Locke and Key (Titan Book 12) Read online

  Contents

  LOCKE AND KEY

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  DELTA: REDEMPTION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  LOCKE AND KEY

  CRISTIN HARBER

  PROLOGUE

  Suburbs of Baltimore, Maryland

  Alexander Gaev hated when classes ended each day almost as much as he hated the weekend. It wasn’t that any subject piqued his interest or anyone in his eighth-grade class liked him, but at least at school he had the comforts of heat and lunch. With the voices of classmates at his back, he headed to the comfort of the loud shopping mall to take in all its distractions.

  The place was a money-spending monstrosity—he should have hated it for torturing him with things he couldn’t have, couldn’t want. Clothes that fit and were new. Food that was hot and homemade. His mother only cooked kvass and pelmeni when Dad had men from the neighborhood come over. They called themselves the Bratva, and more and more, the Bratva would drink and smoke the night away at their home as they made their plans to carry out orders from the Mikhailov bosses.

  Those Russian bosses scared Alexander, and maybe all the Bratva men also, which would explain why they stole cars and stripped them, and then farmed out the pickpocketing and shoplifting to neighborhood women and teenagers. Some of the kids on the corner said the Mikhailov bosses did bad things to those who didn’t listen. Alexander didn’t know what those bad things were, but he knew his parents believed in the power and loyalty of the Bratva. They probably loved those guys more than him and his sister, Tanya.

  He pushed through the heavy glass doors into the mall, into his sanctuary, where he could live as an American and pretend the throwaways of the Soviets, living like their neighborhood was Little Russia, didn’t dictate his life.

  But they did. The Bratva would party at his little, rundown house until the vodka bottles ran dry. Then the men would pass out with the cigarette smoke so thick that it still hung in the air when Alexander’s alarm went off. Tanya would cluck about the passed-out bodies they’d have to step over as they left for the school bus each morning.

  He wandered along the crowded mall walkways then checked his watch. One hour until the time he promised his father he’d help work on a car, stripping it for parts. He never asked where the cars came from and didn’t want to know. That way, he could pretend they weren’t stolen.

  Alexander ducked into Sherman’s. Expensive trinkets sparkled as far as the eye could see. He liked to brush his hands over the clothes, touch the leather, and inhale the colognes. The extravagance was very American—he was an American, but he didn’t feel like one. Not as a first-generation American with Russian as his native tongue and accented English. Then there was his haircut that never seemed to look right, his clothes that never seemed to fit right.

  “Sir, can I help you?”

  The voice made him jump. Alexander ran his hand along a glass case. “No.”

  “If you need anything…” She eyed his too-short pants and worn jacket.

  But Alexander moved around the corner and headed to another rack before he’d let her questioning look humiliate him.

  A prick of awareness caught his attention, and his eyes tracked to the side. What was his mother doing here?

  Alexander ducked behind a jewelry stand and studied her. Mama had wrinkles that had arrived too early, courtesy of cigarettes, alcohol, and Dad. She wore her best slacks in an attempt to fit in at Sherman’s, but it was her long coat with the oversized pockets that Alexander focused on.

  He’d never seen her shoplift, but there was no other reason she wore that coat. He moved to stay out of Mama’s line of sight. She inspected a row of necklaces—the long kind that dangled—occasionally holding them to her neck.

  Now earrings, too. Mama pulled her hair back, tilting her head to the side. She looked up at the light and then around, moving to another mirror. Same modeling moves, switching the handful of earrings and necklaces.

  “Sir, can I help you?”

  He jumped back as the Sherman’s clerk did a harsh up-and-down inspection of his ill-fitting clothes. It was a miracle she didn’t ask if he were homeless. “No, I’m fine.”

  “Are you interested in a scarf—”

  “No.” Had she seen what he was watching? He’d be in trouble if he brought attention to his mom. His stomach turned. The clerk’s eyes narrowed, but she wandered away with a promise to check back.

  Paranoia crept up his spine as he sensed that the clerk had followed him. He moved around, eyeing his mom as he did. Her methodical ways intrigued him.

  “Son.” The store clerk tapped his shoulder. “We have a no-loitering policy. Do you need anything?”

  “I’m not loitering. I’m thinking.” Again, he walked away from her, wishing he could watch his mother work. How funny was it that the clerk questioned him about loitering when his mom was nearby shoplifting, all so they could have more alcohol and cigarettes.

  He rolled his eyes. Why couldn’t he have parents who paid more attention to him than they did to the Mikhailovs—a mom and dad who asked how school was, not whether Alexander or Tanya could help with Bratva business? As if it were ever a question. It was more like an expectation. But he wanted his dad’s attention, and during Bratva business was the only time the man talked to him.

  “If what you’re thinking”—the clerk trailed him—“isn’t about a scarf, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Alexander rolled his eyes. “I’m trying to imagine my sister in one of these. Okay? She deserves it.”

  Pity flashed in the clerk’s eyes. Alexander didn’t know how to handle the combination of familial loyalty and disgust.

  “All right, then,” she cooed and gave him a sympathetic shrug. “I’m sure she would look lovely in any of these.”

  “Mm-hmm.” His gaze shifted to his mom, surprised that she was still in Sherman’s. “She would.”

  “Are you okay?” the clerk asked.

  “Fine. Dah. Yes.” He focused quickly on the woman in front of him. Damn, he didn’t like speaking to others, particularly in Russian. Maybe Mom shoplifting made him nervous. Alexander stepped away and stumbled b
ack into the pathway of people. They blocked the view of his mom. Or maybe she was finally gone. She’d been in the store for a while. He checked his watch—oh, he needed to leave soon too. If he didn’t help tear that car apart, Dad would be pissed.

  Wait, there was his mom. She was still there? Two store clerks hovered next to her, haphazardly checking tags. Were they on to her?

  Alexander’s stomach dropped. If Mom had clerks tailing her, she needed to leave. Now.

  The two clerks came closer, triangulating. There was no doubt. She’d been made. And then there was a security guard, hanging back and ready to assist. Damn it.

  His mind rushed. What was he supposed to do? Maybe help. If she were caught, Dad would be a nightmare, but that wasn’t his concern. The Mikhailov bosses were dangerous.

  Adrenaline fueled his anxious thoughts, and Alexander rushed ahead. Almost without a plan, he grabbed anything he could. Racks of purses caught in his arms. They toppled and crashed. He punched a tower of boxes. Rings scattered, and the river of people shouted and skidded.

  “What are you doing? Stop!” The sales clerk who had pitied him chased the expensive boxes.

  Alexander bolted away, having no idea what to do but lead the Sherman’s security away from his mother. He was part of the Gaev family team. Wasn’t the point of the Bratva that they protected their own? The Mikhailovs might even hear about how brave he was!

  His arm was yanked behind him, and he swung around to face a security guard.

  “Son, you need to stop,” the security ordered. “Do not resist.”

  He pulled back, gritting his teeth, and suddenly, his mother was next to the security guard. “What are you doing?”

  What was he doing? What was she doing! She was supposed to go! He created a diversion for her to escape.

  “Ma’am,” a clerk said behind them, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Can you come with us?”

  Rage exploded deep within Alexander. “Do not touch her!”

  The man tugged his mom back as the security guard urged him away.

  Mom kept her eyes on him. All he could see were her hazel eyes. Her experience. Her calm. Whatever came next would be okay.

  “It will be okay,” she whispered like a lullaby.

  He realized he was pulling on the guard’s arm. “Why are you still here?”

  “Khoroshiy mal'chik,” she said with a maternal voice he’d never heard before.

  Good boy? That didn’t make sense. Unless… He squinted. “Are you proud of me?”

  “Your father will be too,” she promised.

  He’d made them proud. Had that ever happened before? But everything had gone so wrong. He could imagine the fighting that would happen when Dad found out she didn’t complete her job, and if it were up to the Mikhailovs, she could be in danger. They’d owe money or worse, though he didn’t know what that meant.

  A crowd of store employees and shoppers gathered around. Hot embarrassment burned in his cheeks and set his ears on fire—but his dad would be proud. Never once in his twelve years—not for football or wrestling, not for good grades or report cards—had they been proud of him.

  Alexander’s chest expanded. He felt taller than before—broader, stronger, smarter than he’d ever been. “Ya tebya yublyu, Mama.”

  “I love you too.” She beamed as the creases around her eyes deepened.

  Now he understood what made a man: family and loyalty.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Twenty Years Later

  This helicopter’s upward maneuver to a rescue mission was goddamn hell—if hell was a frozen Russian tundra during a snowstorm. Locke Oliver dug his thumbs behind the dark straps that belted him into his seat. The five-point harness stood out like a tic-tac-toe board across his arctic camo. He leaned into his headset, ready to razz his team leader, Rocco. “I thought someone said we were headed to a resort.”

  The center of gravity tipped, and the helicopter pitched back and forth, stabilizing.

  “I did,” Parker said in their earpieces from the safe confines of Titan Group’s war room. “Sochi is an hour away.”

  “This is a frozen hurricane,” Locke grumbled.

  “He speaks.” Jax laughed. “Our boy Locke must be mega-worried.”

  Bishop muttered in their earpieces, echoing Locke’s thoughts about Jax’s need to be the team’s constant dickhead.

  “Quit your bitching,” Brock mumbled as he piloted the helicopter. “If Rapunzel doesn’t like the snow, he doesn’t like the snow. Who the hell likes ice pellets the size of bullets?”

  “If it’s not buzzed, it’s long?” Locke grumbled again. Brock’s humor was one thing. Easygoing. Jax… was Jax. A prick.

  “You could use a haircut,” Rocco said, looking unfazed by the goddamn blizzard they were flying into for an extraction mission. “And maybe listen better in the briefing. A frozen hurricane might’ve been mentioned.”

  “It was not,” Parker interjected from Titan’s warm, dry war room. “Don’t sully my reporting with your BS.”

  “Jax and Locke were hoping for downtime by the pool.” Cash leaned back from his position next to Brock at the control panel.

  “Looking for ladies,” Roman added. It seemed like he wanted to be on this helo as much as Locke did.

  “Easy, baby,” Brock crooned as they lurched.

  The wind howled against the belly of the helicopter as they gained altitude in the Krasnaya Polyana Mountains. Locke ground his molars. He didn’t doubt Brock, but conditions changed fast. He’d call this damn near a whiteout, and this bird was moving back and forth like popcorn on a windy day.

  Brock’s voice crackled with interference in the headsets. “ETA, two minutes.”

  “Simple job.” Rocco readied them up for the subfreezing op. “We have one task: to find this dude and haul his ass home.”

  The team responded with ooh-rahs and hoorahs. Locke grunted too, closing his eyes and focusing on what they knew. A DC-based teacher with an elite exchange program had found himself the target of the FSB. Russian Intelligence was no joke, and if they wanted him dead… The guy was lucky he’d found a safe place to hide at the ski resort.

  The request for extraction had come in under duress, and when Titan received the information from St. Andrew’s High School that the FSB was hunting one of their own, Locke had written the guy off. They had little information. Something about disrespecting the Mikhailov family.

  Disrespecting the Mikhailov family? No telling what that meant. The Mikhailovs ruled the Russian government and ran organized crime. An American could play cards wrong and insult a generation of Mikhailovs. Either way, that corrupt and powerful family wanted a piece of his American ass, and it didn’t bode well for the teacher surviving before Titan arrived.

  Locke listened to the ping-ping-ping of the sleet against the metal. This wouldn’t be a silent in-and-out job. That was the only way to do it—get in and get the fuck out—and they were choppering in because the roads were closed. Even the ski resort had shut down. Due. To. Snow. In Russia.

  The helo lurched, and Brock cursed a storm in his headset. “Thirty seconds.” They spun sideways. “Or less. Goddamn. Getting this bird down.”

  Locke’s ears popped, and the air was thin. They swayed hard side to side. Mother Nature needs to chill the fuck out. Roman’s ironclad face again matched what Locke was thinking.

  “Piece of cake.” Jax kicked back, and Locke half wanted to punch him.

  “Someone shut him up,” Brock growled.

  Conditions weren’t as predicted—they were so much worse. They would never have gone up in this crazy weather.

  “Ten seconds.” The toll of piloting this shitstorm covered Brock’s words. “Five. Fuck it. Out. Out. Let’s get that hatch open and punch out!”

  The helicopter jarred to a hovering standstill. Locke slammed his teeth together.

  “Smooth as silk,” Rocco muttered, yanking off his headset and grabbing his facemask and pulling it down.

  “Stay safe,
” Parker said. He even sounded warm all the way from HQ in the States.

  Locke pulled his headset off and donned the facemask and comm piece. The hatch opened, and hell howled with its white wind.

  “We’re a go,” their team leader said.

  The frozen mountains mocked them. The howling wind blew cold and cruel, and Locke’s toes curled. It would be a miracle if the teacher weren’t a solid piece of icy human meat. Even if the civilian were sheltered in a ski-patrol shack, Locke didn’t see how survival was possible in this icebox.

  Locke jumped into the whirlwind and sank into the fresh snow. “Whoa, baby!”

  With a snarl, he unsheathed the shovel and dug his pathway forward as the tink-tink-tink of icy snow hit his goggles. Crunch, cut, crunch, cut. He dug and moved, sweat and heat building under his thermal layers, until the Titan team hit the trees.

  “Eyes up,” Rocco ordered. “Get down. Keep your head on the swivel.”

  The wind howled as he dropped, and damn, the snow made every move a thousand times harder.

  “What are you seeing?” Parker asked from the other side of the globe.

  “Sideways snow,” Locke reported. “White as far as the eye can see.”

  Others echoed the same.

  “Pulling out,” Brock’s voice crackled from the helicopter. “Be back when you radio.” The helicopter lifted away and dropped into the snowy valley.

  “Titan Two, keep moving,” Rocco ordered.

  Locke, Jax, and Bishop—dubbed Titan Two for this job—pushed up but stayed at surface level.

  “Eyes and ears,” Rocco said, referring to his sniper and spotter, Cash and Roman. “Head out. Keep us clean and clear in case those FSB fucks are hanging close.”

  Cash and Roman melted into the white abyss.

  Titan Two moved boots too. Every step took the strength of ten. Thin air and snow-weighted steps depleted oxygen from their bodies. What condition would the teacher be in?

  “There we go.” Jax signaled their rendezvous location. “Twenty yards ahead.”

  “Good eyes,” Rocco said.

  Locke caught sight of the ski-patrol shack. Shack was a questionable term. If it had electricity, that would be a miracle. The thing had been made for the ski-resort conditions but maybe not for long-term housing. The SOS cell phone call had been placed to the US almost thirty hours earlier, and even that call, their intelligence report said, was broken and marred by interference then cut short. There wasn’t a follow-up phone call, and all return calls and attempts to find the signal had failed.