“The suitcases must’ve been mixed up at the café.” Sam glanced at Karl. “So you do have the diamonds. Where’s your suitcase, Karl?”
And Karl’s heart, already in his toes, made a valiant attempt to burrow through the floor. He remembered picking up the suitcase after Kasyanov had knocked it over, remembered setting it under his feet. Then he’d started arguing with Walkingtall and there’d been the business with the ride to the motel, all of which meant…
He gulped. “I left it in the café.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jabba Beridze blew out a stream of cigarillo smoke and stared out the shitty small town police station window at the café across the street. It was cold. There was heat, but many of the windows had been broken by his men when they stormed the police station. Bits of cloth had been stuffed into the gaps, but still the wind whistled in, bringing the cold. He’d spent the night in an office chair, sleeping very little. The food was not good. Only that which his men could find in the kitchens of the restaurant across the street. Canned peaches, stale bread, and sliced meat and cheese. Jabba had endured cold, little sleep, and poor food before. It bothered him little.
What he did not like was the boredom.
Behind him, one of his men was pacing. Another was taking apart a gun, laying each piece down with a muffled thunk on a piece of cloth laid out on a desk. Probably it was Sasha. He liked his guns.
Jabba rose and strolled to the little cell where the young policeman sat on the cot. His head had been bowed in thought, but he looked up as Jabba drew near.
The policeman had hair the color of piss—so yellow it looked dyed, like a woman would do. His face was unlined, his hands broad but boyish, as if his body might decide to grow yet still. He had probably never gone a day without food.
This boy stood and looked at Jabba. He tried to do so without fear, but that, alas, was something few could do.
“I’m a cop, you know,” the boy said, his voice breaking. “You can’t kill me and get away. Every law enforcement agency in America will be after you.”
Jabba cocked his head. He was bored, after all. “And what do you think I should do instead?”
Behind him, Sasha no longer played with his gun and Nicky’s pacing had stopped.
The boy tilted his chin, square and solid, facing him like John Wayne.
But then John Wayne had never fought in a real war.
“You should let me go before this gets any worse,” foolish John Wayne said.
“Ah, but then my men have already shot your police chief,” Jabba replied. He dropped the cigarillo to the floor and ground it out with his heel. “So I think already every American policeman will be after me, as you say. Do you not think so?”
“Yes, but…” The boy opened his mouth and then closed it. He looked puzzled. Perhaps the villains in his movies did not make such blunt statements.
Jabba took out a silver case from an inside pocket of his coat and selected a new cigarillo. He lit it while he waited for the boy to try another tack to save his own life.
When he blew out the smoke and the policeman still had not spoken, Jabba said, “I think I will do as you say.”
The boy blinked, confused.
“Yes,” Jabba inhaled hot smoke as he mused. “Yes, I think I will set you free, but in my own way, you understand.”
The boy’s voice was hoarse when he asked, “What way is that?”
Jabba smiled sweetly. “One piece at a time.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Have another piece of the breakfast bake,” Becky said gruffly, her spatula hovering over the huge dish of eggs, bread, ham, and cheese.
Maisa smiled awkwardly and shook her head. Her mother was the same way: when Irina was sad or upset, she cooked and fed. Becky had spent the last hour putting together the breakfast casserole along with a mountain of pancakes, coffee, juice from Sam’s freezer, and fruit she’d found in cans in his cupboards. She’d stayed mostly silent as she did it, letting everyone else talk and worry and argue around her.
Maisa had offered to help just once and had been directed to set the table and eat. Realizing that it was better to let Becky work through her anxiety at the stove, Maisa left her to it. But now, having finished eating, she felt kind of useless. She didn’t want to take away what comfort Becky found in serving others, but she didn’t quite know what to do herself. Everyone else seemed to know their roles, to know their place in this gathering.
She was the only one at loose ends.
She cradled her mug of coffee and watched as Sam studied the Coot Lake Chamber of Commerce map of the town, spread over the remains of breakfast on his kitchen island. His short, dark blond hair was ruffled. He’d taken a quick shower but forgotten to comb it, and she had an urge to get up and stroke it into place, feel the damp strands beneath her fingers, the warmth of his scalp underneath.
She took a sip of her cooling coffee instead.
Sam wore a faded denim shirt, a shade lighter than his eyes, the sleeves rolled up above a red thermal shirt. Both arms were braced on the island as he peered down. He looked grim, deep lines bracketing his mouth. Everyone else was crowded around him, and they might be arguing points of his plan, but they weren’t coming up with any of their own.
He was the clear leader.
“Okay, Haley Anne has the keys to the Laughing Loon Café, and there’s a back entrance here.” Sam tapped a tiny loon on the map inside a brown square. “And there’s a fire escape on the back of Tracy’s Antiques, but it’s pretty rusted. Molly’s going to need a boost. Think you can get her up there, Karl?”
Karl leaned forward, peering at the map. “Yep. Remember last year when you wanted to climb that oak to check the raccoon nest, Molly?”
He turned, grinning to Molly, but visibly wilted when he saw her stony stare. Maisa wasn’t entirely sure what the problem was with the arrowheads that had been in Karl’s suitcase, but it had made Molly stop speaking to Karl. Maisa didn’t know the other woman that well, but Molly kept shooting irritated little glares at Karl and, when he wasn’t looking, oddly hurt glances. The tall, handsome Native American lawyer who’d come in with Molly and Karl was obviously on her side. He whispered something to her once in a while, but his words didn’t seem to make Molly any happier.
Otherwise the lawyer looked kind of lost, which wasn’t surprising. It must be strange to be an outsider in all this.
Then again, she was an outsider, too.
Maisa stared down at her coffee mug as the realization hit home. Molly, Haley Anne, Stu and Doug, Karl, the lawyer, and Dyadya were all crowded around Sam. Becky kept her head cocked, listening in on the discussion, and even Ilya said something once in a while. The only one not participating was Maisa.
Well, that made sense. She wasn’t from Coot Lake. She had her own little apartment in Minneapolis. When all this was over, she’d get in her Beetle and drive back to the Twin Cities, continue sewing retro dresses and eating Lean Cuisine. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t even sure she liked small towns. Everyone knowing her and her business would just get on her nerves. And beyond that, beyond living elsewhere and not being from Coot Lake, beyond all that there was still one fundamental difference:
She was mafiya. They weren’t.
Dyadya glanced up, his sad, hound-dog face looking quizzical as if he’d heard her thoughts, and he nodded at her.
“He said he’d kill Dylan,” Haley Anne burst out. “What if he just shoots him before we get there? What then?”
“He won’t,” Sam said, calm and sure. “I’m going to get him out alive, Haley Anne. Trust me.”
“I’m just…” Haley Anne choked and suddenly lunged at Sam, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“Hey, hey,” Sam murmured. “It’ll be okay.”
“Yeah,” Haley Anne said shakily. “Yeah, okay, Sam.”
And Maisa marveled. They’d all turned to Sam, let him make the decisions, trusted him to do the right thing and get Dylan back. Basicall
y defend the town against armed mafiya thugs. They either didn’t know or were ignoring how much the odds were stacked against them.
But Sam must know. He was a small-town cop, but he’d served in Afghanistan and was smart besides. What would it do to him if they failed? How would he feel if Dylan died after he’d assured Haley Anne that he could save them?
Maisa looked away, suddenly angry. These people had no right to put such a burden of responsibility on Sam’s shoulders. He was only one man.
“Everybody know what they’re doing?” Sam asked, looking each person in the eye one by one. He looked at Maisa last, his electric blue eyes intent. He held her gaze as he rolled up the map. “Okay, get your stuff together. We’ll leave in fifteen minutes.” He waited until everyone got up and scattered before walking over to stand next to Maisa. “You got a minute?”
“Sure.” Her voice came out a squeak and she frowned to cover it. So they’d spent a night together. So they’d made love—twice. So he’d made her come so hard she thought her eyeballs might explode. No biggy, right?
But she found herself docilely following him up the stairs to his loft bedroom, trotting after him like Otter. Maybe sex hormones had fogged her brain.
At the top of the stairs he stopped and suddenly turned, pulling her into his arms without a word. His mouth covered hers, the taste of coffee bright on both their tongues. He thrust his thigh between her legs and she forgot everything but the hardness of his chest, the steady heartbeat beneath, and the press of his leg against her.
He pulled away and she actually followed him with her mouth before she caught herself and blinked up at him.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Fine. Okay.” She tried to sound adult, composed, but it was a little hard when she was still riding his thigh.
“Did you know?” he asked, and she realized she needed to get it together pronto.
She stepped back—or tried to.
He held her upper arms firmly. “May, answer me.”
She shook her head. “Know what?”
“About the diamonds.”
She inhaled, bracing herself. “Yes. I opened what I thought was my suitcase the night I arrived at Dyadya’s house. I saw the diamonds then.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“I… no.” She could explain about Dyadya and the mafiya and the suitcase he’d left her with the warning BOMB on it, but in the end, it wouldn’t matter anyway.
She hadn’t told him.
He stared down at her, his face hard and closed and she realized she didn’t like that look aimed at her. In fact, she hated it.
But there wasn’t much she could do. She was who she was and he was who he was. He’d known. He’d known before they’d got into bed last night that she wasn’t to be trusted.
Still. Something withered inside her.
“Okay.” He let her go and she wobbled a moment, off balance without his support, her arms suddenly cold. He looked at her speculatively a moment and then nodded as if coming to a decision. “I have a job I want you to do. Will you?”
“What?” Did he really trust her enough to help? “I…”
“May,” he said, “I don’t have a lot of time. Will you do it?”
He wanted her to commit without any idea what she was committing to? He had to be crazy. There was no way she’d do that, and besides, she’d just proven herself untrustworthy.
“Yes.” She blinked, surprised, but then she opened her mouth and said it again. “Yes.”
“Good.” He kissed her, hard and fast. “I’ve got some spare long underwear.” He turned to rummage in his dresser drawer. “You can cut the legs to fit. It won’t be perfect, but it’s better than nothing. You know how to ski, right?”
“Um… I haven’t been on the slopes in years.” She watched as he took out a pair of wool socks.
He shot a glance at her. “Cross-country.”
“Oh.” She felt her ears heat at her stupidity. “Yes, of course.”
“Good,” Sam said absently. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got some women’s ski boots in the downstairs closet.”
Maisa picked up the wool socks and the pair of men’s long underwear and stripped to put them on, wondering rather viciously whose ski boots were in Sam’s closet.
He put on long underwear, two pairs of socks, and a sweater over his denim shirt.
“You ready?” He turned around and looked at her and this was it. They were going out to face murderous mafiya thugs and she didn’t know what to say. How to act. He wasn’t her boyfriend, maybe wasn’t even a lover—at least in the long-term—but he was something to her. Something important, no matter how much she struggled against it.
She stared at him. “You don’t snore.”
A corner of his mouth quirked. “You know that now?” His voice was unbearably gentle.
“Yes.”
He crossed to her and took her face in his hands, smoothing her short bangs back from her face. “May.”
That was all he said, but somehow it was enough.
He leaned down and kissed her again, but this time it was soft, almost chaste, his lips tender against hers.
It made her want to cry.
“You all coming?” Stu’s shout came from below.
“Yup.” Sam took Maisa’s hand and led her down the stairs.
On the main floor everyone was gathered by the front door. Molly and Karl were already in parkas, Molly with a rifle held under her arm. Stu was bouncing nervously on his big feet. Doug must already be outside.
Sam went to his closet and began taking out skis and boots. “Here.” Sam slapped a huge fur-trimmed hat with flaps on her head. “Warmer than your beret.”
She peered up out of the huge, silly hat. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He turned with a small revolver in his hands. “Almost forgot.”
Maisa’s instinctive reaction was to back away when he held it out to her. She’d never touched a gun before in her life. But she made herself stand still.
Sam turned the little handgun over. It had a black grip and a shiny metal barrel. “It’s a.22. Not too heavy for you, I hope. Keep it in your pocket and if you need to, point and shoot.”
“And do not stop,” Dyadya rumbled.
Maisa glanced at her uncle and then back to Sam.
Sam looked irritated, but he nodded. “He’s right. Once you start shooting at a man, empty the chamber. Shoot to kill.”
“Okay.” She took the handgun and shoved it in the pocket of her coat, zipping it closed. The coat sagged on that side.
“Lock the doors and stay away from the windows once we leave,” Sam told Dyadya.
“You’re just going to abandon us here?” Gerard Walkingtall hadn’t said much since he’d entered the cabin, but now he looked perturbed.
Sam looked him hard in the eye. “Too many people will just get in the way.”
Gerard jerked his chin at Maisa. “But you’re taking her.”
“Yeah, I am,” Sam said, slow and deliberate. “She’s one of us. I trust her. You got a problem with that?”
“I… no.” Gerard scowled and turned away.
Sam nodded. “Anyone else?”
“We’ll be fine, Sam.” Becky spoke for everyone staying behind.
Sam looked at her. “How’s Doc?”
“He’s okay for now.” Becky drew a deep breath. “You just be safe—all of you.”
Stu blushed and stumbled out the door.
“Thanks, Becky.” Sam nodded at Karl and took Maisa’s arm. “Let’s do it.”
And then they were out in the cold.
Chapter Thirty
The cold hit Sam like a smack across the face. He braced himself in the basket of Stu’s sled as the dogs galloped down the highway. There wasn’t a vehicle in sight. Nothing moved in the still winter landscape except the dogs.
Afghanistan was nothing like this. It’d been hot and dry—dry as a bone, a desert of sand-colored rock, mountains, and tufts of grass
. He’d never figured out how the goats the locals herded had found enough to eat. It hadn’t been a place humans should’ve chosen to live, and despite the difference between that barren land and the cold of Minnesota, he couldn’t stop thinking of Afghanistan.
It was where he’d last gambled on the lives of others—gambled and lost.
He wasn’t going to lose any more men if he could help it.
The dogs loped past the Coot Lake Inn as County Road 23 turned into Main, slowing as they got close to the center of town. They passed the old library—boarded up now, the books moved to a smaller, newer building—and Sam leaned out of the sled and tossed his skis and poles to the side of the building. They sank partially into the snow and then they were past. Stu let down the break and Sam gathered himself to jump off.
He glanced back at Stu. “Good luck. Stay safe.”
Stu nodded. “You, too, man.”
And then Sam was leaping and running as Stu gained speed again to dash by the police station.
Sam flattened himself against the doorway of Tracy’s Antiques and drew his Beretta. He was across the street and a little ways down from the police station, and as he glanced that way he saw spots of blood in the snow where he’d shot the two Russian mafiya thugs.
The bloodied snow was right in front of the police station, in plain view of the windows. This wasn’t going to be easy. ’Course, there were windows in back of the station as well. No matter which way he went in it would be hard.
A whoop came from up the road, and then Doug barreled into sight, alone on his sled. He’d already dropped May off. Sam was grateful that she, at least, was out of the line of fire.
He crouched, readying himself.
Just as Karl came around the bank from the opposite direction.
A barrel pointed out the window of the police station and the snow burst in a staggered line just behind Doug’s lead dog. Belatedly, gunfire echoed off the Main Street buildings. Doug’s team was good, though. The dogs didn’t swerve or hesitate, just kept going as Doug made the end of the street and turned to come back.
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