The Murder That Never Was (Forensic Instincts 5)

“Shit.” Marc’s mind was racing. “Slava must have been scoping out the area near the apartment. Emma probably walked there from the gym with Lisa. Slava would have made Emma as Isabella the minute he saw her.”

“And that will make him go crazy,” Claire whispered. “He won’t care about any orders he’s received. He won’t even care about Lisa and Miles anymore. He’ll be irrational. His rage will take over.” Tears had already formed in Claire’s eyes. She steepled her icy fingers together and looked directly at Casey. “Slava will torture her, Casey. He’ll…” Her voice trailed off. She and Casey had both been there. They knew what brutal assailants did to their victims. And a former KGB agent? God only knew what he was capable of.

“We’re heading up to Vermont.” Casey was already on her feet, her customarily steady demeanor gone. Her voice was quavering, and her body language screamed fear. “We’re getting into Maxim Lubinov’s compound. Screw the legalities.”

“Casey, wait.” Marc reached out and grabbed her arm. “Let’s take a rational breath. We don’t even know for sure that Slava took Emma to Burlington. He might be keeping her local while he reaches out to his boss. They might be discussing using her as a bargaining chip to get to whoever she’s working with—us.”

“‘Might’ doesn’t cut it, Marc.”

“I agree. That’s why we need to divide and conquer, not all jump in the van and race up to New England. Rescuing Emma is all that matters. We have to cover all our bases to do that.”

He waited until Casey regained a modicum of control and gave him a tight nod. “What do you suggest? I’m not rational on this one,” she said.

“Like I said, I suggest we divide up and close off Slava’s options.” Marc understood that Casey was asking him to run the show, something she rarely did. But he was her go-to guy, and she was a mess. Right now, she needed his level head.

He naturally assumed the command and control that was pure Marc, the former Navy SEAL. “You, Claire, and Patrick will stay behind,” he instructed. “Your various skills are needed here.” He angled his head in Patrick’s direction. “You deal with the situation in Upper Montclair—the cops, John, Brian, the hospital—until you get some answers and, hopefully, find out if Slava is holding Emma nearby.”

“Consider it done,” Patrick replied.

“Bring Hero with you when you go to Upper Montclair,” Casey added. “He’ll be an asset.”

Hero’s head came up, and he scrambled to his feet, as if knowing he was being called upon.

Reflexively, Casey stroked his head. “He knows Emma’s scent. We have more than enough of her things for me to make scent pads. Whatever trail turns up, Hero will follow—with God’s help, directly to Emma.”

“Excellent idea.” Patrick gave Hero the hand gesture to follow him. “I’ll make the scent pads. I’ll be in constant contact with all of you.”

“Make sure of that,” Casey said. She watched them leave, her wheels turning and her leadership skills kicking in. She knew what Marc was about to say, and she knew he was right. So she said it for him.

“I’m calling Hutch right now and getting the FBI ball rolling. We needed proof? Now we have it. And Claire…” A quick glance in her direction. “Do anything you can to pick up on Emma’s energy. Use it to figure out where she is.”

Claire rose. “I’ll find a way. I have to. I need to go downstairs and get a few personal items out of her desk. Then I’ll hole up in my yoga room, where I have the serenity and clarity of mind to focus completely on Emma.” Emanating determination, Claire was off on her mission.

“Am I missing anything?” Casey asked Marc.

“Nope. We’re set.” He was now in SEAL mode. “Let’s go, Ryan. I’m getting my gear together, and we’re leaving for Vermont. Bring whatever techno-stuff is necessary. And I’m calling Aidan from the road. We need him on this.”

Ryan was shutting down his computer and gathering up the equipment that went with it. “The rest of what I need is in my lair. I’ll grab it and meet you at the van.” He paused, visibly bugged by something.

“What is it?” Casey demanded.

“Don’t call Hutch. The last thing we need is a SWAT team bursting into Lubinov’s compound and screwing everything up. We can pull this one off fast and clean, without FBI interference.”

“Forget it, Ryan,” Casey responded in a tone that told him it wasn’t happening his way. “I’m calling Hutch now. He can reach out to the appropriate field office and put them on standby. As soon as we have confirmation that Emma’s in Lubinov’s manor, SWAT can go in. I want you to work with them. No vigilante bullshit. I want Emma in one piece and Lubinov’s entire crime ring put away.”

“And if we get there first and somehow figure out she’s inside—before the FBI’s red tape has allowed them to act?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Anyone standing in the lobby of the Best Western would have pegged Slava as an ardent lover rather than a kidnapper and a killer. He guided Emma along, keeping her slightly in front of him, one of his arms wrapped intimately around her shoulders, the other arm tucked subtly behind her, hidden from view. The sharp blade of his knife was pressed into the small of her back, ensuring that she didn’t make a sound.

He kept up the charade until he’d maneuvered her up the stairs, down the hall, and safely into his hotel room. Once he’d double-locked the door, everything changed.

He put down the knife. Whirling Emma around, he grabbed a handful of her hair and used it to yank her head back—so hard that tears came to her eyes and her mouth dropped open. Before she could cry out, Slava snatched one of the linen napkins folded near the takeout menu on the side table and crammed it into her mouth. With one huge hand, he locked her wrists behind her back and dragged her across the room to the bed. He backhanded her across the face, first once, then twice, sending her toppling onto the bed, red bruises already forming on her cheeks.

Before she could recover, Slava had pushed her high enough up on the bed to accomplish his goal. He yanked off his belt and bound her wrist to one of the bedposts. He used a pillowcase to do the same to her other wrist. He spread her legs wide, shoving each foot between the bed frame and the bed, wedging them in so tightly that there was no wrenching them free.

Emma was weeping now, choked sobs that were stifled by the gag. Her eyes were huge, filled with dread, and her breasts were rising and falling with the force of her breath. Her stare was on Slava, and there must have been a plea in her gaze, because his next words crushed it to bits.