Not that Chet would step in should the op turn ugly. This was important enough to both of them, to the war on terror, to the thousands of soldiers in Afghanistan being mowed down with their own American-made weapons, to sacrifice David’s life, should it become necessary.
David stopped before a container and entered the code to the mechanical lock. The door came open with a teeth-grating whine.
“Inside.”
With the moon rising over the water, streams of hazy light raked the container yard. But it couldn’t dent the pitch black of the container. However, David had personally secreted the one crated box of weapons in the container and now walked over to it without hesitation. He reached out to crack it open when a light flickered across the crate.
“Stop.”
The voice came from the darkness, and David couldn’t make out the face of the speaker. But when the light panned the floor, he plainly recognized the man writhing in the pool of luminescence, bleeding from the head, his hands tied behind him.
Chet.
David stared at him and everything inside him turned to liquid. “What’s going on?”
“We have a problem.”
David narrowed his eyes, trying to get a fix on the speaker.
“We caught your partner here working with the CIA.”
Chet glanced up at him, his face granite. David leveled the appropriate glare at Chet. Lord…
“We’d like to think that he was double-crossing you, Ripley.”
Was that a question? David walked over to Chet, grabbed him by the hair. “Is that true, O’Hare?”
Chet looked at him and slowly nodded.
Pain cut through him, and David thought he might gasp. Instead he backhanded Chet. His partner fell back, bleeding from the mouth. The sound of Chet’s ragged breathing filled the container, burned right into David’s soul.
“I think we’d like a demonstration now.”
David looked up, into the shadows. He made out a taller man, deep-set eyes, a thick build. “I was supposed to meet Kwan.”
“First a demonstration. Then Kwan will see you.”
Which meant that David couldn’t end this here, couldn’t somehow shoot their way out in a blaze of gunfire and fists.
“What demonstration?” he growled.
The man nodded past him, toward one of his men. David heard the crate being wrenched open and bile burned in his throat. He met Chet’s gaze with a coolness meant to mask his feelings. Chet glanced away from him, closed his eyes.
No, God. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Especially since Chet was more than a partner. In a way, he was family.
How would David ever tell Chet’s cousin Gracie—who just happened to also be his pal Vicktor’s fiancée?
David heard one of the men behind him uncrating the Smith & Wesson double-action .45 semiautomatic from the straw and oil that kept it dry and secure. He then heard the ratchet of the eight-round magazine as it slid into the chamber. He tightened his jaw, fixing a look he didn’t feel on his “betrayer.”
The cold, round end of a pistol pressed against his brain stem as another man stepped forward and handed him the pistol.
David nodded. “Step back. It’ll be loud, so be prepared for trouble.” He took the gun by the shiny silver handle, felt the weight, the cool grip.
Chet’s captor stepped away, leaving the man alone and helpless on the floor. David heard the men behind him also move back.
Please forgive me, Lord.
He aimed the pistol at Chet and prayed.
2
“Vicktor only sees me as the girl he rescued. He’ll never see me, the real Gracie Benson. I wonder if he even knows who I am.” Gracie stirred her cappuccino with a stir stick, watching the creamer dissolve. Outside the dining area of the Seattle’s Best coffee kiosk, the sounds of the mall—piped in music, the murmur of kids, the splash of a fountain evidenced just how far apart her world was from the man she loved.
The closest mall in Vicktor’s world was nine hundred miles away, in Moscow. In fact, his hometown in far east Siberia sat closer to Gracie’s place in Seattle than his capital city of St. Petersburg. Somehow, however, their worlds felt even more distant.
“Case in point—I’m picking up Yanna’s sister Elena from the airport, and Vicktor wants me to call him the second she gets off the plane. He won’t even wait until our Friday night online date. Does he think I’m not capable of finding the right person? Or maybe he thinks I’m going to get hijacked by a couple of airport security men for parking in the pickup area?” She set her stir stick on her napkin, dampening it. “Did you know that he had his friend Alex come by my apartment, just to check up on me?”
“He’s just feeling helpless.” Across from her at the café table, Mae Lund tore her poppy-seed bread into smaller chunks. Her recent move out of military life and into the private sector had softened her, despite the fact she’d had her arm twisted to step away from a decade of training and commitment. However, her choices were slim—go civilian or face some sort of military discipline for hopping aboard an C-130 transport to Russia and flying an outdated tin can across protected airspace in order to save her friend Roman from execution. Still, maybe the move had been a good one. She looked good in civilian duds—her brown crop pants, the green tee-shirt. Tall and slim, Mae looked good in just about anything. She’d let her hair grow, and the curly mane of auburn hair only made Gracie wish she hadn’t let herself be duped into cutting her straight blond hair short, nearly into a page-boy.
That, and in her old jeans and sleeveless tee, and she felt like a refuge.
But she’d been feeling rebellious lately—morphing from Miss Minnesota nice, shedding her jean jumpers and hiking boots for real clothes, the kind that didn’t scream “missionary.” And the haircut, well, perhaps it had been a dare—did Vicktor really think her beautiful, or did he just want her to have long hair like every other Russian girl?
But no, he said liked it. Liked it. Even she hated it when she looked in the mirror, which only meant he had lied.
“I don’t need his friends to check up on me. I can take care of myself.” Gracie sipped her coffee. “Sometimes I think he only wants to marry me for…” she sighed, stared at the new display in the Pottery Barn window.
“For your great curves, your winning smile?” Mae grinned.
Gracie shook her head, “No, I’d take that. In fact, whenever he’s here, he’s the perfect gentleman—as if he’s afraid I might lash out and scream if he kisses me.” She tucked her purse between her heels as a couple of teenage boys walked by. “I’ve been to trauma counseling for a year now, I’m dealing with the Wolf, and over my past. I think I can handle a little necking.”
In fact, the way Vicktor treated her, it had the opposite effect of helping her forget the fact she’d been date-raped all those years ago. He was so gentle—in an oh-no-she-might-break kind of way, it only accentuated her scars.
Mae grinned. “Maybe he can’t handle it.”
Oh. Gracie met Mae’s smile. Sighed. “I think he wants me for my citizenship.”
Mae’s smile vanished. A frown deepened on her face, and her hazel-green eyes narrowed. “You can’t be serious.”
Gracie looked away from her. “He did an internship in Seattle, you know. He knows all about America—enough to want to live here.”
“He’s not dating you for your passport, Gracie. Vicktor loves you. I should know.” Mae’s expression didn’t change, and her voice stayed low.
Gracie didn’t acknowledge her. Mae had dated Vicktor, once upon a time. She knew about his intensity, his commitment, the way he could be so remarkably tender. But she didn’t know the ways that time had changed him since college. His cynicism, his suspicion. His dream of a home, and a wife to stay home and make peroshke.
Gracie’s last attempts to make Russian food had ended in a grease fire.
“I know he’s protective, Gracie. That’s just who he is,” Mae finally said, her voice softening. “But it’s on
ly because of his job, what he sees every day. Because he’s so far from you.”
“I just wish I could be sure he loves the real me. That he even knows the real me. I’m not the needy, scared woman he kept alive. Nor am I the tour guide I become when he visits. And I’m especially not the broken, fragile woman I was when we met. I want him to believe that I can take care of myself. And I want him to love me even if I wasn’t American.”
Mae finished off her poppy seed bread. “I don’t know, Gracie. I think wanting to save his woman is the male mindset.” She folded her napkin to contain the crumbs. “The man I’m dating doesn’t seem to think I am capable either. Wanted to fly to Seattle to help me find an apartment. Like I couldn’t read a lease agreement or something. By the way, thanks for letting me bunk with you until I can find my own digs. Your sofa is more comfortable than I expected.”
“It’s yours for as long as you want. But since when are you dating someone?” Gracie drank down the last of her cappuccino. Mae had gone visibly red. She put the cup down, watching Mae fold the napkin into a tiny knot.
Her stomach began to cramp. “Who are you dating?”
Mae pried off the lid of her empty coffee cup. Added the napkin. Didn’t look at Gracie. “I…we…well, you’re sort of responsible for it all, you know.”
Gracie raised an eyebrow.
“Okay! Fine—it’s your cousin, Chet. I met him at your birthday party, remember? He brought David along, and I wanted to see Vicktor, so…”
“You and Chet are dating?” Gracie had hoped her FBI—or perhaps former FBI because he’d been closed mouth at her birthday last winter about his current status—cousin would find a woman. All those good looks—curly brown hair, sweet brown eyes, sculpted muscle—that dangerous smile, and devastating charm should be put to use on someone.
Mae lifted a shoulder. “Internet dating, mostly. Only, I haven’t heard from him in a few weeks. He’s undercover somewhere.” Her voice softened, and she ran her finger around the rim of her cup. “I think I might be…well, I’m not sure, but it feels like I could be, um, falling in love with him.”
“Mae, that’s wonderful! Chet’s a great guy.”
Mae finally met her eyes. Smiled. “He is, isn’t he?”
Gracie leaned back in her chair. “Mae and Chet. Sounds good together.”
Mae lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug.
“I gotta get going. Elena’s flight gets in at 5:00. Thanks for meeting me.” Gracie gathered her cup, her napkin to toss away and stood up, nearly knocking into a man behind her.
“Schto!” The man turned, and for a long second, Gracie was right there, back in Russia, face to face with the Wolf, a serial killer who had tried to murder her. A reflex, it happened less and less frequently nowadays, but still she froze, her heart caught in her chest, staring up at the man who, by his close-shaven head, his angular thin face, his all-black attire and even darker eyes, was clearly Russian. Mafioso Russian, if she believed her instincts.
She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged.
“Gracie!” From somewhere behind the man, a girl appeared. Slight, yet beautiful in the way only a seventeen year old can be, with long straight golden-brown hair and shining eyes, Ina Luduko reached up and grasped Gracie in a hug.
Gracie managed to hug her back, eyes on the man beside them. His gaze ran over Ina, his expression unsmiling. Gracie easily pegged him at mid-twenties. “Ina, good to see you,” she mumbled. “I missed you last week at Bible Study.”
Ina stepped back. “I’m so glad I ran into you.” She reached out and grasped the hand of her companion. “This is Jorge. Remember, I told you about him?” At her words, Jorge broke into a smile. At least his mouth smiled.
He held out his hand.
Gracie met his handshake. “Glad to meet you, George.” They both dropped hands in a second.
Marina clutched his hand with both of hers. “We’re looking at rings.”
Gracie fabricated a smile, even as Jorge looked down at his seventeen year old, way-too-naïve girlfriend and gave her a smile. “Oh,” she said, feeling stupid. No, feeling helpless. Yes, Ina had mentioned a new boyfriend. Had even told her that he was a little older than she. But, well, this boy—no, man—had danger written from his clean-shaven face down to his squared toed shoes.
And maybe she was simply over-reacting, but clearly someone had been lying to Ina’s parents because Gracie couldn’t fathom Yakov and Luba ever approving of this man for their youngest daughter. Ina must have seen Gracie’s thoughts written across her face because she grabbed Gracie’s hand and widened her eyes. “I’ll tell you more Sunday night, okay?”
Code for, don’t tell my parents until I talk to you.
Gracie shot a look at Mae, who had sized up George with the same suspicion. She stood, her arms crossed over her chest, lips in a flat, tight line.
“See you at Bible Study,” Gracie said finally. She looked up at George and gave him her best, “I’ve got my eye on you” look she could muster. George looked away from her, unfazed.
Ina pulled him away, giggling.
Mae took the garbage from Gracie’s hands. “And Vicktor thinks he has to worry about you.”
“Vicktor’s over-reacting,” she said, watching the pair walk away, especially the way Jorge’s hand slipped down Ina’s backside. “Totally over-reacting.”
Yanna couldn’t decide which place felt more dismal—her third-floor office at FSB HQ, with the harsh fluorescent lights, the cables snaking the floor like land mines, the sharp neon eyes of endless computer screens, or her third-story, two room flat, with the dark brown carpet, the occasional hot water, the temperamental electricity. She’d dreaded Elena’s departure for months, and when it happened, she found herself running from the echo that greeted her at the end of the day.
She flicked on the light to her office. The fluorescence debated for a moment, then flooded the room with wan light. Tossing her workout bag onto her faux-leather sofa, she moved to her desk, wiggled the mouse to bring her computer to life, then logged in her password.
A schematic of her newest project flashed on her screen. She’d designed a micro-sized GPS Telemetry transmitter with a 1575.42 MHz frequency GPS, and a 900 MHz spread spectrum radio transmitter to fit into a chip no larger than a one-carat diamond. Her latest tweak included a panic button that reported a precise latitude/longitude/time to the receiver. Her first design of the device she’d inserted into a cell phone, one that awaited a patent. Meanwhile, she worked on developing surveillance applications and hoped that one of them would earn her an office with a view of Red Square in Moscow.
It also gave her something to do during the long weekends that Roman spent with Sarai or when Vicktor holed up in his flat messaging Gracie back in Seattle.
No, she wasn’t lonely. Really. She had all the humming CPUs to keep her company. Yanna clicked open her email, checked through a list of recent messages. One from Artyom, a techno engineer inside the FSB who helped her refine her applications. One from Gracie, confirming Elena’s flight information. Two from her volleyball coach, detailing upcoming meets and practices. Noticeably absent was a recent email from David.
On a whim, she logged into the internet and entered a private chat room. Occasionally over the years, David had surprised her, and she’d found him logged on and waiting for company. Good thing he didn’t know how often she rejected face-to-face company, curled up on the sofa with her laptop, and spent the night tapping to him. Sometimes it just seemed safer, especially with David five thousand miles across the ocean, to unlock her secrets to a computer screen than to those who saw her every day.
“Where are you, David?” Things would have been just fine if she hadn’t seen David less than a year ago. He’d swooped in with his confidence and bravado and unshakable loyalty to help spring their pal Roman from a Russian gulag during the coup in Irkutsk. But David might as well have escaped with her heart also because seeing him after all those years had knocked her right off her I-don’
t-need-a-man pedestal. She might not need one, but she wanted one.
The wrong one. Because, according to her last assessment, David Curtiss wasn’t only an American, but one in the business of fighting terrorists. And the recent headlines from Moscow said that their governments didn’t exactly see eye to eye on whom, exactly, the terrorists were. More than that, David was religious. Vicktor and Roman called him Preach, and rightly so because she couldn’t have a conversation with him without it turning spiritual. Not that he attacked…on the contrary, he answered questions. And took God seriously.
But she’d seen just too much of life to really buy into the idea that God cared, really cared about the details, or even the big picture. One quick glance at the headlines across the world told her that God had checked out long ago.
No, she’d let David and Roman and, lately, Vicktor do the praying—the spiritual surveillance—while she designed the hands-on equipment.
* * *
Are you there?
* * *
She typed in the words in the message box, but his name wasn’t lit on her list of contacts and she didn’t hold out hope for a response. I miss you, she almost typed.
Instead, she minimized the window and wrote an email to Artyom, detailing a new idea. Then she sent an email to Elena, wondering if she’d checked out of her hotel at Incheon Airport yet. Two days without a word from her sister had started to annoy Yanna. Especially since she found her brown spike-heel boots missing and had an idea of where they’d run off to.
“Dztrasvootya.” A knock followed the greeting, and Yanna looked up to see Vicktor at the door, one hand on the jamb. “What are you doing here this late?”
“I should ask you the same question.” Yanna leaned back in her chair. “Working a case?”
Sitting, Vicktor gave a half nod. “Chief Arkady sent it over. His department found a body behind the Amur Hotel. A woman, someone from Thailand or some other Asian country, it looks like. We’re running her ID now. Meanwhile, we have the man listed as her husband in custody. Looks like he ran up a gambling debt and took his frustration out on the first available target.”
Run to You Page 3