Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 59176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
“What the fuck is going on?” I demand when I climb into the rental.
“No idea,” he says and stuffs half the donut into his mouth. After he swallows, he continues. “Got a call from Shane. Thirty minutes later, I was in the chopper headed here.”
“Where’s it parked?”
“Not far. We’ll be at Shane’s in an hour.”
I feel sick after lying to Nadia.
We arrive at an airstrip where the chopper is waiting for us. Rocco and I climb in, buckle up, and he checks gauges and flips switches. When we have our headsets on, we take off.
The air over the high Rockies is choppy, so the ride is rough, but it doesn’t take long before we land about a hundred yards from Shane’s house on his property near Victor, Colorado.
As an old mining town in the mountains, Victor used to host more than a hundred thousand people. But now that most of the gold is gone, aside from the last few plots that large corporations own, the town has shrunk to just a couple of hundred people.
Just the way Shane likes it.
How he can live at ten thousand feet, in the middle of nowhere, I have no idea. The air is thin as hell, and it always takes me a day or two to get used to being up this high.
Rocco cuts the engine, and we get out of the helicopter and jog to the house where Shane’s standing just outside his door, arms folded across his chest.
“Saved you a donut,” Rocco says as he passes the box to Shane. “Your favorite.”
“One?”
“Better than none,” Rocco replies and shrugs as we follow our brother into the big farmhouse.
Shane’s property is a fortress. Sitting on a few hundred acres, it’s surrounded by state-of-the-art security with cameras and alarms. He has all kinds of toys, weapons, and other equipment that I probably don’t want to know about, in addition to the helipad.
He leads us through a honey oak kitchen and the dining and living spaces, which all look completely normal. Fancy, but normal.
Then, he passes through a doorway and procedes down a long flight of stairs. When he flips on the lights, we’re no longer in a simple farmhouse.
We’re in a headquarters.
Machines beep and computers cover several desks. There are phones, screens, maps.
It’s all very James Bond.
Or, Shane Martinelli.
“I got home a couple of days ago and was finally able to start digging into that slimeball, Richard,” he begins with a donut in his mouth. “It was right there, in front of our faces the whole goddamn time.”
“What was?” I demand.
“Let me start at the beginning.” He flips on a screen, and it fills with a photo of Richard. “This asshole isn’t Richard Donaldson at all. It’s a cover. One that was well crafted, by the way. But it was thin. They didn’t add layers, so I didn’t have to dig far to discover that he’s a phony. If Alex Tarenkov had done his job, it would have been harder to find. But, more on that in a minute.”
He clicks a button, and data starts scrolling across the screen.
“Dimitri Lebedev.” I turn to Shane in shock. “He’s Russian?”
“Oh, he definitely is. But he was born in New York City in 1987. His parents were KGB spies in the seventies and early eighties and came to the US for asylum. The fucking government gave it to them in exchange for some information. You know, we were dealing with the Cold War at that time, and I’m sure they had plenty of secrets to share.
“So, our boy Dimitri was raised here in the US. Went to college at NYU. Smart kid, majored in PoliSci. Guess who his roommate was?”
Rocco and I stare at him. “Who?”
“Alexander Tarenkov.”
Shane clicks some keys and some photos of the two men show up on the screen.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter.
“So, these two were buddies in college. How Annika didn’t know that, I have no idea. Because from what I’ve heard, Annika and Alex always got along well. Maybe Alex wasn’t the type to bring his bestie from college home for the holidays. Maybe he knew if he brought Dimitri around his father, there would be trouble given that Dimitri’s parents were KGB agents and all. But that’s all speculation.”
“We’ll have to ask him,” Rocco says.
“Wait a minute. If these are his parents”—I point to the couple on the screen—“who were the people at the wedding who claimed to be Rich’s family?”
We all look at each other, and then Shane shrugs. “They were hired to act the part. This whole thing was a cover. But not for Dimitri.”
“For Alex,” Rocco finishes.
“Bingo. Whatever this jerk’s into, it goes deep, and it’s been going on for a long time. He had one arrest in college for dealing, but it was just some weed. Those records were buried. I assume thanks to his father.”