Eye of the Storm by C. J. Lyons Page A

who was the target. Cassandra Hart or Detective Drake.”
    “Hart’s a doctor at a community clinic. What could she have of value to Kasanov?”
    “Maybe something he thinks Hart has seen or knows, but,” Jimmy took a sip of coffee and thought for a moment, “he’s not entirely certain. And that’s why he didn’t kill anyone at the party. Maybe he was worried he’d be killing the one person who could force Hart to do whatever it is he wants.”
    “Then he’d have done better to take one of the juveniles as his second hostage,” the other agent, one who obviously wasn’t aware Jimmy was father of two of those “juveniles,” put in in a bland tone. He had Hispanic coloring and a shaven head that made Jimmy look twice for gang tattoos, even though he knew visible body art was against FBI policy.
    Prescott cleared his throat as Jimmy crushed the paper cup and hurled it at a garbage can just past the agent’s head. The junior agent jerked up at that, shooting Jimmy a narrow-eyed glare.
    “Maybe I should introduce our guests before we continue,” Prescott said. “This is Detective Jimmy Dolan of Pittsburgh’s Major Case Squad.” Shaven-head lowered his gaze and pretended to be engrossed in his notes. “Father of two of our witnesses and husband to Denise Dolan, also a witness. And, for those of you who haven’t recognized him, Detective Mickey Drake.”
    “It was my mother and fiancée Kasanov took,” Drake put in, his voice as expressionless as his face. In Jimmy’s experience, that blank void of a stare always meant trouble. Kid shut down like that, meant the powder keg’s fuse was lit and burning fast.
    “Makes more sense if Drake is the real target,” Texas said in a chipper voice as if this tidbit of enlightenment would solve all their problems. “His paintings burned, his family taken. Maybe Kasanov is tied to a former case? From the Interpol report, Kasanov has been known to carry a grudge against prosecutors and judges who target him.”
    “Do you people have anything?” Drake asked, turning to the small task force. “Besides vague theories?”
    “The only thing we know for certain about Kasanov is to expect the unexpected,” Taylor, the agent who’d acted as their escort, put in. Despite his youth, he must have some seniority because Prescott shifted the computer over to him.
    Kasanov’s photo, one that appeared several years old, flashed onto the monitor. “Nickolai Bernard Kasanov—at least that’s his current incarnation,” he began. “Real name unknown. There’s a list of his aliases in your briefing packets. Date of birth, unknown, suspected to be approximately 1940 or 1941. Place of birth unknown, but phonetic analysis of vocal patterns place his origins in the Austria-Hungarian area. Parents—”
    “Unknown,” Jimmy interrupted, saving Drake the effort. “Cut the crap. What do you know?”
    Taylor’s eyes sparked but he continued without pause. “Known to have been involved in fifty-three homicides. Suspected in another thirty-one.”
    “Jeezit—what’s this actor doing out on the streets?” Jimmy asked with indignation. “Seventy-four people he’s killed and you’re letting him get away with it?”
    “Those all occurred outside of the USA,” Texas said.
    Prescott placed both his hands flat on the table, drawing the attention of all of the agents. “That’s one of the things that worries me. While he has criminal enterprises running here, Kasanov has never stepped foot on US soil before. And we can’t find any trace that he has now. If he’s here, he’s a ghost.”
    “Are we sure it’s him?” Shaven-head said, risking a glance in Jimmy’s direction.
    In answer, Jimmy tossed Jacob’s phone to him. “See for yourself.” As the junior agents gathered around the video, Jimmy turned to Prescott. “Seems like Kasanov knows how to stay off the radar. Any ideas why he’s coming out in the open now?”
    “He’s fighting a war,” Taylor, the computer