Page 2 of Deadly Charade

Her gut reaction reaffirmed her suspicions—these men were up to no good. A sheen of sweat dotted the security guard’s forehead. The bigger guy’s voice grated with agitation, and the security guard waved his hands in front of him as if in surrender.

“I don’t have it,” the guard said in Russian, his panicked voice raised enough for Kira to translate. “I need more time.”

So, this was a shakedown? Money? Art? And who were these guys anyway?

Kira frowned. Should she get involved? It might be nothing. After all, she had just wanted to check out the statue and the gallery security. She took out a notebook and pretended to jot notes about the painting. But she couldn’t escape the image of the security guard’s pale face and shaky hands.

The voices fell away, and she checked over her shoulder. The men had disappeared and the door marked Staff Only clicked shut. The gallery attendant had also left the room, probably ushering other patrons toward the exit for closing time.

Why were her instincts screaming at her to follow the men? The heated argument and angry voice of the older man had given her goose bumps. Something was off.

This wasn’t an active investigation, but the security guard could be in danger. She walked to the staff door and listened. Raised voices caught her attention. The men were still arguing. Making a split-second decision, she cracked open the door and scanned the hallway.

No one.

She stepped into the back rooms of the gallery to confirm the guard’s safety. Then she’d hightail it out of the gallery.

The area resembled a ghost town. She started walking past the paintings stacked along the hallway, and multiple rooms contained portraits, sculptures, and display cases. Not very well organized for an art gallery. Then again, the public didn’t see this part.

The voices reached her from the end of the hall, so she headed in the direction of the red exit sign. If they were leaving, the guard might be good, but she needed to make sure he wasn’t being targeted or in trouble.

Another door slammed, and Kira followed the source of the noise into a stairwell. To her left, stairs led to the second floor. To her right, she faced a door, its exit sign plastered across the peeling white paint. Which way?

She hit the metal bar and pushed the door open. Cold rain pelted her in the face. She hugged the inside wall, checking her surroundings before stepping outside. Fluorescent lights lit the service alleyway behind the gallery. The smell of the dumpster sent her gag reflexes into overdrive.

She took a few more steps and stopped. Her gaze focused on the narrow alleyway between two buildings that led to the main road. Had the security guard or the man run out the back door? What were they up to?

As if to answer her question, the man in the suit stepped out from behind the trash bin and swung a piece of a frame like a baseball bat. Kira tried to duck, but it connected with her forehead in a glancing blow. The nausea hit before the throbbing pain registered. Spots danced in front of her eyes. She lost her balance but caught herself and staggered back. Her hand went to the empty area where her gun should be. And wasn’t.

The attacker ran, his steps echoing through the alley. Buildings surrounded them on either side. Blood flecks speckled her white T-shirt from the cut on her forehead. She stanched the bleeding with her sleeve, and it appeared to be minor.

She checked the area for anything she could use as a weapon. If only she had brought her gun. By law, she could carry the weapon anywhere, but she’d expected to spend her off-duty evening touring a gallery, not defending herself from a bad guy in some dark back alley. So, she had decided not to tangle with the gallery security screeners in hopes of flying under the radar. Lesson learned.

She reached into the dumpster and pulled out a broken chair leg. At least it was something heavy she could use as a makeshift weapon. Adrenaline took over, and she sprinted and caught up with the guy. He stopped to take another swing with his improvised bat, but Kira deflected it with the wooden chair leg and countered with a roundhouse kick to the man’s side.

He staggered, his dark eyes full of rage. “You don’t know who you are messing with.” The man spat out the words in Russian, but Kira pretended not to understand.

The guy had to be in his late fifties—pretty fit for an older guy—with dark hair peppered with gray around his temples and a goatee. He gave off godfather vibes. Russian mafia? What had she stumbled into?

And here she was.

They stared each other down, until the man whipped out a knife from inside his jacket and flung it at Kira. She hit the ground, the blade passing over her head and clanging off a dumpster.

He bolted toward the main road. She jumped up to go after him, but he threw himself into the passenger seat of a waiting car. She stumbled to a stop at the curb, trying to grab the license plate number while he waved his ring-clad stubby fingers to her from the window. But the plate had been covered up. Just great.

Kira backtracked to the gallery’s exit. If the suit was bad news, what had happened to the security guard?

She reentered the building through the back door and stopped short at a noise.

“Help.” A voice rasped and then coughed.

Kira turned toward the stairwell and walked around to the alcove behind the stairs.

A man lay slumped over. A pool of blood coated the gray concrete floor.

She gasped. “No, no, no.” The security guard lay against the wall under the stairs, his hand clutching his chest.

She raced to the victim on the ground. Where had he come from? The area had been empty when she came out of the building. Kira’s head swiveled around to check for trouble.