The Gemini Deception Page 2

  “Yup.”

  “And oh, my…” He stepped over to the table where her candles were displayed. She’d added several this morning with Christmas colors—red and green, silver and gold. “Look at all the new ones.”

  “Made ’em this week.”

  “You really are very talented.”

  Ryden blushed every time he commented on her work. She hated herself for feeling flattered, especially because she knew all Tim wanted was a date. “Yeah, well,” she stammered. “I try.”

  “You should show these to specialty shops. I know some.” Tim hoisted one of her larger pieces toward the fading sunlight streaming in through the window so he could better see the delicately sculpted detail work. “I’m sure they’d sell like crazy, and who knows? Maybe someday you could have your own little place.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Though the economy being what it is, I doubt candles are the next big must-have item on everyone’s spartan shopping list.”

  “You never know.”

  “So, what kind of flowers would you like today?”

  “Why won’t you let me help you?” Tim asked. “I know people who might be willing to invest.”

  “Nah. I’m fine where I am, but thanks all the same.”

  Tim was being pushier than usual, and all Ryden wanted was to close the shop and go home. She was tired and hungry and couldn’t wait to start work on her candles. “What’ll it be, Tim?” she asked again, trying to sound polite.

  But he was apparently determined to linger, asking endless questions about every type of flower they had and taking forever to make up his mind. By the time she could start to put the bouquet together it was closing time. Magda wished them good night with the usual wink on her way out.

  Ryden handed the bunch to him ten minutes later. “Well, I need to close up, so—”

  “Let me walk you home.”

  “Thanks, but…I prefer you didn’t.”

  “Maybe next time.” Tim smiled.

  “Yeah, maybe.” She walked him to the door and opened it. “Good night then, and thanks.”

  “Think about my offer, okay?”

  “Sure, will do.” Ryden practically shut the door on his ass and sighed with relief.

  Fifteen minutes later, she’d taken care of the cash and prepped everything for the next day. She was about to lock up when she got an eerie feeling that someone was watching her. She’d never been afraid of walking alone at night, or pretty much anything else; if she’d survived five foster homes and bully foster siblings, she could handle anything. But right now, something was making her skin crawl.

  “You’re imagining things.” Talking aloud to herself was an old habit, the result of living alone all her adult life. For some reason, she found it comforting, especially when she was stressed.

  She scanned the street carefully before she latched the door to make sure she was alone, just in case she needed to go back inside. All the other shops around were shuttered tight, the street devoid of pedestrians. When she didn’t detect any sign of movement, Ryden locked up and walked briskly down the block. She was about to chalk it up to paranoia when the eerie feeling returned. “You’re overreacting, scaredy-cat, and need to cut down on Fearnet.” But she started to walk even faster, occasionally looking behind her. By the time she’d reached her apartment, she was out of breath.

  Ryden slammed the door shut behind her and locked it, then went to the window that overlooked the street. Peering through a slit in the heavy curtain, she waited to see if someone was lurking outside. When she’d seen nothing suspicious after ten minutes, she made her way to the kitchen to defrost dinner, but the uncomfortable feeling of being watched stayed with her all night. Even her candle making didn’t stop the uneasiness; she occasionally got up to hide behind the curtain and check the street.

  At two in the morning, Ryden sat down to watch TV, hoping it would calm her nerves, but she could concentrate on the sitcom about as much as she had on her candle making. She went to check the street one last time before she went to bed, and it was only then, at three a.m., that she got the first confirmation she hadn’t been imagining things.

  A faint flicker in one of the long shadows in the park across the street became the silhouette of a man. “Tim? Is that you?” Could he be stalking her? She fished a pair of cheap binoculars from the chaos of her junk drawer and focused on the image. She couldn’t make out the guy’s face but was certain from his tall, hulking build that it couldn’t be Tim. After a minute or two, he sank back into the shadow of a tree and disappeared again. Without bothering to undress, Ryden turned the TV back on and settled down on the couch with a blanket to watch a Dawson’s Creek marathon.

  *

  Martin Graber stepped into the phone booth and impatiently dialed the number. He couldn’t wait to tell the Broker he’d hit the money pot. His hands shook from excitement as a male voice answered on the first ring. “It’s Marty,” he said. “I need to talk to the Broker.”

  Her icy voice came on the line seconds later. “And?”

  “Good news,” he reported. If this didn’t gain her respect, nothing would.

  “About time,” the perpetually unsatisfied voice replied.

  “It wasn’t easy.” He felt inflated and confident he’d done a great job. “But we found a match. She’s—”

  “I want to see her tonight. If she’s a fit, the transformation can begin.”

  “We need to get her first,” Marty replied. “But she’s the best candidate so far. An astonishing resemb—”

  “Did I or did I not ask you to let me know as soon as you had the right woman?”

  “Yes, you—”

  “I don’t remember asking you to bother me until you had her. I am once again stressing the word had and not found. I don’t have time for useless pronouncements.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Marty said. “We can’t just abduct her. Not if we want her to do what you need.”

  “Of course not, you fool. You have to make an offer. One she can’t refuse.”

  “She won’t bite,” he said. “Not from what we have on her so far. Goody Two-shoes. Straight as they come.”

  “Everyone has a price.”

  “She’s not into money. She doesn’t make much, but her bank account shows donations to all sorts of causes—animal shelters and rescue groups, mostly.”

  “I’m rolling my eyes. Can you guess why?”

  Marty hesitated, terrified of saying the wrong thing. Tougher men had died at the hands of the Broker for lesser reasons. “I checked her background. No relatives, grew up in an orphanage and, later, in foster homes. No ties with any of them. Single and no colleague or anyone in her life who matters enough to pressure her with. No drug abuse, no promiscuous behavior. Nothing. Not even a DUI.” He was satisfied with himself for being thorough.

  “What does that leave you with?” the Broker asked, her calm tone more ominous than ever.

  He needed an answer, even a remotely relevant one, but nothing came to him, and as the seconds ticked away he began to feel numbness in his brain. He tried to concentrate on a rock at his feet and found himself praying to it for an epiphany.

  “Again,” she said evenly, “everyone has their price. Even if they don’t know it yet.”

  Marty snapped his fingers. “You want me to…set her up,” he said hastily. He knew he sounded like an eager child whom the teacher had just helped find the answer, but he didn’t care. He was sure it was the right answer all the same.

  “Bloody eureka.”

  He wiped his sweaty forehead and kicked the rock away.

  “Do you think you can manage that?” the Broker asked.

  How he hated her sarcasm. If he wasn’t scared shitless of the bitch, he’d tell her to stick her fucking head in an oven and light a match. “No problem.” He tried to sound confident. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Let’s hope not,” she said. “Because the next time you call, it’d better be to tell me she’s ready to cooperate.�
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  “Sure, you can—” The phone disconnected. As usual, she’d hung up on him before he was done talking. Marty slammed the receiver back on its hook. “Cold bitch.”

  *

  Houston, Texas

  TQ, known to many in the criminal underworld simply as the Broker, disconnected her call and began to pace restlessly through her lavish penthouse apartment at One Park Place in downtown Houston. Her home was an extraordinary showplace for many of the world’s rarest and most valuable antiquities and art—nearly all of them stolen—but no one aside from her two trusted servants had ever been inside the private museum she called home. And even they didn’t know about her safe room, an impenetrable fortress accessed through secret panels in her bedroom and office.

  She found it both soothing and motivating to skim her hands over the myriad ancient pieces that comprised her collection, for they represented the only two things she valued: power and money. She had plenty of both but was forever plotting ways to acquire more. Her influence extended to the highest offices in countries the world over; she had blackmailed or bought presidents, prime ministers, and more than a few royals, and she was rarely denied anything she set her mind on.

  Her latest illegal acquisitions had been given prime real estate in her spacious four-thousand-square-foot apartment. Rembrandt’s “Storm on the Sea of Galilee,” one of several masterpieces stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston more than a decade earlier, hung above her bed. The other recent addition, a gold burial mask more than three thousand years old and smuggled out of Luxor, Egypt, had its own crystal display case in her office.

  But tonight, even those treasures failed to calm her restlessness. A looming impediment to one of her primary interests had to be dealt with, and soon. And it seemed as though the success or failure of her plans rested on the shoulders of Marty Graber. Alas, among all the men she had sent to find the match she requested, it was the low-level thug who could barely carry on a conversation who’d claimed to have found her.

  But while Graber seemed incompetent at times, she knew better. He’d worked for her in the past, and although he frequently needed things spelled out for him, he always came through. Finding this woman was impressive and reason enough to allow him to continue to serve her.

  She had plenty of men and women working for her, all of them available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. None had ever met her in person. Since she’d decided to disappear more than a decade ago, the only way to reach her had been through an untraceable mobile number. Even Dario hadn’t known where to find her.

  TQ sighed at the memory of her brother. Idiot. If she’d ever come close to feeling affection for anyone, it was her only sibling. Not because they were related—because that was never reason enough for her to feel anything except contempt for her parents—but because of his dedication to her. She doubted he actually loved her. She was certain, however, that he respected her, and not out of fear like the rest, but because she took care of him.

  Without her, Dario would have been lost, a whore-visiting drunk with a meager inheritance to live on: a negligible sum he would have spent on brothels and booze within months. It was all the poor idiot could come up with to compensate for his physical limitations.

  TQ had built an empire with her deceased husband’s fortune and name, one that allowed her to employ her brother and make him a very rich man. Because of her, Dario could afford the best rehab clinic for his alcohol addiction, live-in help for his disability, a trio of bodyguards, private jet, and enough money to live like a king.

  But that very lifestyle had been his downfall. He’d overindulged in the one addiction he never had any interest in trying to master: prostitutes. Unfortunately, the fool was stupid enough to fall in love with a common whore, one who had betrayed him and cost him his life. Even though several weeks had gone by and TQ was never one to dwell on the past, she still got infuriated at her brother’s naïveté. His hard-on for that prostitute had blinded his judgment and, worse, had brought her existence to the attention of what she suspected was a private law-enforcement or security organization.

  She’d never had to deal with any such private entity before because she paid good money to those who mattered to keep that from happening, so the fact that they’d learned about her brother and his involvement in her business still bothered her.

  Oh, well, she thought. She couldn’t do anything to alter that, and after all, should these entities ever come after her, all she had to do was call her connections in either the CIA or FBI. She wouldn’t lose any sleep over the matter.

  Her only lingering interest in the whole affair was that Jack woman—the bitch who’d killed her brother. Though she’d tried to track her down, Jack was as elusive as she was. The woman had no connections to anyone high up that she could influence, and though they apparently had plenty of acquaintances in common—Jack had worked for many of the powerhouses in the underworld—none knew how to reach her.

  If finding that woman was the last thing she ever did, TQ would die happy. But would she torture Jack to death or into submission? Despite the fact she wanted to seek justice for her brother, she had a begrudging respect for the woman who had earned the nickname Silent Death. Her reputation was well established as a very capable and ruthless killer who respected discretion and always delivered fast results.

  But other matters demanded her attention before she could concentrate further on tracking down her brother’s killer. Elizabeth Thomas posed an immediate and deeply concerning threat to the only thing that really mattered to TQ: her money. Why did vile, meddling women all of a sudden surround her? The newly elected president had vowed to shut down one of her two primary businesses: the illegal-weapons trade. TQ was also a key player in the global selling of black-market human organs, and she considered both concerns vital to the world economy, primarily her economy. She’d just invested several million on weapons destined for sale to various countries—including the U.S.—and she wasn’t about to lose out just because the new president happened to be a woman who wanted to prove herself more capable and more ethical than any male before her.

  Even aside from the new president’s agenda, TQ derided the election of the first female to the Oval Office. She viewed politics as a man’s world—past, present, and future. Not because men were better at it but because they were testosterone-fueled monkeys who needed to pound their chests, claim power, and play war, regardless of how much it cost or how the wars got funded. In her mind, men weren’t concerned about children or women getting killed or whether the sons and fathers of their country died. They wanted power and they wanted to win, and the rest was merely collateral damage.

  TQ understood the sentiment. She, too, valued power more than any single or collective life, and she was well positioned to exploit it. She knew power in any form was born of money, which in turn bred corruption, and the rich were divided into two inseparable categories: those who practiced their power on stage and the ones behind the scenes who helped them launder their riches. TQ was in the latter category and reveled in the knowledge that so many influential people depended on her to keep their secrets and make them look good. When it came right down to it, she was the one with true control. She was a necessary evil, and as long as she was necessary, she was God.

  TQ leafed through her private phone book, containing the names of movers and shakers on both sides of the law, as well as the more obscure individuals who did her dirty work. Most were people whose numbers were impossible to find, although a few of the underworld figures practically handed out business cards because they were either too arrogant or too stupid to be careful. Russian mob boss Yuri Dratshev fell somewhere in between.

  She reached for the phone. “Time to deal with the president,” she said aloud as she dialed the unlisted number to Dratshev’s Manhattan Beach, New York mansion. She’d previously avoided contact with the Russian disease of a man; he was vulgar, uneducated, and without any decorum. But though she despised him, he ha
d much to lose as well should the president get her way, and he had some of the best warlords on his side. If they combined forces, something he’d always begged for because of TQ’s reputation, it was only a matter of time before this ridiculous weapons agenda ended up on the massive pile of unkept political promises.

  “I’m looking for Yuri Dratshev,” TQ said loudly, to be heard over the blaring sound of the TV in the background. She didn’t own a set herself—they were annoying, misleading contraptions deliberately designed to numb the mind.

  “This is him,” came the heavily accented reply.

  TQ rolled her eyes. Second-generation immigrant and he still couldn’t speak the language correctly. “Good evening, Yuri. You haven’t had the pleasure of meeting me in person, though I know you’ve wanted to.”

  “Who the shit are you?” the Russian mob boss replied. “I don’t need to meet anyone. How did you get my number?”

  “Is this a secure line?” she asked.

  “Yes, line is safe,” he replied dubiously. “Who is this?”

  “My name is TQ.”

  There was a long pause, then a clicking in the phone line and the maddening blare of the TV stopped. “Now it is a secure line,” Dratshev finally said. “What a pleasure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Finally, we meet.”

  “I wouldn’t go as far as a meeting,” TQ said, “but I do have a collaboration plan in mind.”

  “I would very much like business with you,” Dratshev said. “Big business, yes?”

  “Big, yes.”

  “I am all hears.”

  “The expression is ‘ears,’” she said patiently, trying hard not to second-guess her choice. “But that aside, we have a certain problem in common.”