by J. J. Cagney
The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials.― Confucius
Cici’s heart lodged in her throat, causing her to choke as her car zipped closer to the brown sign labeled “Hungo Pavi.” This ruin was closest to the visitor center and one of the many small settlements that made up the whole of the Chaco Canyon National Park.
Hungo Pavi was smaller than the Pueblo Bonita and, thus, less traveled.
She stomped on the brakes, which made Mr. Vasiliev growl.
“Stop that. We need to get behind the wall up there. Head along the walking path about a quarter of a mile,” he said as if reciting facts from a textbook—or a map. “It’ll offer some level of protection.”
Cici would never be able to take a deep breath again.
“How about you tell a gal your plan before trying to kill her in an off-roading incident?” she managed to sputter.
“I don’t want to kill you,” he said, eyebrow quirking. “If I did, Reverend Cecilia, you’d already be dead. And you would have been dead long before you took that picture of me with the Russian Bratva as you’ve so cutely started calling them.”
Cici gulped because this man sent off serious, chilling vibes. She pressed the gas a little and managed the steering wheel.
“Well, aren’t they?”
“Bratva? No. They’re worse than any organized crime syndicate. I hope you don’t soon find out how much worse, though the chances climb as you sit here.” He waited, but his words had the intended chilling impact on Cici’s conscience, and she crept her Subaru forward even though part of her wanted to stop, shove him out, and head to the nearest police station.
It was far away because few people lived in New Mexico on the whole and definitely not in this section of the state.
“Stay on the path,” he said. And, to Cici, his voice seemed to hold a hint of satisfaction. “And try not to hit any of the cactus.”
“I’m doing my best,” Cici snapped, taking a deep breath as she kept her car between the low rope-and-pole fence that was narrower than her car’s front fender. She winced as she brought down the first pole.
“Run up the cliff-side, not the flat side. That will leave fewer tire tracks and you’ve already hit the pole there. If they don’t notice the damage immediately, we’ll gain a few more minutes.”
Cici’s breath stuttered again. The walking path Mr. Vasiliev directed her on wasn’t as wide as her car, but she took it at over thirty miles an hour, trying hard to avoid the cholla cactus plants, “no biking” sign, and the trash cans. She managed to weave around each.
“I don’t want to learn anything more about those men or you either. I want to be left alone,” Cici mumbled.
“Then I suggest you bring more hiking partners next time. Also, maybe focus on more populated tourist destinations.”
Cici’s eyes narrowed and her voice frosted like a mailbox in February. “Are you saying I asked to be part of an international drama?”
Mr. Vasiliev scanned the terrain, not bothering to look at her. “I’m stating you made shit choices and that’s how you ended up in my care.”
Thanks to the steeper angle, Cici slowed the car, trying not to let panic slick her palms as her driver’s seat rose a good foot higher than Mr. Vasiliev.
“Keep driving. Don’t stop until I tell you to.”
Cici tightened her hands on the wheel, trying to ignore that her fingers and lips numbed from the pressure she applied to both. “Um.”
Mr. Vasiliev put his warm palm over hers, directing her steering. “Go up farther. We don’t want to be visible from the road. That’s the only way we can buy some much-needed time.”
Cici drove over the rocks, many of which pinged up against her car’s chassis. The land flattened back out and, thankfully, was wide enough for a car. She kept going, slowing the car now that they’d rounded a corner and to ensure they didn’t get stuck or strike something unexpected in their path.
A large chunk of limestone must have fallen from the cliff to her left. Jagged pieces lay broken on the ground in front of her. Cici nibbled her lower lip, unsure she could maneuver the car through the space.
“You’ve got this. Nice, slow and easy,” Mr. Vasiliev said. His voice carried the same soothing intonation as her mom’s used to when Cici worried over a project.
Mr. Vasiliev pointed to the slab of yellow-striated rock.
“Park behind that.”
“What’ll happen to my car?” Cici asked.
He shook his head, clearly finished with her stupid questions. “It may get impounded. But it’s also evidence you were here. I’m assuming people will look for you?”
At Cici’s nod, he grunted, “Good. No, pull in closer to the rock.”
Cici did her best, trying to pretend she was parallel parking in Boston or Manhattan. Mr. Vasiliev nodded. Cici’s door was so close to the boulder, she couldn’t exit from her side of the car. He turned toward her again.
“Let’s go.”
“Are you crazy?” she yelped. “This car is our best chance of getting out of here alive.”
“No,” he said, impatient now. “It was our best chance to get out of the last situation, which we did. But now we need to deviate from this plan so that we prolong our chances of survival since they are now looking for us in this particular car.”
“Nothing you said made sense,” Cici said through gritted teeth. But, actually, it did—all of it. Cici hated the words too much to admit he was correct.
“Do you want to die?” he shot back.
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “I’m not going anywhere with you until I know your name. Your real name.”
His smile remained predatory, but he pulled a thin leather wallet from an interior pocket of his jacket and tossed it at her. The picture was that of the man sitting next to her.
“You expect me to believe your name is Anton Vasiliev?” Cici grumbled.
“That’s what my driver’s license states,” he said with robust cheer.
“Your driver’s license might say you’re from New Mexico, but you’re definitely from Boston,” she growled, shoving the wallet back at him.
He fumbled it because his gaze was transfixed on her face. “Why do you think that?”
“Your inflection. It’s New England.” She’d spent enough time in the Boston area to know a native accent—no matter how much he tried to mask it. The deep stress of the last few minutes brought out the intonation and distinct vowels.
He blinked at her. While his face didn’t change, his eyes lost some of their sheen. “Huh.”
“I want to know what to call you,” Cici said. “Since you decided to jump in my car and put me in a position that may cost me my life.”
This time, he touched her cheek, a soft casual caress all the more meaningful because it was unexpected. This man did little without thinking it through. She was sure of it. She shifted her gaze back to his serious one.
“Look, I am sorry about getting you involved in this mess. Now, the best thing I can do for you—and you can do for me—is to call me Anton.”
“If you tell me more you’ll have to kill me?” Cici asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
He stared back at her for a long, heavy beat. “’Fraid so.”
6
Sam
Roads were made for journeys not destinations.― Confucius
Sam scrubbed his hands over his face, hoping the slight abrasion of his palms against his cheeks would wake him better. After his talk with Evan this morning, Sam wasn’t sure he’d be able to explain the events of the past few weeks to Cici.
Because he’d made the choice not to involve her in his work. Not after she put her life at risk to rescue a member of her church in Taos. But the worst part of that entire situation was the voice of the killer in his mind, telling him Cici was dead.
Since he’d made the mistake of bringing her into the last investigation that led to her being hunted by a deranged killer, Sam had d
ecided to cut Cici out of his work life. Completely. Which meant Sam had never informed Cici that Jeannette had pestered him about the task-force position—for weeks. Just as he’d failed to tell Cici that Jeannette’s plan to recruit him regardless of his concerns and negations, had come to a head this past week.
Jeannette had stopped by his place two nights ago, unannounced. Though surprised, Sam’s good manners had kicked in and he’d let her into his place, offered her a drink and something to eat. Jeannette talked for over an hour—pitching him on the new task force she was helping to head up.
“We need your expertise, Sam. The way you handled the opioid case here…my boss was impressed. He’s never impressed,” she’d muttered in a quiet, if harsh, tone.
Sam settled his elbows on his patio table. The sun’s fading rays had set the clouds above to pink, slowing morphing into the gorgeous crimson so many people came here to see.
“Thanks to me, Cici nearly died. Others were injured and are still recovering from their wounds. Can’t say I think that was a well-wrapped case.”
His need to protect Cici seemed to parallel the danger she’d faced, leaving Sam without any good options.
“But it was,” Jeannette had said, leaning forward, her eyes gleaming bright with sincerity. “We’ve shut down a lot of the drug trade making its way into the state.”
“At a high cost,” Sam had said, frowning. Too high. He’d already lost his best friend, Anna Carmen. The thought of any harm coming to Cici…Sam closed his eyes, trying to block out the image, but the twisting in his guts was only matched by the ache in his chest. And they both knew more dealers would move in.
“What happened to your ambition?” Jeannette had asked, frustration creeping into her voice.
Sam’s lips curved but not in a smile—more of a flash of teeth—as he opened his eyes to look at the woman who had, until recently, shared his bed. “Never matched yours.”
“Apparently.” Jeannette had shoved back her chair, the wrought iron making a high-pitched, grating shriek against concrete.
A quick bark had punctuated the sudden silence.
Two plumed white tails wagged over the top of the low-slung wooden gate painted an ugly turquoise. He’d mentally added repainting the flaking mess to the list of home improvement projects he would never get to—not because he didn’t like to swing a hammer or paint, but because his career tended to take all his time and energy.
Mona had barked once again, asking to be let into Sam’s yard.
Cici had arrived at Sam’s early. They’d planned to take the dogs for a walk and order a pizza, watch something on Netflix. Nothing with any violence—that was Cici’s one request. Since her sister’s death, Cici had struggled with blood and gore.
Too bad because Sam had been looking forward to the new Marvel movie. He wasn’t sure how bloody it was, but, instead, he would probably end up watching a lame-ass documentary on…milk production.
And do so with a happy heart because Cici was there to give him shit for his violent movie choices.
Jeannette had stood, a cold gleam in her eye as Cici strolled up the short path and into view. Cici had stopped, eyes widening as she took in Jeannette at Sam’s table, their drinks and the chips and salsa he’d set out for them.
“Hello, Jeannette,” Cici had said, her voice strong and warm, as she’d entered Sam’s home. Because that was Cici’s way—to be hospitable and friendly with everyone she interacted with. At the same time, she’d reached down and grabbed her dogs’ leashes. Cici had begun to tug them back toward the driveway. “I didn’t realize you were entertaining.” Cici’s gaze had slid to his then bounced back.
What she didn’t say, would never say, was that Sam should have called her—not left her to walk into this situation unprepared.
Sam had stood, planning to tell Cici Jeannette’s visit was a surprise, but Jeannette beat him to it.
“Don’t leave on my account,” Jeannette had said with a smile that was all teeth. “Sam’s being as bullheaded as you’d expect.”
With that, the tall blonde had strode through the house. Sam’s front door slammed hard enough to rattle the glass on his desk.
“I’ll go, too,” Cici had said, her voice hesitant. “And…um, sorry to have interrupted your evening. I had…if you’d…I have to go.” She’d turned and fled back toward her car, pulling her dogs in her wake. Rodolfo glanced back and Sam felt the censure of the dog’s gaze.
Sam had sat there, frozen, annoyed and unsure what to explain—or how. But not responding immediately left Cici without answers—he couldn’t tell her about the task force because its very existence was classified information, something Jeannette drilled into his head from the outset. The problem was, Cici must have assumed he wanted Jeannette.
Sam had tried to offer an explanation—through text, email, hell, even voicemail. All were lame, a pale imitation of the truth he couldn’t tell her.
But something about that evening had upset Cici more than he’d expected, and she proved to Sam with her refusal to respond that she was no longer willing to listen to his attempts at an explanation.
Sam chucked the rest of his lunch in the trash bin, shaking his head to focus back on the present moment. For the last couple of weeks, he’d made a dedicated effort to bring his meals with him to work. He was approaching thirty-one—an age where eating out for every meal seemed irresponsible. Poor planning on Sam’s part. And Sam had found during the quiet evenings he and Cici had shared in the past, he quite liked cooking simple dishes. But his gyro on whole-wheat pita with extra baby spinach—a Cici special—wasn’t cutting it today.
His appetite went to hell because of the fist-sized lump swimming in his gut.
The ability to take a few days of her allotted vacation time, to travel, that was Cici’s choice. Just as it was her decision whether to take the job in Portland or to hike Chaco Canyon alone.
Didn’t mean Sam had to like it.
Didn’t mean he could change the outcome either. Part of him knew he’d waited too long to talk to Cici about what he wanted. Now and in the future.
He’d realized that weeks ago but chose not to face the realities of the situation, assuming—no, hoping—their relationship would return to the easy, banter-filled one they’d once had.
After spending the morning debating, after picking up the phone no less than seven times, after setting it down with an unnecessary slam and a disgruntled scowl, Sam lifted the receiver.
“Jeannette?” he said when she picked up.
“I’m surprised to hear from you,” she muttered into the phone.
He heard the sharp tap-tap of fingers on a keyboard. Jeannette claimed she multitasked like a ninja, but over their off-and-on relationship, Sam had realized Jeannette rarely gave him her undivided attention.
“Whatcha need, Sam?”
Sam pressed his thumb against his right eye, trying to mitigate the building ache in his head. “You still in town?”
“Yep. Through tomorrow. I’m boxing up the last of my stuff here. Though, I’d hoped to bring back more than just a few cartons of clothes. You know, in the form of an investigator my boss really wants for his task force.”
Sam rolled his eyes at Jeannette’s thin attempt at subtlety. Now that he knew her position, now that he knew about her job, Jeannette proved to be much more willing to forego pleasantries and even some of the social niceties to get her way. Okay, so she’d always done that, but it was without the circumspection of those months when he’d dated her.
Now, it felt as if he was getting to know the real Jeannette. And Sam wasn’t sure he liked the woman who lived beneath the lies and mask.
He cleared his throat, trying to force down the heaviness in his heart. Since Anna Carmen’s murder had been solved, there was no reason for him to stay in Santa Fe. He’d considered talking to his old boss at the task force in Denver. But this opportunity to join a federal task force was even better. Better for his long-term career.
As Jeanne
tte had said the other night, he’d be a fool to turn down the opportunity.
Sam was tired of acting like a fool over women. Any woman.
“You around later?” he asked.
“Why?” she asked.
He’d spent more than a decade beating himself up over past decisions he could not change. He squeezed his hand into a tight fist. Time to go all in on his future.
“I’d like you to tell me more about the actual position and what, exactly, you plan to offer me in the form of a compensation package.”
7
Cici
Only the wisest and stupidest of men never change.― Confucius
No, that wasn’t a scary moment at all. Cici grumbled, trying to calm her racing heart. But the idea of her having to die because she knew Anton’s identity…that proved terrifying.
Anton-who-was-so-not-Anton emptied his pockets, going through his meager possessions. Most of which seemed to mainly be made up of guns, ammunition, and knives.
She managed to keep her mouth shut but, in her head, she was screaming, I’m totally not okay with this!
This guy made Sam look like a freaking hug counselor. She’d met one a couple of years ago in Boston. The man’s whole job seemed to consist of giving hugs to people. Cici had admitted, more than once, that being a hug counselor had serious potential.
Sam wouldn’t be good at it, though. His cool blue-gray eyes remained filled with shadows that told everyone he’d seen and interacted with some of the worst of humanity—and maybe committed some atrocities just as horrible. But this Anton guy’s eyes were flat, emotionless, and scarier than anything Cici had witnessed before.
Plus, Cici had seen Sam in action, taking down criminals, enough to know he was a badass, which made Anton-something even more action-movie-hero-like.
What, exactly? She couldn’t fathom. Well, she was dazed thanks to being shot at—again. And running for her life—again.