Sands of Time

by Susan May Warren

Mr. Fight Club chuckled, as if amused. Roman jerked his head and realized that maybe he wasn’t as numb as he’d hoped. He surrendered as the man led him back to the family room. Fight Club opened the door, made to push Roman to the floor.

  Roman heard a scream and saw feet rushing at him. He flinched, ducked and rolled as Sarai launched herself at his interrogator.

  What was she doing? Trying to get herself killed? Obviously, Fight Club and his pal had underestimated her when they left her untied in the room. “Sarai!”

  He rolled onto his back, saw Fight Club wrestling a poker out of her hands. Blood trickled down his temple, but he had fury in his eyes as he gave the poker a vicious twist. Sarai cried out.

  Fight Club raised the poker above his head. Sarai covered her head with her hands just as Roman kicked the man in the gut.

  He bent over, and a whoosh of air escaped his lungs. Roman kicked him again across the face.

  They’d attracted attention. Mafia Two appeared—the dark-haired one with the cell phone, and a gun. He held it on Roman. “Stop,” he said calmly.

  Fight Club stood up, flicked a glance at Sarai, who had backed up against the wall with her hands still curled over her head. Then he kicked Roman hard, right above the kidneys.

  Roman stifled a scream, but pain exploded in his entire body and for a second he thought he might throw up.

  “Leave him alone!” Sarai’s voice cut through the blinding pain. Through his blurred vision he saw her leap to her feet. “He’s ill and still suffering from hypothermia.” He recognized her doctor’s voice, despite a quavering around the edges. “If you let him rest, he’ll be in better shape to talk to you.”

  No, Sarai. I’ll just feel the pain again when I don’t talk. Only, he couldn’t seem to form words with his stiff lips.

  “Please. Listen, I’ll tell you what I know. Leave him alone.”

  No!

  To reinforce her words, Mafia Two grabbed Sarai and pressed the pistol against her throat.

  She went white.

  Roman stopped breathing. Fight Club straddled him, hit him again.

  “Stop, please,” Sarai said in a voice barely audible.

  As he watched, they pulled Sarai out into the hall. A sacrificial offering.

  He lay in a ball as the door clicked shut and wanted to cry.

  “What are you going to do to me?” Her voice sounded tinny.

  The man she’d hit held his hand to his head and glared at her. Her stomach felt floppy and weak, her legs trembled.

  He reached for her.

  “Stop.” The command came from the other man. He lowered his gun away from Sarai. “We’re to keep them alive until Fyodor gets here.”

  Keep them alive?

  Her head started a slow spin. She reached out for the wall. Keep them alive. Yes, that’s what she had to do.

  Sarai took a deep breath. Years of muscling past bullies who wanted to scalp her or steal her medicines had taught her to sort out her thoughts, think through each breath. She latched on to her anger, separating it from fear and steeled her voice. “I’m a doctor and he needs something hot to drink, or he’ll die. I’m going to make him tea.”

  Bleeding Mafia stared at her. Her pounding heart filled the gap of time. Then, he pushed her toward the kitchen and let her go. “In there.”

  She ignored the frowns of the two men, especially the one she’d hoped to skewer, and prayed that she had the strength to walk past them, to enact her plan without crumpling into a ball.

  Again.

  She should have been quicker, braver. As it was, she’d only worked her courage to half the needed strength, despite being crouched beside the door for nearly a half hour. Who did she think she was—a super hero? They probably doubted she had it in her to pounce, but she’d had her ear to the wall, and every time Roman made a noise—a noise that ripped her heart a little further from its moorings—her resolve hardened.

  She had to get him out of here before they killed him. She’d just have to resort to plan B.

  Whatever that might be.

  Lord, give me wisdom! Help me save us. How had she gone from life securely in her grip to fraying fast and well into desperation? She had to admit, she never felt more abandoned by God than now. After all she’d done for Him, she thought He’d certainly step in. Hadn’t she earned at least that? In fact, she had to wonder if she wasn’t somehow being punished. Only, for what? Loving Roman?

  No, that came with its own inherent punishment. A girl should have to sign a disclaimer, or waiver of damages when she got near him.

  She should have read the clause about how he’d grind her heart into little bitty pieces of sorrow. She’d heard that last little groan he made and wanted to wail.

  Trust in the Lord with all your heart.

  The verse from her childhood made her pause right inside the kitchen. Mafia One nearly stomped over her.

  “Sorry,” she said, meekly.

  Buy time.

  Her heart filled her throat, and she struggled to swallow it back into place. She went to the stove and grabbed a pot of water.

  “No tricks. Or your boyfriend gets hurt.” Mafia One sat, grabbed a napkin and put it to his head. Sarai saw the action and winced.

  Be apologetic.

  The thought arrowed into her head as she filled the pot with water. Hopefully it wasn’t ground water. As in toxic ground water. She put it on the electric stove to boil.

  “I’m a doctor. Maybe I should look at that.” She turned and advanced toward him. He raised his pistol. “Get back.”

  Sarai raised her hands, saw that they shook. Probably a good thing, because then neither of them harbored any illusions. She felt her heartbeat as a pulse at the base of her neck.

  She turned, opened up a cabinet and began to search for tea. Mafia One still had the napkin—now dotted with blood—pressed to his head. Some doctor she was—first do no harm. See the things Roman made her do?

  She found tea boxes—Indian tea, and green tea. English breakfast tea. And, wedged into another box, right behind the teas…Moscovskaya yspokaivayushee sredstva.

  Sedatives.

  Of course. Julia Bednov probably had them stashed throughout the house.

  She grabbed the box and did a quick count. The size of sugar packets, the sedatives dissolved in water. She’d used them on a few occasions for grieving parents, or even agitated patients. For that matter, she’d even given a mild dosage to Julia.

  Apparently, the woman needed the stuff more than Sarai realized.

  With the right dosage, the mafia brothers would drop like stones and wake up with nothing more than a couple head knockers.

  She took down a box of green tea and opened it.

  Be friendly.

  She turned and held up the box. “Want some tea?”

  Mafia One narrowed his beady dark eyes. Then, praise God! He nodded.

  Sarai smiled.

  She found teacups and ladled in tea bags. And then, one eye on her captor, she ripped open a handful of packets and poured in the white powder. She shoved the wrappers up her sleeve, then poured the water into the cups.

  Stirred.

  “I’m taking this into Roman. I made one for your…friend, too. They’re on the counter.” She picked up a cup and saucer, turning to leave.

  Mafia One stood, and stopped her with a grip on her arm.

  “Try again, Americanka.” He reached out, took the cup from her hand. “Take one of those.”

  Sarai looked at the cup in his hand, then shrugged and turned. “Suit yourself. They’re all alike.”

  Then she walked past him, thankful that her hand didn’t tremble.

  But, inside she was doing a wild rumba. He’d taken the bait.

  She heard him grunt at Mafia Two as she stopped by Roman’s door and nudged it open.

  She closed it behind her, praying.

  Roman writhed on the floor, his hands behind his back, working at his bonds. He looked up and the relief on his face took her breath away.
“Please, tell me you’re okay. That they didn’t hurt you.”

  “I made tea.”

  He blinked at her. Frowned. Stared at the tea. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you just said.”

  “I made tea.” She crouched next to him. “I’ll untie you.”

  She fought her shaking hands, feeling his gaze on her.

  “Did you just say you made tea?”

  “I did. I…well—” she lowered her voice “—I put sedatives in it. So don’t drink any.”

  He raised his eyebrows and then grinned. It felt like one-hundred-thousand watts of sunshine to her heart.

  His hands came free. He rolled over and reached for her. In the brief moment before he slid his hand around her neck and pulled her to him, she saw a sheen in his hot eyes.

  As if he’d been…crying?

  He kissed her hard, an almost desperate release of emotions. Nothing gentle there. Pure fear and heartache rolled into his kiss. The intensity rushed through her, caught her unaware and left her unhinged.

  Roman was afraid. That, she never, ever expected.

  He pushed her away, holding her at arm’s length. “How long before it takes effect?”

  She glanced at the door. “I don’t know. They’re waiting for someone.”

  He nodded, grabbed for his shirt and pulled it over his head.

  “You need shoes.”

  His bare feet looked cold and pale. She stood and cracked open the door. The two guards were sitting at the table, drinking. She saw a vodka bottle in the middle and cringed.

  Hopefully, however, it would only accelerate the process.

  She clicked the door shut and paced, rubbing her hands together. A fire chewed the logs. One fell atop another and sparks flew. The smell of smoke filled the room and made her hair and skin feel gummy.

  Roman sat up, cupping his hands around the tea. “Uh, is this spiked, too?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to take any chances.” He took a sip and some of it dribbled from his wounded lip.

  “Probably need something to calm my racing heart.” Then he winked at her, and he looked so…not desperate, not afraid or like they were hostages about to get beaten up that she just had to give a huff of disbelief.

  Trust Roman to find a silver lining in the thunderclouds.

  “Gatov?” growled a voice as the door cracked open.

  She cringed but stepped back from the door. Mafia One entered, a little shaky, but menacing enough to sent a bolt of fear through her. He pointed his gun at Roman. “Get up.”

  “No!” She grabbed the man’s arm, not sure what she expected, but not ready to hear Roman suffer, again.

  Mafia pushed her down, and she hit the ground, hard.

  “Leave her alone!” Even in his fatigue, Roman had “hero” flooding his veins and he pounced to his feet, right between Mafia Boy and Sarai.

  Sarai’s stomach clawed at her throat.

  Mafia One swung at Roman’s head. And, as Roman dodged the blow, Mafia One stumbled.

  Roman saw it.

  He grabbed at the gun. It skittered out of Mafia One’s hand and onto the floor.

  Sarai squelched a scream and dove for the gun. She picked it up, both hands wrapped around the butt. “Stop!”

  Mafia One ignored her. He swung at Roman, but Roman dodged and his fist landed in the door. Mafia One howled.

  Roman one-two punched him and Mafia One landed at his feet. Out cold. Roman stared at him, then looked at Sarai. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Sarai scrambled to her feet, ran out into the hall.

  Mafia Two was slumped at the table, his hand around his gun. Please, Lord, don’t let them be dead. Even if they sort of deserved it.

  Roman appeared with a coat and a pair of boots. He shoved the coat on her and his feet into the boots, then took her hand. He grinned wildly, as if he might be a boy sneaking into the circus.

  “Glad you’re not my doctor,” he said.

  She mock-glared at him. “I should be. Then maybe I could get your head examined and figure out what it is about you that attracts trouble.”

  He pulled her through the house, grabbed a hat and coat for himself and shoved a fur shapka on her head. “It’s you, baby. You attract trouble.”

  Oh, yeah, that’s right. She attracted him.

  They ran out into the cold, and it nearly took her breath away. Roman ran to the snowmobiles. “Think you can drive one of these?”

  Sarai had already climbed aboard. Was he kidding? She could drive an F-16 fighter jet if it meant getting out of here and back to Smolsk.

  And…then where? As she pulled the start cord and started the engine, she cut that question from her mind.

  She wasn’t leaving Smolsk. She was a doctor. With a duty.

  She didn’t care if that duty cost her freedom.

  Or her heart.

  Chapter Fifteen

  He couldn’t believe how much he’d completely misjudged her. As Roman urged his snowmobile into the grayness of twilight, his headlights barely illuminating Sarai’s sled, he knew one thing.

  She had been absolutely 120-percent correct. She didn’t need a hero.

  She’d saved him. Twice today, if his muddled brain sorted out the facts correctly. He still felt chilled, right through to his capillaries, but a warmth sizzled in the center of his chest, keeping his core warm.

  Sarai had kissed him. In between the terror of nearly dying and the pain at the hands of Fight Club, for a brief snapshot in time, he’d held her in his arms, not once, but twice. And she’d kissed him.

  Not tentatively, not fearfully, but eagerly. Eagerly. At least the first time.

  The second was all about him, not being able to put a cap on the fear that he’d lost her, and even worse the fear that he’d caused her brutal rape and murder.

  She’d been right to leave him. He let that thought bruise him for a moment.

  No, better to think about her in his arms, safe, kissing him as if she loved him, as if she’d been sorry she left. He let that thought seep out of his heart, into his chest and to the rest of his chilled extremities. And, if she loved him, maybe he wouldn’t have to arrest her. Maybe she’d leave, with him.

  Happily.

  Oy, that lake had to have really turned his brain into an ice cube because his synapses not only weren’t firing but they’d sizzled right out. One—he wasn’t going to arrest her. Two—she’d never leave happily. Maybe kicking and screaming, or at the best, begrudgingly. But there wouldn’t be jigs of joy when she closed up shop in Smolsk.

  She’d worked too hard, too long for her dreams. The thought of her leaving it all behind, destroying all she’d worked for had him feeling light-headed and nauseous.

  He should pack up and go home, trust her instincts about him and Russia’s visa laws. How many times did they kick foreigners out of Russia these days? Seriously?

  Don’t answer that.

  The wind had returned, and along with it turned the snow into whirling dervishes that swept up before his sled and pelted him. His eyelashes felt frozen and heavy, and he could taste the cold chapping his lips. At least he could feel his lips.

  Ahead of him, Sarai, using some sort of inner GPS, headed straight south. Toward the road to Smolsk. Roman estimated they had about three hours until they reached the town at this clip.

  Hopefully, the Mafia boys—Bednov’s boys?—had topped off their tanks that morning before their hot pursuit of Bonnie and Clyde.

  He rolled around the ramifications of Sarai’s theory. Bednov and his family had vacationed at their Alexander Oil dacha long enough for little Sasha to be infected with radioactive waste from the nuclear plant. And what if dead Barry Riddle in Khabarovsk had eaten contaminated fish? Then wouldn’t Alexander Bednov also be sick? Not if he knew about the lake.

  No, most likely the fish in Riddle’s gut came from Lake Baikal, served up in some posh restaurant in Irkutsk when he’d had dinner with Bednov. But was that proof enough that Bednov was involved in the smugglin
g of nuclear ammunition? Namely highly enriched uranium?

  Nyet. Although circumstances painted a suspicious picture, Bednov might be an innocent in all this. Doubtful, given his history, but possible. Which left Roman with a big nol when it came to finding the uranium supplier.

  If only he’d gotten the lot number on those casks.

  If only Smirnov hadn’t offed himself—or been offed—in Moscow.

  Yanna’s words came back to him, like an echo caught in time. “Gregori Khetrov is on the board of directors. He’s a communications billionaire in Moscow, only right now he’s sitting in Lubyanka prison, courtesy the FSB, on tax charges.”

  He wanted to give himself a head slap—only, he’d probably dump the sled over. How could he be so stupid? Bednov and Khetrov were stockholders in Alexander Oil. Of course they’d take out Smirnov first chance they got.

  If only he had his telephone—sadly it was being eaten by toxic waste at the moment—he’d have Khetrov put in solitary before someone could do him the same favor they did Smirnov.

  Roman felt his adrenaline kick in. Bednov could have planned this entire thing—the coup, the ousting of foreigners—to seize control of his oil interests and to protect his smuggling operation.

  A plot that only a conniver like Bednov could conceive.

  And, if Bednov connected the dots, he’d figure out that the same beautiful doctor who treated his dying son just might use her incredible brain to link him to the toxic waste, then the nuclear plant….

  But he wouldn’t guess in a million years that Sarai knew anything about smuggling of nuclear materials. Unless, of course, she had a nosy FSB agent on her tail, one who dragged her inside said nuclear plant, only to get caught and his insides slightly rearranged by Bednov’s thugs, who then passed that information onto Bednov.

  Again, a great leap, but his chest squeezed.

  He had to get Sarai out of Irkutia, pronto.

  Except what if the Mafia boys called Bednov? He’d be on the next plane to Bali.

  Save Sarai or nail Bednov? Now the knot formed right in the center of Roman’s skull, and he winced. Couldn’t he do both?

  The options whirred before him. Didn’t Yanna say Vicktor had hopped a plane for Irkutia? Roman could pass Sarai off into Vicktor’s capable hands, then go in for the kill on Bednov.