When they arrived, he tipped the cabbie a crisp hundred-dollar bill with the promise of another hundred if he waited twenty minutes. The cabbie snatched the bill out of his hand.
“You got fifteen. I’ll wait twenty, but it’ll cost you another hundred.”
“Done,” Edge said.
After Zoe had texted the address and a plat of Petrov’s two-acre estate, he had studied a Google satellite map of the area. With the taxi parked down the road from the main gate, he made his way around the perimeter of a tall wrought-iron fence that surrounded the luxury development.
He had time for a quick recon of the property, made his way back to Petrov’s mansion, but couldn’t risk getting too close. As he stared up at the second-story windows of the house, his hands unconsciously fisted. It was all he could do not to storm the gates and haul Skye out of there. He had seen the way Petrov looked at her. The Russian wanted her, and now she was in his home, completely at his mercy.
Well, not completely, he reminded himself. Skye was armed, and there was no doubt the woman could be dangerous.
Edge relaxed a little and returned to the job at hand. Intriguingly, Petrov’s estate and others in the area backed up to an unfinished golf course. The land under construction had been graded, the dirt leveled and smoothed into fairways, but the unfinished course was unpatrolled. Dirt and rocks didn’t attract many thieves.
Staying out of sight, Edge circled Petrov’s property again, surveilling the estate long enough to spot a guard making his rounds. Probably two men at least. He checked his watch. Time to go. Hurrying back to the taxi, he handed the driver the rest of the money he’d promised, and the cab headed back to the hotel.
Stepping out of the elevator, he made his way down the corridor to his suite. Before he’d left the hotel for the evening, he’d placed a long strand of Skye’s dark hair across the door. The strand remained in place. No one had been in the room.
Petrov wasn’t worried. At the moment, the Russian held all the cards.
Edge tossed his jacket over the back of a chair in the living room and phoned Conner Delaney. Conn was former marine spec ops. Skye’s brother would do whatever it took to protect her.
Edge’s second call went to Trace. It didn’t take long to set up a three-way phone conversation.
“What’s going on?” Conn asked.
“It’s Skye. She’s in trouble. We’re in Vegas. I shouldn’t have brought her with me in the first place, but—”
“But she didn’t give you any choice,” Conn said. “One thing I know about my sister, there’s no stopping her once her mind’s made up.”
It was true, so Edge didn’t argue.
“So what’s the situation?” Trace asked, his voice a deep rumble roughened by sleep.
Edge spent the next half hour filling the men in on Petrov and his connection to Daniel Henson, the DEA’s involvement, and the shipment of ephedrine coming into Long Beach from India.
“Petrov’s using Skye as leverage to make sure I stay in line. He’s taken her to his estate north of the city—which sits on two acres and is worth boo-coo millions.”
“At least she’ll have decent accommodations,” Trace drawled, a touch of humor in his voice.
“I should have seen this coming,” Edge said, in no mood for jokes. “I should have left her out of it.”
“We all know that wasn’t an option, so forget it,” Trace said.
“What we need to do now,” Conn added, “is focus on getting my sister out of the house before the DEA goes in after Petrov.”
“I’ve got an idea how we can do that,” Edge said. “How soon can you guys get here?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE WHITEGMCPANEL VAN ROLLED DOWNINTERSTATE 15, HEADINGsouth out of Las Vegas. A big guy named Riggins was driving, while the other man, Ketch, small, homely, with curly blond hair, rode shotgun. Edge and Dutch sat in the rear passenger seats.
“So where are we headed?” Edge asked. The mini voice-activated recorder was broadcasting from the bottom of the inside coat pocket of a lightweight black jacket. Dutch had taken Edge’s Beretta with the promise to return it when the op was over.
Edge wasn’t worried about the gun. He could disarm all three men and, should the need arise, permanently end the threat they posed. For now, he just needed information.
Turning a little in his seat, he spoke to Dutch, praying the hum of the engine wouldn’t muffle the conversation being transmitted to the DEA.
“Okay, so we’re on the road,” he said. “Where are we headed, and how long until we get there?”
