Golden Dancer (23 page)

The pale gray eyes looked up at him. That was the feature that let you know just how scary this dude was. “I shall have to think on it, MacKenzie. I fear Mr. Terrebone may not give up the statue until pigs fly. Perhaps you have given me an opening for further investigation…and perhaps I shall try to, uh”—he grinned tightly—“generously persuade you to simply drop the story. I shall think on it.”

“Well, generosity is always a consideration, isn’t it?” Mac smiled back, though it cost him tooth enamel to do it. “Then I won’t take more of your time.” He rose, trying not to run to the door. Oh shit, could he have done it? “I look forward to hearing from you.”

The butler appeared as if manifested from a lamp and led Mac to the door, where he ceremoniously held it as if making sure he didn’t stick around to steal the silver.

Mac forced himself to walk calmly down the steps and up the street, not grabbing for his phone. Von Berg could be—no, probably was—watching. When he got to the corner, he speed-dialed Daniel. The answer was instantaneous.

“Where are you?”

“Around the corner from Von Berg’s. Daniel, I think there may be a connection between SS and Von Berg. Maybe SS has Trelain. Didn’t you say he has a hacker’s studio someplace in New York?”

“Yes, down by the docks in an old warehouse building. I’m coming around the corner now.”

“Let’s try it. It’s the best we’ve got, unless you discovered something.”

“Nothing.” The limo pulled up beside Mac, and he jumped in the open back door, threw his arms around Daniel’s neck, and kissed him. When he pulled back, Daniel caressed his cheek. “You’re shaking.”

“Yeah, never stopped from the minute I walked up the front steps. The man’s a wacko. Really hates ben Harrari.”

“Tell me how you know there’s a connection between SS and Von Berg.”

Mac grinned. “How much chance do you think there is that two Germans would happen to use the expression, ‘When pigs fly’?”

“No chance in hell.”

“Von Berg used it twice.”

“Jesus.” He pulled out his phone. “I have to set up a phony ransom drop. They need to think I’m gathering the statue and taking it to the drop-off point. I’ll take enough time so they won’t move Trelain while you and my guys are getting to the warehouse.”

Mac gave Daniel an incredulous look. “Are you going to miss the action?”

Daniel grinned tightly. “No way in hell. I’ll have another car ready to pick me up while the limo and one of my men dressed as me goes through the so-called ransom payment motions. Meanwhile, I’ll be heading for the warehouse and you, baby.” He reached in a compartment in the backseat of the limo and extracted a gun. Whoa! He inspected it carefully. “Know how to use this?”

“Yeah, I’ve been through a couple wars.”

He handed it to Mac and took another handgun out for himself. “We’ll hope there’s no need to use them. My men are all armed, so don’t even pull this thing unless it’s to protect you or Trelain, got it?”

“Yeah.” Mac nodded at Daniel. “Do you know how to use it?”

The deep blue eyes gleamed. “Oh yes, I know how to use it very well indeed.”

“Well then, let’s go get Trelain out of their pig sty.”

* * *

Trelain’s ass hurt from sitting on a hard chair, his arms hurt from being bound, and his head hurt from trying to figure out how to keep that German maniac from raping and murdering him.

It was no sure thing. Yes, someone was probably counting on getting some kind of ransom for him. His poor mother. She’d be in agony, trying to raise whatever they asked. She had resources and contacts, so he was sure she could come through. But his guard clearly didn’t care about ransoms or terms, and there was no guarantee that whoever the “boss” was cared either. Did they figure his mother would pay to get him back even if he was damaged? Probably. Ruddy hell, damaged. To never dance again? Or to be so mutilated internally and in his mind that he didn’t care if he lived, much less danced? Every minute, the look in that big psycho’s eye got more glazed, his focus on Trelain more single-minded. Soon, he’d snap, and the damage would be permanent. Trelain couldn’t wait for a ransom. He had to find a way out.

The nerd looked up from the computer magazine he was reading and glanced at his watch. “Hey, Rutger, why don’t you go get something to eat, then bring something back for pretty pants here, and I’ll go get my dinner after that.”

“
Ja.
”

“Let me go to the john first, okay?” The guy got up from the cot where he’d been lying and went into the little bathroom. Rutger walked around from behind Trelain. Bloody hell, the man was huge. Trelain saw his big paw reach out to finger his golden hair. Rutger licked his lips, a disturbing habit Trelain was seeing more and more. Then Trelain looked down. Oh shit. The guy’s khaki pants were tented by an erection. Rutger pulled Trelain’s hair closer until he rubbed it on the front of that tent. Trelain tried to pull his head back, but the man yanked harder and a deep grunting sound slipped from his thin lips. Fucking hell! The sound of water from the bathroom seemed to pull Rutger from his erotic daydream. He stepped back, and Trelain saw that erotic daydream was a wet one. The guy had come in his pants. He quickly pulled on his jacket and closed it over the wet spot. Nerd came out of the bathroom, and without another word, Rutger walked to the door.

“Don’t forget food for his highness, and then you can take care of him while I go eat.” The nerd’s inane chuckle suggested that the guy knew exactly what Rutger intended in his absence.

Chapter Twenty-six

Midtown traffic didn’t give a shit about life and death. Mac made the driver crazy, but it didn’t get them one mile closer to the warehouse. The guy made a sharp right into a neighborhood. On an obscure side street, the driver stopped next to a nondescript American car.

Mac leaned forward. “Hey, what the fuck—”

The back door of the car opened and a figure hurtled out, ripped open Mac’s door, and landed in a heap on Mac’s lap. The limo took off like a bat, throwing Mac against the backseat. Daniel pulled off his baseball cap and sunglasses and gave Mac a hard kiss. “Hi, baby.”

“Crap, Daniel. Everything okay with the drop-off?” The man nodded. “I’m so glad you’re here. I want to move faster.”

“Yeah. The traffic is a bitch. I’d feel a lot better if we were certain this isn’t a wild goose chase.”

Mac grabbed his cell. “I’ve got an idea.” He dialed.

“Kizwalski.”

“Hey, John. Mac.”

“Hi, Mac. I—”

“Just listen for a second. I’ve got reason to believe that there might be a connection between that hacker—SS—you told me about, and the German guy who owned the
Golden Dancer
, Horst Von Berg. You got anything that would help me know I’m right?”

The pause was pregnant.

“John, this may be life and death, and that would mean life and death for me too. I’ll get you whatever you want, just…”

Daniel leaned in. “Tell him I’ll get him hot and cold running boy whores. Just answer the fucking question.”

Kizwalski came to life. “Was that…?”

“Yeah, Daniel Terrebone.”

“What the fuck…?”

“It’s a long story, John, which I will tell you, but this involves someone I love. Someone that Daniel loves. Please.”

“Shit, you know I’m a sucker for love.” Mac hadn’t, but he did now. “Okay, I hear, unconfirmed, that SS is pissed at Terrebone and tried to form some kind of alliance with Von Berg.”

“Jesus.” Mac nodded at Daniel, who picked up his own cell phone. “Thanks, John. I’m serious about the gratitude. I’ll open you an account with the madam, and you can have your pick any time you want, okay?”

“That sounds good, but I think I’m even more anxious to know your story.”

“I’ll tell you soon; meanwhile, hope for a happy ending.”

“My kind of happy ending?”

Mac flashed on the highly oral ending of the massages given by John’s favorite boys. “Yeah, that too.”

“Sheeeit. Now I’m even more anxious to hear.”

“Gotta rescue the damsel in distress first. Talk soon. Thank you, John. This means a lot.”

“My pleasure.”

He hung up to hear Daniel say, “You’re not as close to the warehouse as we are. Get there as soon as you can. Is everyone armed? Good.” He hung up his cell phone.

Mac snuggled closer, looking for some comfort. “I haven’t been shot at since Afghanistan.”

“Today may be the day.”

* * *

Minutes. That’s what he had until Rutger came back, if he was lucky. Seconds, if he was not. Trelain looked at the nerd. “Hey, need the toilet.”

The guy grinned evilly. “Wait for Rutger. He likes to take you to the bathroom.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t wait. You want to clean up the frigging floor of my pee? Explain that to Rutger.”

“Shit. Pansy-ass.” He pulled himself off the cot. “Okay, okay, get over there.”

Trelain stood and walked the short distance, then paused. The guy sighed and unbound his hands, then opened the bathroom door. “Get on with it.”

Trelain gave him the smile that had launched a thousand autographs. “Hey, do you think I could have a minute in the loo by myself? I mean, I need to do some serious business, and I don’t think I can manage it with you staring. There’s nothing in there for me to hurt myself with; you already checked. Couldn’t I just have a minute? Besides, I don’t think you really enjoy watching me shit like Rutger does.”

“Man, you got that right.” The nerd thought for a second while Trelain tried to pretend he was calm. If Rutger came back, his chances were over. The nerd glanced into the bathroom, giving the high, tiny window an extra second’s perusal. “Okay, hell. Where can you go, right?”

“Right.” Trelain sighed in what he hoped sounded like resignation.

“Go on.” The nerd held the door as Trelain walked into the bathroom, thinking those two little words might be the most beautiful he’d ever heard.

* * *

“Let’s get out. We can run from here.”

Mac piled out of the limo with Daniel behind him. Okay, maybe running was overstating the case. It was still several blocks to the warehouse, and they might manage a brisk trot, but on foot would be faster than this fucking New York traffic. Von Berg couldn’t hurt Trelain; he couldn’t, he couldn’t. The litany beat time in his brain as his feet hit the pavement.

He wouldn’t hurt him before the statue was recovered. Would he?

* * *

High fucker and small too. Trelain stared up at the tiny window at the top of the bathroom wall. What did it sound like when you were having bowel trouble? “Unh, unh.” He needed the sound effects for the nerd. Yeah. It was high in here, but outside? Fucking hell, two stories. His mind flashed on all the things that German madman would likely stick in Trelain’s ass in addition to his own twisted cock. Okay, two stories wasn’t that high. “Unnnnnnh.”

He stepped up on the toilet seat and then onto the back of the tank. The windowsill was likely wide enough to hold him, and he could just barely reach the crank on the window. Shit, could use Daniel’s height right now, or Mac’s. Oh Jesus, couldn’t think of them. Not getting back to them. Never seeing them again. That would be the worst part of dying. He cranked and said several prayers of thanks quite unfamiliar to him when the window opened. Bloody hell, it could so easily have been painted shut. The thought made him shake.

Grabbing the lower rim of the tiny window, he pulled himself up the wall. Not hard. Fortunately, his captors didn’t seem to be ballet aficionados, or they might have been less willing to let him in this bathroom.

He switched one hand to the upper rim of the window and pulled himself up, balancing on the sill, scrunched over below the ceiling like a little cat. Okay, he had to look out. This was it. What was down there?

He glanced. Bloody hell. Two stories
was
far. He took a deep breath and analyzed the situation. Below him, by some amazing trick of fate or grace, were grass and some bushes. Whoever heard of grass and bushes in a warehouse district? But this seemed to be some effort to make this building more desirable. An effort that had failed apparently, but hell, Trelain would take all favors.

He froze at the sound of the outside door, then the nerd’s voice, high, stressed, distraught.

“Unnnnnhhhhh.” Bloody crap, now or never. One more second and Rutger would be through that bloody door. One second and, as the Yanks said, his ass would be grass—one way or another.

He looked again. Could he recover from a broken leg? Hip? And still dance? No, no, that wasn’t going to happen. He could do this. He could.

Somewhere in his brain, von Weber’s music for
Spectre of the Rose
began to play. Just like in the ballet, there was a window—he had to escape, he had to jump, he had to be free. Perhaps any ballet dancer could have made it up to this window. Any small ballet dancer could get through it.

He leaped. Air screamed in his ears, his stomach lurched into his throat, and the sides of the building loomed.

Others could make it to the window. But only one ballet dancer in all the world could jump out of it and live…

…And his name was Trelain Medveyev.

A block away, Mac screamed like someone had ripped his heart from his chest. “Trelaiiiiiin!” Daniel caught the reporter as he fell forward, and they both watched the man they loved hurtle to the ground.

Chapter Twenty-seven

“Mrs. Graystill, I assure you, your son will be fine. It’s a very mild concussion. And not even a hairline fracture. I’ve seen Trelain sustain worse injuries in rehearsal. Though from what you tell me, I have no idea how he managed to do it. Two stories—imagine.”

The voices faded off as Trelain’s mom led the doctor down the stairs of her townhome. Mac sighed and scooted forward in the chair, resting his elbows on the bed. He’d heard what he wanted to hear. Trelain was really okay. The man he loved.

The dancer had been awake when the doctor came, but a mild sedative had done the job. Doc had said he just needed to rest. Trelain would recover fast. Wish he could say the same. In the name of some kind of inflated ego, he’d taken information from that bastard Von Berg. Practically helped the Nazi. Why had he done it? Was he flattered Von Berg thought he was some fucking great journalist? So much so that he’d partner with someone that evil? Someone who could drive the man Mac loved to jump from a two-story window?