“Of course,” she said. “It’s the least I could do.”
“Wonderful. Come this way.”
Chapter 103
The four FBI men had bullied their way into the establishment and were now working their way through the Studebaker Theater’s three levels. Jake Sanders and Rudy Pagano each took a side. They both had a local agent with them to look after, not wanting to risk one of them trying a hero play to impress Director Culder. The locals were under strict orders to report a sighting before moving in. The seasoned veterans from HVT Squad knew all too well the kind of havoc an ill-timed shot of adrenaline could wreak.
No performers were on the stage when they arrived, so they assumed the show had reached an intermission. The men felt awkward in their suits. By the time they realized they should have been dressed for a formal black-tie event, it was too late. The break in attire meant they needed to work as quickly as possible. The men followed the plan and headed to their assigned locations so they could systematically scan the crowd.
“Top clear,” one of the local agents said. He had checked the smallest section and headed downstairs to cover the stairwell and rear exits on the north side.
“Second floor clear,” Sanders confirmed moments later. “I’m heading down the south stairwell.”
Many of the patrons were mingling in the open spaces, which complicated the search.
“Continue down the south side and start at the curtain closest to the stage,” Pagano told Sanders.
“Roger that.”
Sanders reached his vantage point and peeled back the first of three sets of bright red curtains that ran along the side of the first-floor seating area. They stood out from the cream-colored walls and the golden art nouveau motifs that adorned them. His eyes darted around the massive room, its design causing him to follow the tall, arched windows up to the vaulted ceiling. He quickly scanned down to the second-floor balcony across from him before working his way through the crowd. It didn’t take long for the former Delta Force operative to find who he was looking for.
“Got him,” he said into the small microphone that protruded from his sleeve. “South side, third row back, six in.”
The local agent who had cleared the top floor immediately came into view. Sanders’s pulse quickened as the agent worked his way down the center aisle that separated the two main seating areas.
“Don’t move in,” Sanders commanded, the tension evident despite the whispered tone. “I repeat, do not move in.”
The FBI agent froze midstride when Sanders barked out the order and instinctively looked away from the target’s location. His brown suit and red tie stood out like a flashing siren against the sea of black. He scurried back to the lobby to join the other local.
“I was just made by Pavel Kozlov,” the agent said.
“Who?” Sanders sounded annoyed this time.
“He’s a local crime boss. He spotted me and took off toward the door with some babe,” he said. “The guy is hard-core. He’s the head of the Chicago Bratva.”
“Bratva?” Sanders said with indifference.
“Yeah, it’s what the Ruskkies call the mob. He—”
“We can’t afford to blow this,” Sanders interrupted. He wasn’t interested in a lesson on the agent’s local problems. “Move into position and report back when our man’s boxed in.”
Chapter 104
Trent Turner was trying to keep a low profile when the news came through his wireless earbud.
“Four guys just rolled in the front door a minute ago looking all the business,” Etzy Millar said.
Turner’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“You know, the kind of guys who could use some of that classical music to relax.”
He switched the throat mic concealed by his collar from push-to-talk to automatic VOX mode and said, “Gotcha. What else can you tell me about them?”
Millar searched for an adjective. “Uh, military looking, I guess. I was waiting to see if they could be identified by the system, but it hasn’t come up with anything yet. One of them is wearing a brown suit and a red tie. The others are wearing dark blue or black suits. It’s hard to tell in this light. Two of them had a tie, two didn’t.”
“Okay, good job,” Turner said.
He was sure this marked the beginning of the problems he had expected. The operative began to scan the theater when Millar chimed in again.
“Looks like some guy is hanging around out back,” he said nervously. “The PMD pointed him out. Be careful in there.”
The mini drone had been set on autopilot, programmed to perform surveillance on the building. Millar had preset eight locations into the flying machine. He just needed to touch a point on a small map displayed on his screen and the PMD would break routine and head to the spot and process the area.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Millar said surprised. “I’ve got something for you.”
“What is it?”
“You remember that hottie from the airplane?”
Turner had a bad feeling about this. “Sure, why?”
“That Russian guy, Pavel Kozlov. He’s heading out the front door with her right now.” Millar touched the screen, commanding the PMD to maintain its position at the front of the building so he could watch. “Wow, these cameras are great. Holy crap, she’s got some legs.”
The comment brought the hint of a smile to Turner’s lips as he continued to scan the theater. He had already picked up on the man in the brown suit and saw him jerk his head away the instant Turner zeroed in. He made note of his location and continued his search for the others.
“She’s in the car and they’re driving off,” Millar said. “I marked it with the PMD, like you showed me.”
Turner was discreet with his reply. “Good,” he said. He had an ominous feeling that he was being watched.
He thought about what Millar had just told him and grew concerned that the Bratva boss may have recognized him when he was with the violinist. His sixth sense told him he needed to worry about the present, but he expected to soon cross paths with the Russian again. There wasn’t anything he could do about Victoria Eden right now, and if he wasn’t careful, he knew he might not be around to help her later.
Trent Turner drew on his experience, and his eyes shifted to the red curtains to his left. He noted the narrow slit that appeared halfway up their length. He would want that covered if he were trying to corner someone in the theater, and knew that would be Goon Number 2.
“You said the back was covered. What about the sides?” Turner asked, now scanning the area intently. “It’s not looking good in here. I’m going to have to bug out fast.”
“Checking now.”
The intermission was coming to a close, and the patrons had begun to return to their seats. He wasn’t sure who he was dealing with, and it was possible that cross hairs might be trying to find their way to his head. Turner needed to use the foot traffic to his advantage, and Etzy Millar had yet to chime in with the status, so his options were limited.
“Try to pull up 3-D mode for the theater,” he said impatiently as he searched for the remaining two men. “See if the PMD can identify their positions inside.”
Etzy Millar had been a fast learner, and it was something the operative appreciated more by the minute. The drone’s 3-D view of the theater used signals emitted from electronic devices to try to determine the position of the individuals who had been marked.
“Got it,” Millar said. “Hey, hold on a second. The PMD traced the registration for the car those men came here in. It says the car belongs to the FBI. It also says one of the cell signals was marked in the system last night.”
It was a mixture of good and bad news. Turner knew the likelihood of being shot in these crowds by an FBI agent was extremely low, but unless Heckler had sold him out, he wasn’t sure how they might have found him. His only connection to the bureau was Millar. He didn’t see any point in Addy Simpson sending the FBI after him, but this was no coincidence. These men knew he was here, and the list of people who had that information was suspiciously short.