Читать книгу Her Rocky Mountain Defender - Jennifer Bokal D. - Страница 11
ОглавлениеRoman didn’t like the odds. Three armed men against one. A locked room with no chance of bringing in backup and top that off with a terrified woman, for whom he was now responsible. If he were a betting man, he’d place his money on Oleg Zavalov winning. Thank goodness Roman had never wagered in his life.
“One last time before I get medieval on your girlfriend,” Oleg said. “Who do you work for?”
A fiery sense of self-loathing filled Roman. This whole situation was his fault. He should’ve marched Madelyn up the stairs as soon as she walked into Oleg’s office, to hell with her stubbornness. Instead he had what? Flirted? It was an amateur move, but at the same time, a little of the world’s ugliness had melted away during their exchange.
To top it all off, he was about to lose five months of work. And more than that, Oleg would know that he was being investigated and have time to dispose of any evidence. Roman opened his mouth, ready to confess all. He couldn’t find the words.
What he could find was a lie. “I don’t know what you have, Oleg. But it’s not mine.”
“It’s an ELD, a bug, a listening device.”
“How am I supposed to know about those things?” Roman asked, a little regretful that he couldn’t claim his latest creation. “I’m just the bartender.”
“I don’t think you do. I think she does.”
“But I don’t,” Madelyn said.
“If it wasn’t you, why’d you run?”
Roman answered for her. “Because I’m standing at the top of the stairs and when I turn around, there’s Serge and Anton with their guns. I told her to run. It’s what you do when someone threatens to shoot.”
Oleg’s mouth hung open for a minute, then like it was controlled by a puppeteer’s string, it snapped shut.
Fighting the urge to smile, Roman took in a deep breath. A pain shot through his side from a kick or punch he didn’t recall receiving. Madelyn looked at him. She was beautiful in a delicate way. She wore a navy blazer and white T-shirt that fitted her pert breasts and trim waist perfectly. Her dark hair was cut short and her brown eyes were large. Her skin was creamy and smooth. To him, she looked perfect, almost magical, and he wished like hell that magic was real and she could simply disappear. Small gold hoops dangled from each ear and a gold chain hung around her neck. Funny how small details became important when you were standing next to the thin line that separated life from death.
Oleg tossed the ELD in the air and caught it. “There’s one thing I do know, is that one of you two planted this bug. So, I’ll ask again—how’d this get in my office?”
“I don’t know,” Roman said.
“What about you?” Oleg turned to Madelyn. “How’d this get in my office?”
Madelyn quietly wept and shook her head.
“Nothing to say?” Oleg leaned his hip onto the corner of his desk. “Maybe you need the right motivation to talk. Make her sorry, Serge.”
Serge cracked his knuckles, a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He brought back his arm and slammed his fist into Madelyn’s face. She toppled from the chair. A bright red mark bloomed to life on her cheek.
To hell with the work or the loss of the investigation. Roman wouldn’t let Oleg hurt Madelyn any more. Although if they made it out of this alive, Roman would take great pleasure in bringing Oleg Zavalov to justice. It wasn’t professional anymore. It was personal.
“Okay. Okay.” Roman held his palms up and stepped between Serge and Madelyn. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“Everything?”
Roman swallowed. His side burned. “Yes.”
A phone rang and Serge pulled a cell from his pocket. “Da.”
While with Delta Force, Roman had studied over a dozen languages. He was fluent in Farsi, German, Spanish, French and Russian. Even if he hadn’t, the single Russian word was easy to translate. Yes.
“Oleg.” Serge held out the phone. “Vy khotite, chtoby prinyat eto.” Oleg, you want to take this.
“Ne seychas,” Oleg said. Not now.
“Seychas,” Serge insisted. “Eto moy dyadya Nikolay.”
Serge’s uncle Nikolai was on the phone? Nikolai Mateev?
Oleg sat taller and reached for the phone. He met Roman’s gaze and his eyes narrowed. Had Oleg guessed that Roman understood the short conversation? Roman looked away.
“Lock these two in the beer cooler,” said Oleg, “but stand guard. We’ll deal with them later.”
Serge pulled Madelyn to her feet. Anton withdrew his gun and motioned to the door. “Go,” he said.
Serge worked both locks on the outside of the beer cooler’s thick, white door. Madelyn was shoved in first. She stumbled over the doorjamb and fell to the metal floor with a hollow thump. Roman calmly stepped inside and turned to face Serge—the man he now knew for sure to be Nikolai Mateev’s great-nephew. “I’m going to get out of here and then, I’m going to kill you for hitting Madelyn.”
“Is that a wager, you stupid American?” he asked in halting English.
“I never make bets. It’s a pledge.”
Serge snorted. “Your promises bore me.”
The door slammed shut, leaving Roman and Madelyn in complete darkness.
* * *
Madelyn skidded across the cold metal floor and crashed into the wall. Every part of her body ached, throbbed or pained her. She didn’t care. She fumbled with the purse’s clasp and pulled out her phone. She hit the home button and the screen glowed.
“That won’t work in here,” Roman said. His voice came out of nowhere. “If it did, one of Oleg’s men would’ve taken your phone before they threw us in.”
She ignored him and dialed 9-1-1. The phone icon tumbled across the screen.
“We’re underground. The walls are cinder block, which makes the signal weak at best. Then you throw in these.” He wrapped his knuckles on the door. The metal walls echoed. “There’s no way for a signal to get through.”
She didn’t listen, staring instead at the cartwheeling phone icon.
“Madelyn, it’s not going to work.”
Roman knelt next to her, light from the phone illuminated his face. His lip was split and, for a moment, she recalled the feel of his mouth on hers. Was that to be her final joy in life? A kiss from a stranger?
“How can you be so calm, while we’re sitting here waiting to die?”
Roman gently rested his hand on her wrist. “We aren’t going to die,” he said.
“Yes, we are. Those men will be back. They said so.”
“I don’t care who’s coming. I’m not going to let a turd like Oleg Zavalov end my life—yours, either. But to get out of here, I need you to work with me. Can you do that?”
The next call failed. It looked as though her only option was Roman. She took in a fortifying breath. “Okay, what do we do?”
“Bring your phone over here. I need a light on this lock.”
Madelyn used the screen to light their way. He knelt before the door and she illuminated the catch.
“Do you have a credit card?”
“For what?”
“If the dead bolt isn’t engaged, I can slip a credit card between the jamb and the door and disengage the first lock.”
Madelyn’s pulse began to race, but this time she felt hope and not dread. She reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. The open end tipped over, scattering the contents of her handbag. Seeing the debris of her normal life on the floor brought tears to her eyes. The keys to her apartment and car. Her ID for the University of Colorado Hospital. Lipstick. Nail clippers. Two peppermints and a lint-covered bobby pin.
Would she ever need any of it again?
“Here.” She handed him a card and repositioned the phone to shine on Roman and the door.
He worked in silence for a moment before muttering a curse. “It was too much to hope that they’d be careless and not use both locks. I can open the bottom lock. To get out, I need to unlock the dead bolt, too.”
“So that’s it? We can’t do anything else.”
“I’m not giving up. Shine your phone on the walls, there has to be something we can use.”
Madelyn illuminated the walls from right to left. She saw nothing helpful, but then again—she didn’t know what he wanted to find.
“Bingo,” said Roman.
Her sweep stopped and the light shone on a thermometer.
Roman pried the face of the thermostat free, exposing the guts of the device. “It’s not as good as piano wire.” He worked a thin piece of metal free. “But it’ll do.”
Holding it up to the light, Roman continued. “I need you to shine your phone’s light on the door and keep your credit card steady at the same time.”
She slipped her wallet back into the bag and knelt next to Roman. His body heat enveloped her, warming her, reassuring her that he would do everything possible to save both of their lives.
Roman reached for Madelyn. His hand was large, with smooth calluses, and strong. He led her fingers to the card. “Hold it steady, just like that.”
She felt the tension in the thin plastic as it was held between the door and the jamb. “Got it,” she said.
He regarded her. In the light of the phone, his green eyes blazed. She moved closer to him, his breath brushed over her cheek. Madelyn never used the word brave to describe herself, nor adventurous. Yet as Roman moved forward, erasing the space between them, Madelyn took the lead and placed her lips on his. “In case we don’t make it out of here alive,” she said.
“We’ll make it.” He turned back to the door.
She smiled, not daring to hope and yet not able to fathom what would happen to her if they didn’t.
Roman’s breath stilled, and Madelyn held her own. Even in the freezing cooler, sweat damped Roman’s hair. He had a tattoo on his forearm. A screaming eagle with a banner in its talons.
“Hoc defendam,” she said. “This we’ll defend?”
“It’s the army’s motto.”
He’d been in the military. It explained a little—like how he knew how to handle himself in a fight and maybe even how he’d learned how to pick a lock. What it didn’t explain was why he was planting a listening device in Oleg’s office and what he hoped to overhear. Before she had time to wonder anymore, the lock clicked.
“Got it,” Roman said.
The door opened a fraction of an inch. Warm air and light leaked into the cooler. Madelyn didn’t have time for the tears of relief she wanted to shed. Sitting back on her heels, she collected her belongings. After shoving everything into her purse, she rose to her feet.
Roman peered into the hallway. Madelyn, at his back, looked over his shoulder. The door to Oleg’s office was closed. The man who’d been ordered to stand guard was nowhere in sight.
“There’s a door at the end of the hall that leads to a set of stairs and then an alleyway. We’re going out that way. Stay by my side and don’t make a sound.”
Madelyn held her breath and stepped into the hall. Roman carefully clicked the door shut behind them. Holding Roman’s hand, she quietly moved down the corridor. The door at the end was locked, but an electronic keypad clung to the wall. She waited while Roman entered a set of four numbers, certain that the pounding of her heart would give them away.
Two things happened in the same instant. A light atop the gray, metal box changed from red to green. One of the thugs came out of an adjacent room.
“Chuto, chert voz mi, ty delayesh?”
Madelyn had no idea what he’d said, but then again, she didn’t need to. The gun in his hand spoke volumes.
* * *
Glaring at Roman, Serge switched to English. “What the hell are you doing?”
One person. One gun. Roman’s odds were getting better and better. He stepped in front of Madelyn, shielding her with his body. The need to protect her was more of an instinct than a thought and he held his hands up, as if he intended to surrender.
Wordlessly, Serge jerked the gun toward the cooler.
Roman nodded, hands still lifted, and moved from the door. His focus sharpened to a razor’s edge. He kept his gaze connected with the thug’s, yet his concentration was on Serge’s hand, his arm, his gun.
Back to the wall, Roman inched toward the cooler—and Serge. Five feet away. Four feet. Three feet. Strike. Roman grabbed the gun’s barrel and wrenched it to the side. He twisted the firearm toward Serge’s thumb and at the same time, chopped down on the thug’s wrist. Roman righted the firearm, placing Serge into his sights.
Not sure of his next best play, Roman paused. In Russian, he said, “Opustoshit vashi karmany.” Empty your pockets.
Nikolai’s nephew gave a wry smile and shook his head. “Ty govorish’ po-russki?” You speak Russian?
“Da, chert voz’ mi, teperi’ opushoshit’ vashi karmany.” Damn right, now empty your pockets.
“Da, da, da,” said Serge. He withdrew his cell phone, wallet and a package of cigarettes from his blazer. He tossed them on the floor. From the pocket of his slim trousers, he pulled out the set of keys and threw those into the pile, as well.
“Walk,” Roman said, his voice little more than a whisper. “And if you make a sound I’ll blow your brains all over this hallway.”
Serge sauntered toward the cooler. He reached for the handle and then he swung out. Roman dodged back, but not far enough and the blow hit the gun’s barrel, knocking it from Roman’s grasp. The gun skittered down the hall, stopping next to where Madelyn huddled by the door. Roman wanted to tell her to run, but he could hear Oleg’s voice behind his closed office door, which meant that Oleg would be able to hear into the hallway, as well.
Serge bolted forward. Roman held out his arm, catching the other man midchest with a clothesline and knocking him back. Roman pounced before Serge had a chance to rise. He drove his fist down again and again. Roman’s arms ached, a stitch in his side burned and throbbed. His sweat-damp shirt clung to his torso like a second, gritty skin.
Nikolai’s nephew held up his arms to block the blows. His hands and wrists took more punishment than his face. Serge brought up his legs, hooking them over Roman’s shoulders. Shifting his weight, the thug knocked Roman onto his back. Then Serge crawled to stand and Roman grabbed him by the foot. He came down hard and Roman pressed down on his back. As Serge began to scream, Roman clamped his hand on the other man’s mouth and nose. His arms swung out wildly with ineffectual punches. His hits slowed and then stopped altogether.
The body went limp. There was no breath. Roman felt for a pulse that he knew he’d never find.
“Damn it,” he cursed.
In the silent hallway, he heard Madelyn’s stifled sobs and Oleg’s voice from behind the door. “Konechon, Otets, ya ozhidal uvidet’ vas poslezavtra.” Of course, Father, I will see you here tomorrow.
Otets. Father. Sire. It was a code name often used with Nikolai Mateev. Was the head of the Russian Mafia coming to Boulder? It was the information that Roman had been waiting five months to gather. He needed to contact the team from Rocky Mountain Justice right away, but first he had to hide Serge’s body.
He grabbed all of Serge’s personal effects and dropped everything, except for the keys to The Prow, on the dead man’s chest. Roman opened the cooler door and then dragged the body inside. He locked both locks and returned to Madelyn.
“Is he...?” She hiccupped as tears ran down her face. “Is he dead?”
Neither of them had time to mourn. “It was him or us,” he said as he entered the back door’s code. The lock disengaged with a click and Roman pushed the door open. He peered outside and saw nothing more than a set of metal stairs ascending to the alley and the backside of a Dumpster.
He opened the door further and reached for Madelyn’s hand. They’d done it. They’d escaped. But then from behind came an all-too-familiar voice. “Black!”
Oleg stood in the corridor. “Anton,” he screamed. “Serge! After them.”
Anton rushed out of the office.
“Get the car,” Oleg said. “Chase them down.”
Roman didn’t wait to see if Anton followed the orders. He pushed Madelyn into the night and pulled the door shut. Gripping Madelyn’s hand again, he sprinted up the stairs. His feet hit the pavement as a large raindrop fell on his forehead and the back door to The Prow burst open.
He held tight to Madelyn and willed his legs to move faster. The stitch in his side had returned, turning every breath into a fiery torture. He fixed his gaze on the intersecting street and ran faster still. Rain fell, wetting his skin and blurring his vision.
“My car’s two blocks up and one over,” Madelyn said, her voice breathless with exertion.
He liked that she was thinking. All they needed to do was outrun Oleg and Anton for three blocks. Or better yet, lose them. Roman pushed on. The end of the alley grew larger with each step. He ran through the intersection. On the other side, he kept close to the buildings and let the shadows hide his movements.
Still running, he began to scan the alleyway. The recessed doorway ahead was deep enough to surround them in complete darkness. Rudimentary, sure. But simple plans were often the best.
He ducked in and drew Madelyn in behind him. Together, they huddled in a corner. Her chest rose and fell with each labored breath. Her heartbeat resonated within his flesh. Maybe it was all those months of undercover work, but he was getting a little too used to holding her.
In the darkened alleyway, her skin took on a luminescent quality. Her lips turned a deep shade of burgundy, like a sultry and smoky wine. Her nose was small and straight and the hollow on her neck looked as if it had been meant to be kissed—by him. Next to her, Roman felt too large and at the same time, protective. It was because he blamed himself for getting her involved with Oleg.
Oleg. His footfalls echoed off the buildings while he ran past. The sound died away as he continued to run.
“Is he gone?” Madelyn whispered.
Roman held one finger to his lips. He peered down the alley, Oleg’s retreating silhouette was nothing more than mist in the increasing rain.
“He’s gone,” Roman said. “Let’s get out of here. It won’t take long for him to figure out that we’ve given him the slip.”
Together, they ran to Madelyn’s car. The pace was slower, but still Roman ached. One block up and one block over, but to Roman it felt like miles.
“What is that thing? It looks like a toy.”
“That,” said Madelyn, “is my car.”
“That thing?” The powder blue auto came up to his chest. He’d never fit inside, or at least he’d never be comfortable. “Does it have a motor?”
Madelyn opened the driver’s side door. “If you want a ride, get in.”
For Roman, many things had gone wrong over the last few hours. But having to fold himself into some kind of origami figure just to ride in this car might actually be the worst part.
* * *
Putting the gearshift into Drive, Madelyn pulled on to the deserted street. The road was dark, the streetlights all broken. Buildings, soaked and dripping, were covered with graffiti. Rain pelted the windshield.
“The nearest police precinct is on Canyon Boulevard. Go north seven blocks and then turn left,” Roman said.
“The police,” she breathed. Thank God. Soon this nightmare would be over. She thought of Jackson, the man who’d captured her and insisted he was a cop, but that couldn’t have been true.
She accelerated, the world outside her window becoming a blur.
“Wow,” Roman said. “The gerbil in your engine can run fast.”
“I’ll have you know that this car has a TwinPower turbo engine,” she said. She wasn’t really in a joking mood, but the teasing helped to release some of the tension she held in her shoulders.
“Me, I’m an American muscle car kind of guy. Give me a Ford Mustang or a Chevy Camaro any day. So, I don’t even know what a TwinPower turbo engine means.”
“It means that I feed the gerbil in my engine really well,” she said.
He laughed and winced, gripping his side. “This is your turn,” he said.
Madelyn eased around the corner and a tall building of glass and brick came into view. It sat behind a wide lawn. A sign, illuminated by a spotlight on the ground, read Boulder Police Department. Madelyn felt warm and exhausted, as if she’d been wrapped up in a blanket, fresh out of the dryer, on a snowy winter’s night. She slowed as she neared the curb. The double doors of the police station opened and two men stepped out. Madelyn’s heart ceased to beat. A pair of blue jeans and sweatshirt had been traded for a police uniform, but the face was the same.
“Jackson’s here,” she said. “I’d hoped he was lying about being a cop.”
Heads ducked in the rain, the men strode down the walkway.
“Just drive away,” said Roman. “We’ll think of something else. Maybe we can keep watch and come back after he’s gone.”
Madelyn stomped on the accelerator and her car shot down the street. She headed up the block. The back of the car filled with light as another car approached fast from the rear.
Roman said, “Looks like we have company.”
She stepped on the accelerator, urging her small car to go faster. The other auto, a bigger sedan, gained more ground.
Turning in his seat, Roman said, “It’s Anton.”
Before she could ask how he knew, they were hit from behind. Madelyn’s car lurched forward, skidding sideways on the wet pavement.
* * *
Roman watched Madelyn as she drove. Shoulders hunched forward, she gripped the steering wheel and stared wide-eyed at the road. The speedometer climbed. If only Jackson hadn’t been at the police station, this whole episode would be over. But, now they were on the run again.
“We have to lose Anton,” said Roman.
“Not a helpful suggestion,” said Madelyn, “especially since I don’t know this neighborhood.”
He did. “There’s an alleyway half a block up and on the left. Turn at the last minute and hopefully Anton will pass us by.”
She nodded, her jaw tight.
Roman counted. “One. Two. Turn.”
Madelyn whipped the steering wheel. The car hit the curb, sending them airborne. They landed and she aimed for the small alley. As he hoped, the other car didn’t make the turn. “Turn right at the end of this alley and then take the next left.” He gave her another half a dozen directions that led them down side streets and into another alley.
“Pull up behind this Dumpster and kill the lights.”
Without comment, Madelyn followed Roman’s instructions and they sat silently in the darkened car. Rain pelted the windows and filled the tiny space with constant noise. Madelyn’s breath came in short and ragged gasps. Even in the dim light, Roman could see her pulse thrumming at the base of her throat. Up until now, she’d been brave and levelheaded. But everyone had a limit for what they could endure. Had Madelyn reached hers?
“Look at me,” he said.
Her head snapped to him, her eyes were wide.
“I need you to breathe.”
“Breathe? I’m freaking out, here. There’s no place for me to go. Nobody I can trust.”
Roman knew that she hadn’t meant to injure him with her words, but the fact that he hadn’t earned her trust made his cheeks sting.
Yet, why did he care? What was it with his reaction to this woman?
“You can trust me,” Roman said.
“Can I? I don’t even know you.”
Roman didn’t dignify her comment with one of his own. Instead, he said the only thing that might help her gain control. “You’re a doctor, right? Every day you face all sorts of distressing scenarios, but I bet you don’t freak out—” he made air quotes “—with your patients.”
“Of course not,” she said. “I’m trained to handle a variety of medical emergencies.”
“Well, I’m trained to handle this kind of emergency. So, whether you think that you can trust me or not, you can.”
Madelyn exhaled fully. “Okay. What do we do next?”
“Anton’s not going to give up. There’s too much at stake,” he said.
“Then we are going to die,” Madelyn said. The resolve of her statement was a blade to the heart, the first tiny cut of a thousand.
Roman brought up a map of Boulder in his mind. “We’ll only get one shot to shake Anton off our tail, but first, we have to find him and get him to chase us.”
Madelyn took in a shaking breath. “I think I like staying hidden better.”
He wanted to say something to give her courage or at least comfort, like a pep talk, but after months of living a lie, he’d forgotten how to be inspiring. “Can I drive?” he asked instead.
She hesitated. “I guess.”
Roman glanced out the side window. The building next to them was so near that he couldn’t open the passenger door.
Her gaze followed his. Roman turned to look at Madelyn. She gave a little shrug. “Sorry,” she said. “I can move the car.”
“Don’t bother,” said Roman. “We’ll just trade places.”
She moved to hover above him, his hands on her waist. Sure, they were being chased by a murderous gangster but the fact that her nice butt was right above his lap didn’t escape Roman. And it wasn’t simply her body that he appreciated, either. As far as working with a civilian—Madelyn Thompkins wasn’t half bad.
He moved across the cramped console and into the ridiculously small seat. Every muscle in his abdomen ached. He found the lever that controlled distance from the steering wheel and eased back, the pain in his middle lessening. With the headlights still off, Roman maneuvered out of the alley. He pulled onto a deserted street. Ahead, he saw the black sedan driving slowly in the opposite direction.
“Buckle your seat belt.” Roman dropped his foot on the gas. The little car shot forward with more force than he would have imagined. TwinPower turbo, indeed. He closed in on Anton. Bumper swiping bumper, he rocketed past in a deadly game of tag.
Anton followed, as Roman knew he would. Left. Right. Left and left again. Left again and another right. He headed south, toward the interstate entrance ramp nearest the warehouses on the outskirts of town.
Anton stayed close behind. Ahead, a light changed from green to yellow. It was exactly what Roman needed. He stepped on the gas, rocketing through the intersection as the light turned red. Anton followed. The blare of car horns trailing him like a ship’s wake.
Roman’s foot lifted from the gas as the interstate drew near.
Madelyn swiveled in her seat. The headlights from behind surrounded her in a golden halo. “He’s gaining on us,” she said.
He knew. He smiled. Wait. Wait. Wait. There was a hairbreadth between Anton’s car and the one that Roman drove. The road began to travel upward, the incline leading to the interstate. Nose up, Roman jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, the side scraping on a concrete barrier as it pulled onto the adjacent service road. Anton sped past, his red taillight glowing as he stepped on the brakes. From behind came the piercing scream of an air horn. A big rig, loaded with two trailers, lumbered up the entrance ramp—forcing Anton to drive on.
“He won’t be able to get off until the next exit,” Roman said, verbalizing the last bit of his plan. “That’s five minutes from here, which means we have ten minutes to disappear.”
* * *
Rain hit Oleg’s face, mixing with his sweat and leaving him chilled. He stood at the end of the alleyway and looked left, then right, then left again. The street was empty. His pulse raced.
“They’re gone,” he said to nobody in particular. “Just disappeared...”
His phone rang and he pulled it from his coat pocket. Anton’s name appeared on the screen and Oleg swiped the call open. “You better have good news for me,” he said.
“Not so much,” Anton said. “They tricked me into getting on the interstate.”
Oleg ground his teeth together. “Tricked you?”
“I have a license plate, though. That should help, yes?”
“No, as a matter of fact, it won’t help.”
“Prosti,” said Anton. Sorry.
“I’m not in the mood for your apologies. Just get your sorry butt back to the bar.” Oleg ended the call with a stab of his finger and slid the phone back into his pocket.
Oleg was surrounded by idiots. The only one with half a brain was Roman. How had they gotten out of the beer cooler? Serge must have unlocked the door. But why? Oleg wasn’t about to discover the truth while standing in a downpour with the stench of rotten cabbage thick in the damp night.
Turning on his heel, Oleg took a step. His foot landed in a shallow puddle. Cold water seeped into his shoe, turning his $1,200 designer loafers into garbage. Oleg clenched his teeth, biting off a string of curses. Once he caught Roman, the traitor and his little girlfriend, he was going to make them exquisitely sorry.
In the distance, lightning split the sky in two. A springtime thunderstorm in Boulder? For a city that saw sun more than three hundred and thirty days each year, a passing cloudburst was a rarity. But a full-blown rainstorm? Never. Yet here one was. It was almost as unbelievable as someone escaping from The Prow.
He quickened his pace. Roman’s car, a crappy Pontiac from the 1970s, sat in front of the bar. The handle was stuck fast, but it was still here—which meant they’d gotten away in the girl’s car. He thought of going directly to Roman’s apartment, but discarded the idea as soon as it came. Roman’s place was an obvious choice, and he knew that the bartender wasn’t that stupid.
He needed time to regroup, but Oleg wasn’t about to let himself be seen like this—wet, dirty and rumpled. He jogged around the corner and let himself in the back door. Dripping, he went to his office to dry off and come up with a plan.
Oleg jerked his desk drawers open and slammed them closed. No towel. No dry shirt. Not even a used tissue.
“Serge,” he called out.
Never mind that the guy was the nephew of Nikolai Mateev. He was a moron, and in Oleg’s opinion, he liked hurting people a little too much. Look at that chair in the middle of his office. It was bolted to the floor—done by Serge without asking for permission, never mind getting it—so he could tie adversaries to it and beat them bloody.
Oleg was supposed to be teaching Serge about business, and not just how to run a bar, either. Nikolai’s great-nephew needed to learn how ill-gotten money could be infused into a legitimate business and make any drug profits seem legally gained. But it was clear that Serge had no interest in that kind of education. Hell, he’d barely learned any English. With him, it was all about the violence.
Using his shirt’s damp sleeve, Oleg buffed his face dry. He slumped into his seat. The godfather of Russian organized crime was due in Boulder tomorrow evening. Then Serge would become Nikolai Mateev’s problem, and Oleg expected a generous reward for all the housekeeping he’d done. Babysitting and laundering—money, of course.
And speaking of babysitting... “Serge!” he bellowed.
Nothing.
Oleg stood and slammed his seat beneath his desk. He stomped up the stairs and entered the bar. Rock music pulsed through the speakers, thrumming into the soles of Oleg’s feet and pounding out the beat in his chest. As the night had grown late, more customers had arrived and crammed into the room. They stood three deep at the bar. Now working alone, the bar manager bounced back and forth, like a frenzied ping-pong ball. He expected to see Serge having a drink. Nothing. Nor was he in the back shooting pool.
“You seen Serge?” Oleg asked the bar manager.
The withered old man shook his head. “Not since he left with you.”
Oleg nodded and returned to the basement. Not only was Serge an idiot, he was also proving to be a mystery. The stockroom door stood ajar and Oleg opened it slowly. Empty. But maybe Serge had just been there. Oleg returned to the office. Empty, as well.
That left one final option, and one that didn’t amuse Oleg in the least. Obviously, Roman had convinced Serge to open the beer cooler. Then had he overpowered Serge, making him a prisoner in the cell he was supposed to be guarding?
One more day and no more Serge. For Oleg, it couldn’t come soon enough. He used his keys on both locks and pulled the door open. Oleg stepped up to the threshold and stopped.
Serge, obviously dead, stared at the ceiling. His gaze was already milky.
Oleg began to tremble and it wasn’t from the cold. He had let Serge die. Nikolai Mateev would see it no other way.
The only thing Oleg knew to do to save his life was to disappear. He hated leaving everything he’d built up from the ground. The bar. The drug trade. His car. His women. All of it would vanish, like a candle flame that had been snuffed out. From the pit of his soul, fury rose. Oleg’s head throbbed. His shoulders ached. He drew back his foot and kicked Serge again and again and again.
As a small boy growing up outside of Fort Collins, Colorado, Oleg had spent hour upon hour in the company of his paternal grandmother. As she cooked, she told Oleg stories of their family. His favorite was how Oleg was a direct descendent of the Romanov czars. In another time, he would have been Count Oleg.
Because of those stories, Oleg had known he was destined for greatness. And this—taking care of Serge the Stupid, laundering money for the Russian mob—was to be his way. But Serge had been too moronic to stay alive and in death had ruined everything. Everything. Oleg brought down his heel on Serge’s nose.
He wiped his sole on the back of Serge’s jacket. His heel caught on something, and he worked it free. Attached was a lanyard with an ID card for the University of Colorado Hospital. The picture was of a petite brunette. Name: Madelyn Thompkins. The seed of a new plan took root in Oleg’s mind, flowering into the only chance he had at saving his legacy and his life.
Certainly, Nikolai Mateev would be furious that his heir apparent had been killed. And while Serge could never be brought back to life, Oleg could make sure that a recompense was paid to the murderers—Roman and Madelyn. And look, the degenerates even beat poor Serge’s corpse.
All Oleg needed now was to find Roman Black and Madelyn Thompkins. While he imagined that Roman knew enough to get out of town, Madelyn had ties that kept her in Boulder. Besides, if given a computer and ten minutes, Oleg would know everything there was about Madelyn’s life—or what was left of it, that is.
* * *
“Slow down,” Roman said to Madelyn. “It won’t do us any good if we get pulled over by Jackson.”
Madelyn licked her lips and nodded, letting up on the gas. After Roman had lost Anton, she’d taken back control of her car. She slowed down a little, the headlights shining on a puddle. An oily rainbow floated on the surface. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, it was the only thing that felt real.
Roman said, “We’re alive and in one piece. Just remember that.”
“Alive and one piece,” she echoed.
“I need to get in touch with my employer in Denver. Can I use your phone?”
She pulled it from her purse and handed it over. Roman entered a number, the phone’s volume so loud that Madelyn heard the ringing.
Voice mail picked up. “You’ve reached Ian Wallace. Leave your message at the sound of the beep and I’ll return your call promptly.” The accent was British and educated. It reminded Madelyn of a blindingly white shirt, freshly pressed.
“Ian, it’s DeMarco. Big happenings but I don’t want to get in to too many details on an unsecured phone. I’m on my way to you and will fill you in when I get there.” Roman ended the call. “Thanks,” he said.
On a night that had too many questions and not enough answers, Madelyn needed to know who she was with and why. “I thought Oleg said your name was Roman Black. Now you’re DeMarco?”
“I’ve been working undercover for months.” He handed her the phone. “My alias is Roman Black.”
It seemed like the only answer he was willing to give and she set the phone on the console between the seats. He’d spoken about leaving Boulder. What was Madelyn supposed to do? Drive herself to another police precinct? She needed to report what happened, but without Roman?
Roman gripped her arm. “I need a favor. My car is parked in front of The Prow. I can’t go back for obvious reasons. Can you drive me to Denver?”
She could, but to her the real question was, did she want to? Sure, she wanted to help, but she also just wanted to be safe. She stared forward, indecision a rock in her belly. Madelyn switched her gaze to Roman. His palm remained on her wrist. Sweat dotted his upper lip. His hand slipped away. A bloody streak stained her flesh.
“Roman. You’re bleeding.”
“What? No, I’m not...” He touched his side and brought his hand up to examine by the light of the dashboard. His fingertips were crimson and wet.
“I need to look at your abdomen. You’re wounded,” she said. Her medical training clicked into place like a puzzle piece, and Madelyn now had a clear picture of what needed to be done.
“Sure,” said Roman.
Madelyn pulled next to the curb and turned on the dome light. She reached around Roman and pulled up his soaked shirt. A neat furrow had been dug out of his skin. “You were grazed by the bullet, so there isn’t any internal damage,” she said. “But you’ll need stitches.”
“I can get those in Denver.”
“Denver is thirty minutes away, even without bad weather. Don’t be the hero. Let’s get you to CU’s hospital and you can make another call from there.”
“I’m not waiting around all night in an emergency room. I need to get to Denver now.”
Roman’s lips were pale, a sure sign of blood loss. She didn’t have time to argue. Madelyn reached into her purse for her badge from the University of Colorado Hospital. It was proof that she, and therefore he, would get into the hospital’s trauma center upon arrival. Wallet. Lipstick. Apartment keys. Three quarters and a nickel. She looked again. And again. “Where is it?” Madelyn searched through the console. Nothing.
“Where is what?”
“My hospital ID. I always put it in my purse and now it’s gone.”
Then she remembered those harrowing few minutes in the beer cooler. She’d accidentally dumped the contents of her handbag and then hurriedly collected everything once the door had been unlocked. Had she been too hasty?
“The Prow?” Roman asked.
The sour taste of bile rose in the back of Madelyn’s throat. “It has to be there.”
“We have to get you out of Boulder.”
“I can’t abandon my life. I have rounds at the hospital, classes. Besides, you need to see a doctor.”
“I thought you said that you were a doctor.”
“I’m a medical school student.”
“Can you sew me up?”
“If I had the proper equipment, of course.”
“Then drive. I’ll keep pressure on my wound and give you directions as we go. Get onto the interstate and head west.”
“West? Why not south and toward Denver? I thought you wanted to talk to your employer?” Whoever that was. She turned off the dome light.
“We have to assume two things,” Roman said.
“Yeah? What?”
“First, is that Oleg Zavalov will find your ID. Soon, he’ll know everything about you. Anton already has the make and model of your car along with your license plate. It’s only a matter of time before Oleg has your address. Then Oleg will get people, like Jackson, out looking for you in all the obvious places—your apartment, the hospital and even the interstate to Denver.”
“That’s not reassuring.” Rain fell heavily, a seemingly solid wall and not thousands upon thousands of individual water molecules. The wet road reflected lights, creating a world of reality and a wavering mirror image in the water. Madelyn pulled away from the curb.
“I wish I had better news,” Roman said. “Because the second thing we have to assume will be worse.”
“How can it be worse than Oleg Zavalov knowing everything about me?”
“As long as Oleg is out there, your life is in danger.”
