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

guy, said. “And losing.”
    “These Eastern European mobs are always fighting over something,” Jimmy scoffed. “Remember the bootleg vodka war two years ago?”
    “This one is more serious,” Prescott answered. “Kasanov is strictly old-school. Strong-arm tactics, kidnapping, blackmail, murder for hire. Forget the twenty-first century, his business model dates back to Attila the Hun.”
    Taylor took over, flashing several screens of financial data onto the monitor. “Kasanov has always been fiercely independent. His organization is small, family-based, but used to being feared and respected and brought in plenty of money. Until now.”
    He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head as if proud of himself. “Welcome to the age of the Internet. Blackmail occurs online. You want to kidnap someone? You hold their hard drive hostage. No need to kill when you can hijack a person’s—hell, a company’s—bank accounts and siphon off all their money with a click of a button.”
    “So Kasanov isn’t doing well. What’s that got to do with Drake?” Jimmy asked. “And why is he here in Pittsburgh?”
    No one had an answer to that.
    “Tell me about the homicides,” Drake said in a low voice, staring at Kasanov’s photo as if he and the murderer were the only two people in the room.
    “First we can verify was a storekeeper in Prague, 1954. During an attempted armed robbery. He actually did time for that but escaped from custody. Then he moved onto hiring himself out as a leg breaker, worked for various Mafia factions: Sicilians, Corsicans, Greeks, Turks, even Basques at one point. Always staying in Europe and Central Asia, dropping bodies wherever he went.”
    Drake shook his head. “No, those are all just business. You said he was unpredictable. Tell me about the murders that don’t fit the pattern.”
    Jimmy moved to join his partner, nodding in approval. Two great minds think alike. Even when one was clouded with worry.
    No, more than worry; worry was what Jimmy felt. Stark terror was more like what Drake was experiencing, Jimmy thought as he saw the muscles at the corner of Drake’s jaw spasm. He swore he could hear Drake’s teeth grind in frustration as they waited for the FBI’s best and brightest to give them the answers they needed. That break in Drake’s facade made Jimmy worry even more.
    Taylor fiddled with his computer for moment, then a screen with a dozen thumbnail photos appeared. He clicked on each one in turn, blowing it up to the full view.
    “These all seem unmotivated,” he told them. “The first documented was a prostitute in Budapest. Found dead after spending a night with a man identified as Kasanov.” A mug shot photo appeared, the woman was in her mid-thirties, old for a prostitute—especially to attract a man like Kasanov, Jimmy thought.
    “He was what, twenty, then?”
    “Try seventeen,” Texas answered. “I’m sure the BAU would label these homicides as the pleasure kills of a sadist who enjoys ritual torture.”
    Taylor flashed another image. Another tortured woman. And another. Until finally, he projected a map of the killings. A bloody trail leading across Europe, the former Soviet Union, and Central Asia.
    The footsteps of a psychopathic serial killer who hated women. Jimmy took a drink of his coffee, mainly to cover his emotions, but it turned to acid in his mouth. This was the man who had Drake’s mother and Hart.
    And they had no idea why he’d targeted them or what he wanted.
     
 
 
 
 

Chapter 17
     
    ONCE CASSIE REACHED his feet, Kasanov jerked his head in a nod and one of his minions leapt forward, knife in hand, and cut her wrists free. She stretched for the bottle of water Kasanov held out to her. Finally, she grasped it with both hands, fearful that she might drop it, her fingers were so numb.
    Greedily, she drank it all before he could change his mind. She would have tried to maintain her dignity, but she couldn’t survive without water. Besides,