took up one wall while compact discs of Bon Jovi and Def Leppard lay scattered on the bed. Not quite Father Xavier’s taste, she assumed, but definitely a priest she wanted to meet.

  The second bedroom, although orderly, contained very little. A maple dresser, matching desk and a twin bed covered with a textured white bedspread. With quick, long strides she walked to the dresser and opened the first drawer. On top of a neat stack of boxer shorts sat several prescription bottles.

  Lara read the labels. Erlotinib? Analgesics? A few more Lara didn’t recognize. All with Father Xavier’s name on the prescription.

  Cancer. Father Xavier had been dying of lung cancer.

  “No wonder you said it was too late,” she murmured. With a quiet efficiency, Lara finished searching that drawer, shoving back the stray socks and handkerchiefs, before moving on to the others.

  After the last one proved unsuccessful, Lara stood and surveyed the room. “Okay, Father, what did you do with the Katts Smeart?”

  Lara didn’t expect to actually find the formula in the bedroom, but she’d hoped to find a clue as to where he’d hidden it. A safe deposit key, a note, a business card.

  A business card. Lara opened the closet door. Several suits lined a four-foot pole. From dark priest garb to everyday casual suits and pants.

  Lara started with the casual items, systematically searching the pockets and seams.

  Nothing.

  The scent of mothballs and cedar tickled her nose. Irritated, Lara rubbed it, then brushed the hair back from her forehead. What was it with older people and moth—

  Lara froze. Cedar. Where did the cedar come from? She ran her hand over the shelf above. Empty.

  She glanced down and didn’t see any shoes but a small braided rug lay bunched in the closet’s back corner.

  Lara grabbed the rug and pulled. Underneath, a cedar box, the size of a shoe box, skidded across the hardwood floor.

  Lara sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled the box into her lap. For a moment, she listened.

  Confident that no one had discovered her entry, Lara lifted the lid. Old pictures, some color, most black and white, filled the inside. Mostly of family, some of places. Russia, China, New York. Under the pictures, she found transfer papers from different churches. A birth certificate, a passport. Lara riffled through to the bottom. Father Xavier would have a separate stash for his government passports and travel documents, false or otherwise.

  When Lara shut the lid, a photo caught under the latch. The picture was a woman, a pretty brunette dressed in a smart suit, slim fitting and short. Straight from the nineteen seventies. In front of her stood a little boy—not more than three. Cute button nose, thick shaggy hair. Brown flowered shirt and corduroy jumpsuit. She’d imagined Christel dressing Ian in similar—

  Goose bumps tripped up Lara’s spine, left the tiny hairs of her neck on end. Slowly, she turned the picture over.

  Katia and Anton. Presidio, California. 1973.

  In her mind she pictured Father Xavier and Anton together—their broad foreheads, the identical blunt chins.

  Father and son.

  But the eyes, they were different. The little boy’s eyes were blue, like his mother’s. Bright, clear—innocent.

  If he had a family, why become a priest? Unless Father Xavier, like her father, had sacrificed his family for duty—

  Lara glanced again at the picture, finally understanding.

  Father Xavier hadn’t sacrificed his family, he’d sacrificed his son.

  DAVIDENKO DEALT two cards to each player. In the last hour, small pots had been won and lost. Ian had folded most hands, using the t
ime to study the group of men.

  After the huge pot Ian had won against Petrov—and survived—he seemed to have been accepted.

  The men talked of sports, women and, to Ian’s surprise, wrestling. But never did any mention business.

  And not once did Novak enter the conversation.

  Ian tipped the edge of his cards. Eight of diamonds and six of clubs. It was time to make another move. “I call the fifteen and raise thirty thousand more.”

  Petrov swore and threw his cards down. “I fold.”

  Uspensky studied Ian, his unibrow raised. “What do you have, Boy?”

  Ever since Ian won against Petrov, Boy seemed to become his nickname.

  Ian shrugged.

  “You have something.” Uspensky smiled revealing two gold canine teeth. “I think I will fold and watch.”

  Davidenko glanced at his cards in one hand, while he continued to shuffle his small stack of chips with the other.

  Shuffle, shuffle, pause. The rhythm had set the tone for the game.

  “I’m in.” Davidenko placed his forty-five thousand into the pot.

  “I fold,” Toltov announced, then he, too, sat back to observe.

  Kuznetsova sighed. “I’ll call. But I’m not happy about it.”

  Davidenko waited until Kuznetsova placed his money in the middle before he turned the first three cards. “Jack of hearts, four of hearts and seven of clubs.”

  Kuznetsova studied the cards for a moment. “I’ll bet forty thousand,” he decided and counted out the bills.

  Petrov snorted. “You’re chasing a flush, aren’t you, Bogdon?”

  Bogdon Kuznetsova grinned. “It will cost them forty grand to find out, comrade.”

  “I call and raise another forty thousand,” Ian commented, already pushing his money into the table’s center.

  Uspensky laughed. “I think the boy is on to you, too, Bogdon.”

  “I call and raise another two hundred thousand,” Davidenko replied. “If you want to chase your flush, Bogdon, you have to buy your next card.”

  Kuznetsova swore, then tossed his hand in. “It is not worth it. I’ll let you and the boy fight it out, Mikhail. While I drink your vodka.”