Predator Read online

  Donovan Santana.

  He was an inch or two taller than Parker. His build was heftier, though he wore his finely tailored suit with the same grace. His thick, iron gray hair was wavy and held in place with gel. His face was more square than Parker’s, bone structure was similar. His nose looked like it had been broken once.

  But it was his eyes that got her.

  Frostiness exuded from them like an arctic blast. But it was the color that had her attention just now. They were as blue as crystal.

  Mr. P’s eyes.

  Her insides turned to jelly. And then to flame. Was this the man who had met her daughter at the airport this past Sunday? She thought of Parker’s reaction last night. He’d wanted to kill this man.

  Now, so did she.

  Instead she put a hand to her throat. “Oh my, Mr. Santana. Is that really you?”

  She wondered what the reaction inside the Lexus was at the moment.

  “Of course it’s me. Are you temping for my admin?”

  He must not know his admin was here today.

  “Uh, no.” Her mind raced. Then she suddenly realized this was how to get the information she needed. “Actually, I’m a reporter with the Boston Globe.”

  His brow rose. “Are you?”

  “Barbara Johnson. I was hoping for an interview.” Sticking out her hand to him, she mustered as pretty a smile as she could.

  “You should have made an appointment.”

  “Oh, but I wanted to see the great entrepreneur in his natural habitat. I know there have been countless articles written about you. But there have to be things we don’t know. Personal details. That’s what I’m after.”

  His knuckles were large and his touch cold. As he took her hand, she felt a chill go through her.

  But he smiled. “I’m very flattered, Ms. Johnson.” He glanced at his gold Rolex. “I have to be in a meeting in ten minutes, but I have time for a short chat. Please, come in.”

  Stepping back, he gestured gallantly toward the doors that now stood open.

  Bingo. This was it. She could get everything she needed now.

  “Thank you, sir,” she told him.

  Nerves turning to hornets in her stomach, Miranda rose and strolled through the giant doors and into the office.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Santana’s corner office was enormous, of course.

  Inside was more marble, but the teakwood had been replaced by mahogany both on the walls and in the furniture. The other two walls were all window, and they flooded the space with light.

  A wet bar stood in the corner. Several table and chair sets were available for chatting over business. His desk was huge and antique vintage with insets and carved sides and legs. Along with the Hepplewhite guest chairs with white silk upholstery, it brought the antiquity of Boston to the modern look.

  Santana gestured to one of the chairs. “Please, Ms. Johnson. Have a seat.”

  Fighting down her nerves, Miranda settled into the one nearer the window and leaned against the wooden back, while Santana slid into the leather executive chair on the opposite side.

  “Now, what would you like to know?”

  She opened her attaché case and took out the pad and pen she’d used before. She turned the page as if consulting notes.

  She needed to make this sound good. “Let’s start at the beginning. Were you born here in Boston?”

  “I was. In Massachusetts General.”

  “I suppose your family was wealthy?”

  He chuckled and studied his solid gold cuff links. “Oh, no. I grew up poor. My mother raised me on her own, and we struggled.”

  Miranda’s stomach tightened. Single mother. She wanted to ask if her name was Rose, but she didn’t dare.

  “My mother passed when I was young.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Was that his motive for becoming a crime boss? In reaction to the bad hand life had dealt him? “Was she your inspiration for your climb to the top?”

  “Life was my inspiration. I worked in the fish markets on the docks and hated every minute of it. But I put myself through school. Harvard.”

  “Oh. Your grades were good, then.”

  “I made sure they were. I worked hard at school, as well. I graduated with honors in their business program and attempted several enterprises before I met with success here at Sector Services.”

  Like starting a fight club in Kiev as a front to train your thugs.

  “Hard work, dedication to the job, persistence. All these things lead to success.”

  “You sound very confident.”

  “Confidence comes from stepping out of your comfort zone.”

  She bet. “Very impressive, Mr. Santana. But what exactly does Sector Services do?”

  He sat back and steepled his hands. “We provide professional and business services. Management consulting, IT, tax advice, anything you can think of.”

  Once more she studied his face.

  The brows were as expressive as Parker’s though there was a coldness to his aspect. The jaw line was similar to her husband’s, though wider, and the hair color was what Parker’s might be in three or so years. His eyes were set wider apart, and they were devoid of any tenderness, though he imitated it well. He looked like he was pushing fifty, which was the right age.

  “So what does one of the wealthiest men in the world do for fun?”

  Feigning modesty, he chuckled. “I have little time for fun.”

  “Do you like to relax at home? Throw a party once in a while? You must live near here, I suppose.” She gestured vaguely at the windows.

  “I do. But I don’t give parties. I attend them for business several times a month, though.”

  “So you’re not married?”

  “No.”

  “And you have no children?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” he chuckled.

  The irony was biting.

  She tapped her pen against her chin. She had to get more of a clue of where this guy lived. “So if I wanted to find the great entrepreneur during off hours, where would I go?”

  “Here.” He gestured to the walls. “Most of the time I’m in the office. Unless I’m traveling on business.”

  He rose, his gaze fixed on her as if he could see straight through her. There was something frightening in his icy blue eyes. Something devoid of all human compassion.

  Tingles danced up and down her spine. Her spidey sense was finally kicking in, and she knew.

  It was him.

  This was the man they were after. The man who had tried to kill them in Los Angeles. The man who had founded the club in Kiev. This was the Man in Boston. And she also knew he was, in fact, Parker’s half brother.

  “Would you care for coffee?” he said in a too polite tone.

  “No, thanks.”

  Interview-wise he’d clammed up. She wasn’t getting any more out of the man.

  They’d have to wait for the limo to take him to his residence and follow him there. At least she knew it was in the area. It was time to get out of here.

  “I think I’ve got enough for my article. Thank you for your time.”

  She started to get up, but before she could, he swept up behind her and slipped a strong arm around her neck.

  What in the world? She could have blocked him, but he’d taken her completely by surprise.

  Her fighting instincts taking over, she struggled to get her fingers under his grasp, but he was too fast.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped, struggling for breath.

  “Exactly as I please.” He reached into her blouse, ripping the buttons.

  “Stop it.” Memories from her past flooded her. The cold dark street in Chicago. Tannenburg. She tried to kick out at him, but the legs of chair blocked her moves.

  He pressed his cheek against hers, making her want to vomit.

  “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Miranda Steele,” he hissed.

  His fingers fumbled over her chest, making her cringe
. But he wasn’t after her. He was after her wire. Finally he found it. He took hold of it and with a jerking move, tore it off her chest along with the tape that had held it in place.

  She let out a cry that was as much shock as pain.

  He held her wire to his mouth. “And you, too, Wade Parker,” he said into the small black bud. “I assume you’re on the other end of this device. I’m taking your wife now. I leave it to you to find her. You’ve done such a stunning job so far of finding her daughter.”

  Then she watched him toss the thing on the floor and stomp it with his shoe like a cigarette butt.

  She should have listened to Parker. This guy was smarter than they thought. He’d known who she was the whole time.

  Again she struggled, but the pressure on her throat grew tighter. She couldn’t breathe. She scratched at the fabric of his worsted suit as his solid gold cuff links dug into the side of her neck. Her jugular vein felt like it might burst any minute. She tried to pull his arm up to bite him, but her strength was gone.

  She was losing oxygen.

  He gave her neck another hard squeeze and the room spun. The lights dimmed, flickered, went out. The last thing she felt was slumping into his arms.

  The arms of a soulless killer.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Parker sat in the Lexus his chest heaving, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He stared up at the black glass façade of the Sector Building, a sudden sense of numbness filling his body as if he had suddenly become a corpse.

  No! He slammed his hand down on the steering wheel.

  How could this have happened? Why had he let her go in there? She had promised him it would be nothing. But it had turned out to be everything.

  They had given Donovan Santana the benefit of the doubt. They had underestimated him. They had given him the advantage, and he had taken it.

  No more.

  The rage Parker had felt last night burned through his soul again. He vowed a solemn promise to himself. He was going to get his wife back. He was going to find Mackenzie.

  And he was going to destroy this man.

  He turned around to face Dave Becker. “Any activity on that tracker on the limo?”

  The poor man looked back at him with glazed eyes. He was as bewildered and stunned as Parker.

  “Nothing sir,” he said with dismay.

  “Nothing?”

  “It’s quiet.”

  Did Santana have another car? Money certainly wouldn’t be an object for him. He could have a private fleet parked in that garage for all they knew.

  Parker pressed the Talk button on his cell. “O’Cleary.”

  “Yes, Mr. Parker?”

  “Do you see any activity on the other side of the building?”

  “None sir.”

  “None at all?”

  “I haven’t seen the limo emerge. There’s street traffic. It’s picking up right now.”

  “Have you seen any other cars going out?”

  “Not really. Wait. There’s a charcoal Infiniti exiting this side of the garage.”

  “Who’s in it?”

  “A lone driver. No one else in the car.”

  Did he put her in the trunk? That would be one way to transport her.

  “Can you get the license plate?”

  “Just snapped a picture of it.”

  “Send it to me,” Carlson said from the third seat of the Lexus. “I’ll run it.”

  Wesson’s voice came over the phone. “We see the Infiniti, Mr. Parker. Should we follow?”

  If that wasn’t Santana and the limo started to move, he’d need people to tail it. “You and Sloan follow the Infiniti. The rest of us will wait for a signal from the limo.”

  “On it,” said Wesson.

  They would wait five more minutes. If there was still no signal from the limo, he’d dispatch another car.

  Parker’s jaw went tight as he watched the time count down on the dash. There was no sound at all from the team.

  Three minutes in, Sloan’s voice came through his speaker. “We’ve run into construction on Blackstone. We’re pushing through, but I can’t see the Infiniti.”

  “Have you lost it?”

  “We’re trying, Mr. Parker,” said Wesson.

  “Still no signal from the limo,” Becker said.

  Santana wasn’t using the limo. He had to have another car.

  “It’s gone,” Sloan said. “We’re on North Street. No sign of the Infiniti anywhere.”

  Parker’s chest tightened. They could not lose her. “Carlson, do you have the registration of the Infiniti yet?”

  “Not yet, sir. The database is making me jump through hoops.”

  Hoops that could mean Miranda’s death. A sense of defeat overshadowed him like none he’d felt in his entire career. He could not lose her. He could not lose her.

  No. This was what that monster wanted him to feel. He refused to give in.

  His mind began to work. If they couldn’t track Santana’s movements directly, they would have to take another approach.

  He got on the line again.

  “O’Cleary, stay here in case we do get a signal from the limo.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The rest of us will canvas the area. Santana said he lived nearby. If he wasn’t lying, we should be able to find some likely housing candidates. Look for lavish, opulent, and most likely a skyscraper.”

  “Roger that,” said Wesson.

  “Heading toward State Street,” said Rasmussen.

  As he pulled out of his spot and headed for Congress, Parker did the only other thing he could do.

  Pray.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Miranda’s limp body rolled over and bumped into a hard surface. Her eyes popped open.

  But all she could see was darkness.

  She put her hands to her throat and desperately took in air. She could breathe again, thank God. But where was she?

  Lying down somewhere.

  She lifted her hand over her head and felt metal. Was this one of her nightmares? She hadn’t had one in a while.

  She felt beneath her. Rubber. And soft material along a short wall beside her. There was a low rumble beneath her, as her body pulled to the left. Now she knew.

  This wasn’t a nightmare. Leon and Tannenburg didn’t need to haunt her any more.

  They had been replaced by a real live monster.

  And he’d stuffed her into the trunk of a car.

  She knew how to get out a trunk, but if Santana was taking her to Mackenzie, she didn’t want to stop him.

  Wait. She must be in Santana’s limo. And it had a tracker on it. Parker and the others would be right behind, tailing it.

  Before she could take in the sense of reassurance at that thought, the car stopped.

  Quickly she felt behind her in her waistband. Nothing. Of course, he had taken her Glock. She touched her nose. The puddy was gone, too. Not that it had done her much good.

  She heard something that sounded like a garage door. Then the car door closed and footsteps sounded.

  Where was he going? Was he going to leave her in here?

  Then there was a click, the trunk opened, and Miranda found herself facing the silver barrel of a Colt 45.

  “I’m so glad to see you’re awake,” Santana said. “I won’t have to carry you. Get out.”

  She could have risked going for his wrist, thrusting both legs at his solar plexus. But then she’d never know where he was hiding Mackenzie.

  So she climbed out of the trunk.

  They were in a hollow gray cylinder, about ten feet tall and just wide enough for one car. A private parking space.

  Santana closed the trunk and she took in the car.

  Her heart sank.

  It wasn’t the limo she’d seen in the airport footage. It was a drab gray Infiniti.

  He chuckled. “I thought you might have put a tracking device on my limo. You got the tag number from a surveillance camera at the airport, didn’t yo
u? I thought you would have found me sooner.”

  His words took her breath. This guy was no slouch. He was miles ahead of them.

  “Where have you taken my daughter?”

  Now his smile turned evil. “Why, I’m taking you to see her now. Isn’t that what you want?”

  With the gun, he gestured toward an opening at the side and she stepped into another smaller gray cylinder. He pressed a button and they began to rise.

  It was a private elevator.

  She pretended to be bored. “You had a driver in Los Angeles, Santana. Are you coming down in the world?”

  His brow rose at her audacious remark. “Occasionally even a man of means likes to drive himself.”

  “So it was you I saw on that movie lot.”

  “I should have killed you then.”

  Likewise, she thought. But she didn’t dare say it out loud.

  The elevator ride seemed to take forever, as if they were going halfway to the moon. But at last Miranda felt the pull in her stomach and the car slowed and came to a stop. The doors opened and she stepped into a lush open-design dwelling space.

  White beams formed the arches of a vaulted ceiling, as if the area was trying to imitate a cathedral.

  The decor was sparse, with touches of Far Eastern and modern. Colors were stark. Black and white, warmed a bit by the honey colored hard wood of the floor.

  The view of the city and waterways below through the glass curtain walls was spectacular. They had to be on the top floor of this building. The penthouse.

  This must be where Santana lived.

  She spied a white leather sofa and barrel chairs arranged around an ivory fireplace. It reminded her—just a little—of Parker’s penthouse.

  No. This madman was nothing like Parker, no matter what his bloodline was.

  “We’ve got company,” Santana called out.

  From a hallway on the other side of the penthouse heavy footsteps sounded.

  Miranda sucked in her breath when the tall muscle-bound figure appeared. She took in the shaved head, the tattoos, the leathery skin. He was dressed all in black. Sloan’s hunch was right. He’d come straight back to Boston.

  To his boss.

  “Sasha,” she breathed.

  The big man scowled at her, his eyes flashing with hate. “Do not call me that.”