Rumor had it she was sleeping with Josef. It wasn’t something she proclaimed or denied. But there were signs. Jasmine wondered if she cared for Josef—or if it was a power play.
Jasmine had to wonder how Natasha felt about the beautiful women who were always around. But she understood, for Natasha, life hadn’t been easy. Power probably overrode emotion.
The men by Smirnoff were his immediate bodyguards. Jasmine thought of them as Curly, Moe and Larry. In truth, they were Alejandro Suarez, Antonio Garibaldi and Sasha Antonovich. All three were big men, broad-shouldered and spent their off-hours in the gym. One of the three was always with Smirnoff. On a day like today, they were all close to him.
Victor Kozak was there, as well. Victor was apparently the rising heir to receive control of the action. He was taller and slimmer than Josef, and he had bright blue eyes and perfectly clipped, salt-and-pepper facial hair. He was extremely pleasant to Jasmine—so pleasant that it made her feel uneasy.
She knew about them all somewhat because she had talked to Mary about what she was doing. She had warned Mary that there was suspicion about the group on South Beach that ran so many of the events that called for runway models or beautiful people just to be in a crowd. Beautiful people who, it was rumored, you could engage to spend time with privately. Mary had described many of these players before Jasmine had met them.
Before Mary had disappeared.
The club manager was behind the bar; he didn’t often work that kind of labor himself. He usually oversaw what was going on there. He was like the bodyguards—solid, watching, earning his way up the ranks.
Still watching, Jasmine made another of her teasing plays with Jorge—pointing out the next model who was coming down the runway. Kari Anderson was walking along in a black caftan that accented the fairness of her skin and the platinum shimmer of her hair. Jorge stood perfectly still; only his eyes moved, drawing laughter from the crowd.
As Jasmine did her turn around, she noted a man at the bar. She did not know him, or anything about him. He was a newcomer, Kari had told her. A big man in New York City. He was taller and leaner than any of the other men, and yet Jasmine had the feeling that he was steel-muscled beneath the designer suit he was wearing. He hadn’t close-cropped his hair either; it was long, shaggy around his ears, a soft brown.
He was definitely the best looking of the bunch. His face was crafted with sharp clean contours, high defined cheekbones, a nicely squared chin and wide-set, light eyes. He could have been up on the runway, playing “pretty boy” with Jorge.
But of course, newcomer though he might be, he’d be one of “them.” He’d recently come to South Beach, pretending to be some kind of an artist and owning and operating a gallery.
The hair. Maybe he believed that would disguise him as an artist—rather than a murdering criminal.
When she had made another turn, after pausing to do a synchronized turn with Kari, she saw that the new guy had left the bar area, along with the bartender. They were near Josef Smirnoff now.
Allowed into the inner circle.
Just as she noticed them, a loud crack rang out. The sound was almost masked by the music.
People didn’t react.
Instinct and experience told Jasmine that it was indeed a gunshot. She instantly grabbed hold of Kari and dragged her down to the platform, all but lying over her. Another shot sounded; a light exploded in a hail of sparks. Then the rat-tat-tat of bullets exploded throughout the room.
The crowd began to scream and move.
There was nothing orderly about what happened—people panicked. It was hard not to blame them. It was a fearsome world they lived in.
“Stay down!” Jasmine told Kari, rising carefully.
Jorge was already on the floor, trying to help up a woman who had fallen, in danger of being trampled.
Bodyguards and police hired for the night were trying to bring order. Jasmine jumped into the crowd, trying to fathom where the shots had been fired. It was a light at the end of the runway that had exploded; where the other shot had come from was hard to discern.
The band had panicked, as well. A guitar crashed down on the floor.
Josef Smirnoff was on the ground, too. His bodyguards were near, trying to hold off the people who were set to run over him.
It was an absolute melee.
Jasmine helped up a young man, a white-faced rising star in a new television series. He tried to thank her.
“Get out, go—walk quickly,” she said.
There were no more shots. But would they begin again?
She made her way to Smirnoff, ducking beneath the distracted bodyguards. She knelt by him as people raced around her.
“Josef?” she said, reaching for his shoulder, turning him over.
Blood covered his chest. There was no hope for the man; he was already dead, his eyes open in shock. There was blood on her now, blood on the designer gown she’d been wearing, everywhere.
She looked up; Jorge had to be somewhere nearby. Instead she saw a man coming after her, reaching for her as if to attack.
She rolled quickly, avoiding him once. But as she prepared to fight back, she felt as if she had been taken down by a linebacker. She stared up into the eyes of the long-haired newcomer; bright blue eyes, startling against his face and dark hair. She felt his hands on her, felt the strength in his hold.
No. She was going to take him down.
She jackknifed her body, letting him use his own weight against himself, causing him to crash into the floor.
He was obviously surprised. It took him a second—but only a second—to spin himself. He was back on his feet in a hunched position, ready to spring at her.
Where the hell is Jorge?
She feinted as if she would dive down to the left and dived to the right instead. She caught the man with a hard chop to the abdomen that should have stolen his breath.
He didn’t give. She was suddenly tackled again, down on the ground, feeling the full power of the man’s strength atop her. She stared up into his blue eyes, glistening like ice at the moment.
She realized the crowd was gone; she could hear the bustle at the doorway, hear the police as they poured in at the entrance.
But right there, at that moment, Josef Smirnoff lay dead in an ungodly pool of blood—blood she wore—just feet away.
And there was this man.
And herself.
“Hey!” Thank God, Jorge had found her. He dived down beside them, as if joining the fight. But he didn’t help Jasmine; he made no move against the man. He lay next to her, as if he’d just also been taken down himself.
“Stop! FBI, meet MDPD. Jasmine, he’s undercover. Jacob... Jasmine is a cop. My partner,” Jorge
