direct number at the Brooklyn Chronicle from memory.
“I haven’t given you my liquor order yet,” the bartender’s annoyed Wisconsin accent sounded from the bar.
“I have to make a call,” Alec shouted over his shoulder as he pushed outside. The morning sunlight blinded him for a minute, but he didn’t slow his pace.
The secretary answered on the second ring. “Brooklyn Chronicle.”
Alec didn’t recognize her voice. “Wayne Bigelow, please.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bigelow is in a meeting. Would you like his voice mail?”
“No.” The last thing Alec was going to do was leave him a message. Not about this. “Interrupt the meeting.”
“Excuse me?”
“Do it. This is an emergency.”
“That may be, Mr….”
“Stanislov.” Alec never thought he’d hear the name come from his lips again. It rested on his tongue like a curse word, bitter, cruel. “Nika Stanislov.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stanislov, but I’m not going to interrupt an important meeting for—”
“Tell him the name.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tell Bigelow the name. Nika Stanislov. He’ll take my call.”
“Please hold,” she said, her exasperation coming across loud and clear. A click sounded, and canned music took over the line.
Alec strode across the parking lot, pulse hammering louder than the drone of synthesized strings in his ear. If anyone would know what was going on, it was Bigelow. He’d better, anyway. With Griggs gone, Alec sure as hell didn’t trust anyone in law enforcement.
He dipped his free hand in his pocket, pulled out his SUV’s keyless remote and unlocked the vehicle before he reached it. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and threw it inside. His ass had just hit the driver’s seat when Bigelow’s voice boomed over the phone.
“Nika. My God, how are you?”
“Is he out?”
“Yesterday.”
The knot tightened. Alec had always thought he’d know the day the bastard got out of prison. That he’d feel the vibration in the air. Smell the stench. Something. But he hadn’t had a clue.
“I would have called, but…” Bigelow let his sentence trail off. There was no point finishing.
“Yeah, I know.” Bigelow didn’t know where Alec was. Nobody knew where Alec was. At least, no one was supposed to.
“Didn’t the Marshals’ Service tell you he was up for early parole?”
“No.”
“Probably a screw-up between state and feds. Typical.”
Alec wished this was a typical screw-up. But his gut told him different. “Griggs is dead.”
“Griggs?”
“A U.S. marshal on my case. The one in charge of relocating me.”
“When?”
“I just saw it on the news. Breaking story from Madison.”
“Madison?”
“Wisconsin.”
Bigelow let loose a string of curses. “Doesn’t anyone around here stay up on the news? We’d better have a reporter on a flight to Wisconsin right now, or someone’s going to lose his head.”
Alec turned the key in the ignition. The SUV roared to life.
“Where are you, Nika?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“You want me to call the cops for you?”
“No cops.”
“FBI? I know a guy—”
“No.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Whatever I have to.” And the first thing on his list was finding Laura. Now. “I’ve got to go.”
“Will I hear from you again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me give you my cell.”
As soon as he finished reciting the number, Alec cut off the call. He had to reach Laura. And he was afraid he didn’t have a second to lose.
He hit her number on his cell’s speed dial. His wife’s phone service picked up on the second ring. A pleasant voice directed him to her voice mail. Damn. Laura was always forgetting to turn on her cell phone. And at this hour in the morning, the restaurant’s answering machine would still be on.
He ended the call without leaving a message, and concentrated on driving. He had to get to the restaurant. He had to reach Laura. If Griggs had been tortured, he could have caved. He could have spilled Alec’s location. And if that happened, dear old Dad and his thugs were already on their way.
Pushing the accelerator to the floor, he raced down streets and around curves until he reached the strip mall at the edge of the tiny-but-growing town of Beaver Falls. Nestled at the end of the mall next to the Cup-N-Sup coffee shop and a women’s clothing store sat Laura’s pride and joy, The Blue Ox Café. The parking lot in front was still empty. It wouldn’t get busy until eleven o’clock, when Laura threw open the door for the lunch crowd.
Tires squealing their protest, Alec gunned the SUV around the building to the back lot. Three cars dotted the employee parking area. Laura’s blue van was not among them, but he spotted her partner’s Jeep. She’d probably hitched a ride with Sally, as she often did. He could only hope that was the case. If today was errand day, he might not be able to reach her for hours. And by then it might be too late.
He stopped the SUV at the curb behind a produce truck and jumped out. Dodging a ripe-smelling Dumpster, he dashed to the employee entrance and ducked inside.
No sound came from the kitchen, not the rattle of pans on the cook’s line, not the slam of the walk-in cooler’s door as the produce guy made his delivery. Heart knocking against his rib cage, Alec stepped into the kitchen. His shoes squeaked on rubber mats stretched over red tile. He moved as quietly as possible, walking through the prep kitchen, peeking into the deserted line. The odor of deep fryers hung in the air, heavy as an approaching storm. And there was something else. Another odor. Familiar but too faint for him to identify.
Pulse pounding in his ears, he ducked back into the prep kitchen. Next to a slab of prime rib, a meat cleaver lay on a cutting board, blood dulling the shine of its razor-sharp edge. He grasped the wood handle. Weapon poised in front of him, he stepped into the
