And they all knew “missing” in this case could mean only one thing. The man was dead.
Just like Freddy Chang in Hong Kong, or Stacy McKitrick in Bangkok.
Chang’s body had been fished out of the East Lamma Channel the day after Petra and her small team had arrived in Hong Kong. And in Bangkok they had at first lost Luka, then McKitrick herself had turned up dead on a walkway along one of the old city canals.
So close.
Perhaps Thomas would turn up in the Atlantic at some point, but even if he did, it didn’t matter. Dead was dead, and of no use to her. She needed at least one person from her photograph to be alive. She couldn’t question a corpse.
But now with Thomas sharing the same fate as most of the others, the list of possibilities had been reduced to two names: Kenneth Moody, last known location Philadelphia, and Ryan Winters, last known location Los Angeles.
At least one of their two targets had to still be alive. If not …
Petra wouldn’t even let herself think about it. She and Kolya were here in Los Angeles pursuing Winters, and Mikhail was back on the East Coast hunting down Moody. They were doing everything they could. Thinking more was just wasting energy.
She did another quick sweep of the baggage area, decided their arrival had gone unnoticed, then walked over to carousel number two and tapped Kolya on the shoulder. Without waiting for a response, she walked over to the man with the sign.
“Ms. Roberts?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Petra said with a slight Southern twang. “I’m Ms. Roberts.” She had worked very hard at perfecting an American accent, and had done well enough to fool most people.
“Great,” the man said, his smile more functional than earnest. “My name is Frank. No bags?”
“Just what we’re carrying.”
This didn’t seem to surprise him. He’d undoubtedly seen it all in his job. “Would you like to wait here while I get the car?”
“We’ll come with you.”
Frank drove them to the San Fernando Valley and dropped them off at the Days Inn in Studio City. Kolya and Petra found the dark gray Buick Lucerne that Mikhail had arranged for them parked near the back. No paperwork, no way to trace the vehicle to them. If they were being tracked, the trail would end at the motel.
“Keep to the speed limit,” Petra instructed, not wanting to draw the attention of the police.
Once they were back on Ventura Boulevard, she entered their destination into the GPS mounted in the dash, then examined the route. Laurel Canyon Boulevard was a mile to the east. From there it would be a quick drive into the hills to Winters’s house. She guessed ten minutes tops.
Above them, the sky had turned a deep blue, but few stars were visible through the haze of the city lights. Just like Moscow, Petra thought.
The pay-as-you-go cell phone she’d acquired in New York buzzed in her bag. “What happened?” Mikhail asked before she could say anything. “You were supposed to call hours ago.”
“Our flight was delayed after we’d already boarded. If you had checked our status online, you would have known that.”
Mikhail was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone had softened. “Where are you?”
“We just retrieved the car from the motel.”
“No problems?”
“None. Anything on Moody yet?”
“I found someone who remembered him. A neighbor. Said he thinks Moody moved to New York, but he wasn’t sure.”
Petra frowned. “Keep looking.”
“What do you think I’m doing? Sitting in a bar getting drunk?”
Petra closed her eyes. “Of course not. I know you’re doing your best. But we can’t afford to lose another chance.”
“We’ll find them.”
“We found Chang and McKitrick and Thomas, too,” she reminded him.
“I meant alive.”
“Have you heard from Stepka?” Petra asked.
“No. You want me to call him?”
“I’ll do it.”
She hung up. Stepka’s role in the operation was that of technical support. Dombrovski himself had ensured that Stepka got the best training available. Something the young man would undoubtedly use to make millions once their mission was finished. He was based out of a Moscow apartment. A significant amount of their funds had been used to equip the space with the best computers and communications gear.
Petra calculated the time difference. Moscow would just be waking up, which, knowing Stepka, meant he was starting to think about going to bed. She made the call.
“Yes?” Stepka said in typical hurried fashion.
“It’s me,” Petra said.
“Hold on.” The delay was only a few seconds long. “Where are you?”
“Los Angeles. Heading to the address you found for Winters.”
“Excellent.”
“Have you made any progress on the other matter?” she asked.
She had tasked Stepka with trying to find out who had been hired to erase the people she and her team had been trying to find. If they could figure that out, they might be able to get one step ahead of them. That could very well be the difference between failure and success.
“I’m still working on it.”
“Work faster,” she told him. “We need to know.”
“I’m doing what I can,” he insisted.
“If Winters and Moody are dead, too, then the only lead we’ll have left is whoever’s doing the killing.”
“I know!”
“We can’t afford to—”
“Petra,” Kolya interrupted.
She put her hand over the phone. “What?”
“We’re almost there.”
Winters was home.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone.
His house was located where Laurel Canyon began its rise into the Hollywood Hills, several blocks south of Ventura Boulevard. It was one level, and impressive: a dark wooden roof, outer walls painted creamy yellow, window frames and front door a bright, glossy white, and a wide grassy front lawn. Back in Moscow it would have been something only the very rich could afford, but by American standards, she had no idea where it fell on the monetary status scale. In the driveway were two sedans, a Mercedes and an Infiniti.
As Kolya drove the sedan leisurely down the street, Petra took another glance at the house. Through the front window, she could see the dark shapes of several people. She told Kolya to keep driving, then instructed him to turn down the next street and park. She opened the glove compartment, but it was empty. A bit more anxious, she slipped her hand under her seat and dug around until her fingers touched a hard object wrapped in what felt like cloth. She pulled it out.
It was a canvas bag, the kind someone would use at a grocery store. From within she pulled out the Baby Glock subcompact pistol Mikhail had arranged to be waiting with the car.
“You think you’re going to need that?” Kolya asked.
“I hope not,” she said, then slipped the gun into her bag and climbed out of the car. “Keep the lights off and the engine running. I’ll be back soon.” She closed the door silently behind her.
Night had descended in full over Los Angeles. But while the lights along Ventura Boulevard had been bright enough to leave little hidden, up here in the hills the streetlamps only cut ineffectual holes in the darkness. Despite this, Petra proceeded with caution, taking the relaxed pace of someone out for an evening stroll. She noted lights on in most of the houses she passed, but she was the only one out.
Then, two houses down and across the street from Winters’s place, she spotted a man leaning against a tree.
He wasn’t exactly hiding, but close enough. He had positioned himself in such a way that the tree blocked the light from the nearest streetlamp, creating a dark shadow that all but enveloped him. His short height made her think that he might be a teenager, but her gut said no. In her mind, a giant sign hung above him, reading DOESN’T BELONG.