Gracie made a face. Yeah, that pretty much summed up her fiancé.
She put the bag of peas on the ground, began to break up the ice chunks that made sharp edges under the plastic. “I think I need to go back there.”
“You need to go to the police is what you need to do. Right now.” Mae returned, holding a hand mirror. “You might think you’re fine, but take a gander at this.” She handed Gracie the mirror.
Gracie held it up, grimacing at the black-and-purple swelling on her forehead. She touched it gingerly, wincing. But as she put down the mirror, she shook her head. “And what do you propose I tell them? That I think a young girl is being held at the hotel against her will? How do I even know that? Do you know how stupid that sounds?”
“It’s not stupid if we can get her parents to file a missing-person’s report.” Mae picked up the bag of peas and pressed it again to Gracie’s forehead. “Her parents’ testimony, combined with your Rocky Balboa-size bump—maybe you can get someone to listen.”
Gracie let the words sink in, looked again at her wound. Smiled. “See, I knew I’d enjoy having you for a roommate.”
“I’m getting my keys. I’m driving to Ina’s house, and I’m going with you to the door, because I might look skinny, but I did take a few how-to-take-a-man-down classes in the army, you know.” Mae grabbed her jean jacket, slipping it on.
“Wow, my own bodyguard,” Gracie said, climbing to her feet. Her head did a slow whoosh and she grabbed the sofa, closing her eyes.
“Methinks one with a near concussion shouldn’t be so sassy,” Mae said, and looped her arm through Gracie’s.
The Gromenkos’ town house seemed dark and quiet as they drove up, the blanket in the window sending a clear leave-now message, especially when combined with the absent outdoor light. Gracie noticed that the tomato plant had fallen from the stairs, cracking, the mud spilling out onto the stairs and the walk.
They sat in Mae’s Jeep Liberty, staring at the house. Down the street, a dog barked, then another in response. Ten feet farther, a streetlamp pooled light on the pavement, but Mae had parked far enough away that it didn’t splash against the black of her Jeep.
“They don’t look home,” Gracie said, remembering the last time she’d knocked. But they’d surprised her then, and maybe Luba was in there, in the dark, not sure what to do, needing a friend.
Gracie toggled the car handle. “Let’s do this. Before I go home and climb into my bed and hide under my down comforter.”
Mae turned off the car and reached past Gracie to open the glove compartment. She grabbed a small silver can. “Pepper spray.”
“Oh.” Of course Mae would be prepared. Gracie got out, rounded the car and took a breath. The fragrance of rain tinged the night air, and down the street, one of the dogs had begun to whine. Shouting came from another house. Somewhere in the distance, a car started. Gracie’s heart thumped, threatening to climb up her throat and maybe lodge there for safekeeping.
“This is silly.” But memories of the day in Russia when she’d stood outside her best friend’s apartment, creeping inside only to find her worst nightmare, rooted her feet to the pavement. She swallowed, but her throat tasted of bile.
“I’ll go first. Or maybe you should just stay here,” Mae said.
Gracie nodded, then followed Mae as she crossed the street. Sometimes, probably more than she wanted to admit, she wished she were like Mae. Tall, redheaded, graceful. Mae knew how to fly a plane, and wasn’t easily rattled. More importantly, she’d been Vicktor’s first love. Although Gracie had never viewed Mae as competition, she couldn’t help but compare.
And in all her measurements, she came up lacking. She even stood at least four inches below Mae’s chin.
What did Vicktor see in her, or worse, was she just the consolation prize? The girl who couldn’t take care of herself?
Mae stopped at the steps, looked at the plant, then the front door. She put her hand out to stop Gracie. “The front door is ajar.”
Gracie came up behind her. Sure enough, the front door hung open by an inch. Mae started up the steps, but Gracie touched her arm. “I know them. Just in case someone is home, maybe I should go in first.”
Mae moved aside. “I’m right behind you.”
Relief rushed through her. She might not be as tall and beautiful as Mae, might not be able to fly C-130s, but she could speak Russian, and most of all, she could be just as gutsy as Mae. Really.
“Luba?” She pushed the door open. “Zdrasvootya?”
The small, shadowed entryway opened into an eating area, and then the kitchen. And running right up from the front door, a stairway led to blackness. “Hello?”
A blue light flickered from over her shoulder. Mae, with a penlight on her key chain, scanned the room.
Now why hadn’t Gracie thought of that? Obviously she’d have to work on her sleuthing skills. That, and maybe talk her legs into moving a bit farther into the house. Mae even gave her a nudge. “Let’s check upstairs.”
Somehow, Gracie found herself moving upstairs. “Luba? It’s Gracie Benson, I was here—”
“Did you hear that?” Mae grabbed her arm. “Shh.”
Gracie stilled, straining to hear above her thumping heart. A Dr. Seuss rhyme from her old Cat in the Hat books filled her head: They should not be here when Mother was not. They should not be here, they should not!
She held her breath.
Moaning.
“Luba?” Gracie ran up the stairs, felt for a hall light, found it and flicked it on.
The luminance bathed the destruction in the hallway. Books were scattered on the floor, a picture lay shattered. And in the doorway beyond, whimpering.
“Luba?”
Mae panned her light toward the door. In the bluish glow, Gracie barely made out Luba hunched over a still form.
“Oh, no.” Mae rushed past Gracie. She flicked on the bedroom light.
Yakov lay in a heap, blood oozing from his ear, his face cut and bruised. Luba sat above him, rocking, her hair loose and disheveled, her shirt torn.
As Mae checked for Yakov’s vitals, Gracie pulled Luba away. “We need to call nine-one-one—”
“Nyet. No militia!” Luba practically screamed. “Nyet!”
“Okay, okay,” Gracie said, glancing at Mae. She was probing Yakov’s head for wounds, her hands covered with blood. She gave Gracie a grave look.
“What happened?” Gracie asked.
Luba covered her mouth with her hands, shaking her head, staring at her husband. One side of her face had already turned purple. Someone had hit her, and hard.
“Ya neznaio, neznaio—”
“She doesn’t know?” Mae translated, although Gracie got it. “What does she mean?” She looked up. “He’s still alive and breathing, but he needs medical help, right now.”
Gracie pushed back the hair from Luba’s face, grimaced. “I think she was hit, maybe knocked out.” Mae translated this theory into Russian, and Luba nodded.
“Did you get a look at who hurt you?” Mae asked in Russian.
Luba stared at Gracie, eyes wide. Then she closed them, and began to sob. “Da, Da.”
“Who, Luba? Kto?”
Gracie had no idea how to translate her answer.
Ina.
Yanna’s tough inner super spy must be malfunctioning, because she sat on the bus to Taipei crying as if she’d just lost her best friend.
Which, for all practical purposes, she had.
The look on his face when David had boarded the bus, panic, and even desperation, had made her feel like a water slug.
He’d only been trying to help.
Yeah, sure he had. Help her all the way back to Russia, leaving her sister to who-knows-what fate.
Yanna leaned her head back against the tall red cloth seats. Overhead, on a tiny television no larger than her toaster back in Khabarovsk, a ninja movie played, complete with subtitles in Mandarin.
All of Taiwan seemed one big sprawling city, se
parated not by rolling countryside, but smaller buildings, two and three stories high. Instead of vacant lots, rice paddies filled every spare inch of land between apartment buildings. The green rows in glistening brown water reminded her of dacha country—every hectare of earth used to mound potatoes. Storefronts advertised in glowing neon and brightly colored Chinese characters, and commuters filled the streets, wearing the ever-present patterned face masks.
Right before every stop, the driver would call out the name. She’d let Kaohsiung pass by, her destination Taipei and the international airport. She’d gotten a good look at the two thugs who’d brought her into the country, and guessed that she wasn’t the only woman they’d trafficked in through Taiwanese passport control. She’d camp out, waiting for them to show up, then follow them to Elena. Meanwhile, Taipei just might have what she needed to fix her GPS earrings. And she could start nosing around brothels.
Elena, where are you? The thought of her sister, who didn’t have a David or even the few kung-fu abilities Yanna possessed, captured by Kwan and his men…Yanna put a hand over her stomach, in case the rice packet decided to make its way back up.
So she’d been right about Kwan. In fact, she probably had tidbits of information that might help David and his undercover adventure. But no, David wouldn’t allow her to be an equal partner. She had to be the damsel in distress, he the dashing hero. What was it about him that always had to save the day?
Yes, she’d been handcuffed to the chair, helpless and had a knife to her throat, but she would have figured out something.
Really.
Yanna wiped away another tear.
She didn’t need him, and already regretted the briefest of moments she’d depended on him. This leaking was precisely why.
She had to face it—he wasn’t going to help her—not if he thought her life was in danger. He’d promised to help, but she’d experienced his promises before.
Men were all the same—disappointing.
She could find Elena on her own, as she planned to do.
She didn’t really have to track down Kwan. She just had to let him know she was still alive. He’d do all the work.
And next time, she wouldn’t be the one who ended up with a blade to her neck.
The bus stopped again, and she looked up, checking out the embarking passenger. She didn’t really think Kwan could have tracked her down already, but…
A man climbed the stairs, holding his little black-haired maybe four-year-old daughter, bows in her hair holding up two wispy pigtails. He appeared about forty, with a leather bag slung over his shoulder and strong arms around the girl. She looked around the bus, then back at him with adoring eyes as he found their seats.
Yanna swallowed, her throat suddenly thick. Apparently fatigue also made her susceptible to painful longings buried deep inside, because she was right there with that little girl, adoring the man who held her in his arms.
She hadn’t been sure if he was boyfriend number two or three, but Boris had been the man she’d wanted to be her real father. Older than her mother, he seemed to love both Yanna and her mom. He had worked at the local bread factory and perhaps her mother had seen in him someone stable, even kind, when she brought him home to live in their two-room house. He didn’t drink—well, not much at least—and loved Yanna like she might be his own. Yanna remembered his smile, the long walks in the park, the stuffed monkey he’d given her one year for New Year’s Eve.
“Papichka, will you be my daddy and stay with me forever and ever?” she’d asked him once, right before first grade, as he’d picked her up from kindergarten. Even at six, she knew that not all daddies stayed. Boris had knelt right there on the sidewalk, tugged her long, dark braid wrapped with brilliant red ribbon, and said. “Ya obeshaio.”
I promise. She knew all about men and promises. Perhaps not all men broke promises, but the ones she loved did. Over and over and over. Like Boris, when he left them only three months later, simply disappearing into the night after a ferocious fight with her mother. Yevgeny, then Slava, had promised, and left. Some of her “daddies” she’d silently begged to leave, especially when they promised to make her life very, very difficult if she told her mother what they did to her when she wasn’t home.
After a while, she didn’t care who promised what.
Until, of course, she’d met David.
Why was it that every time she let a man into her heart, he tore it to smithereens? Especially David. Because once she had let him close, she’d never really gotten him out of her system, as evidenced by her gigantic lapse in judgment on the boat. She could hardly believe she’d nearly kissed him.
She closed her eyes, willing herself not to sleep, but feeling tired. So very tired.
Which was when the memories usually surfaced. “This time, you’re going down, Yanna!” David’s voice found her, and she frowned, knowing that if she followed the memory long enough it could only churn up hurt. Yet, as if pulled by some ethereal force, she lost herself in the briny smell of the sea, the feel of hot sand beneath her bare feet, the sun overhead, the shouts and laughter of children running into the surf.
“Bring it on, Yankee,” she retorted, dusting off her knees and glancing at Roman behind her, ready to take their friend Mae’s serve. The sun overhead left its mark on blond David’s fair complexion, turning his nose red, his shoulders a deep russet-brown and lifting from his skin a field of freckles. He’d taken his shirt off, and she’d refrained from telling him that he was only asking for trouble. Because, though she was his friend, she also had plenty of appreciation for his physique, toned from hours at the gym and playing street hockey.
Behind her, Roman taunted David in Russian. “It’s the 1980 Olympics and finally you’re going down, Yankee!”
“Game point,” Mae said, twirling the volleyball in her hand. She’d pulled her curly red hair back into a ponytail, and wore a pair of beach shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Yanna had preferred wearing her bikini, and even David had given her a long once-over, trying to hide it of course, when she emerged from her room at the Black Sea Resort. It wasn’t hard to figure out that calling them “just friends” hadn’t made him immune to her.
Perfect.
Because with David leaving in about five short weeks to head back to America, and possibly out of her life for good, she wanted him to remember her for a long, long time.
She flicked her hair back, shiny and dark in the sun. David’s gaze squared in on her. Mae tossed the ball and served it over the net.
Roman met it with a bump, setting it up. Yanna sent it over. David scooped it up, Mae set it and David jumped high to spike it. Yanna saved it low with a bump and Roman got under the ball, setting it high.
“Drill it!” Roman said. Yanna jumped high, spiked it hard.
David dove and bumped it right before it hit the sand. Mae set it up high for him again. This time, Yanna paralleled him to block it. But David was going for broke, and he jumped, drew back and arrowed the ball over the net.
It slammed Yanna square in the face. Blood spurted as she dumped into the sand. She cupped her nose, eyes watering, face smarting.
“Yanna!” David ducked under the net and skidded in the sand to her feet, horror replacing the triumph in his voice. “Yanna, I’m sorry!”
Roman had torn off his sweaty shirt. He thrust it at David, who tried to get Yanna to move her hands. She pinched her nose, tipping her head back. She took the shirt, bunched it under her nose.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said, but tears ran down her face, her nose burning, the pain making her dizzy. She even put a hand out as she fell back onto the sand.
“I’m taking you back to the hotel,” David said, and before she could protest, he had scooped her up into his arms.
For a second, the briefest of seconds, she let him. Just stayed right there next to all that sweaty, golden-red skin. And then she came to her senses. Because, well, she’d never been a pansy, and especially not in front of Roman and David.
He put her down. “Knock it off. I’m just trying to help you.”
“I don’t need your help.” Yet, as she took a step, she had to hold out her hand for balance, the earth spinning.
“Uh…I beg to differ.” David grabbed her around the waist, taking her sandals from Roman. “We’ll meet you back at the dorms.”
Roman jogged back to Mae, who had begun to collect their things. “We’ll track down Vicktor and get a place in the café!”
Yanna barely heard them, focused as she was on staring at the sky, trying to stop the flow of blood.
David threw down her sandals. Guided her foot into one, then the other. “I’m fine,” she said again, sounding much like she might be talking through a tunnel.
“Sure you are.” David took her by the elbow. “I’m really sorry. I thought you’d block it.”
“I did block it,” she said, almost tripping on the curb.
“Yeah, with your nose. I thought you were supposed to use your arms or your torso.”
She glared at him—not so easy while holding her nose—and walked through the parking lot to the four-story sanitarium. They’d found the resort, as Mae and David called it, through friends of Vicktor’s mother, a nurse in Khabarovsk, Far East Russia. Fifty acres of beach and wilderness, with a spa, a cafeteria, segregated dorm rooms, and plenty of Black Sea beach. The five friends had taken this last break from Moscow University for a final hurrah before graduation.
David slowed and Yanna did, too, looking down for a moment to find the sidewalk.
David took her elbow. “I’m not going to let you fall, I promise.”
Yanna stepped up, took her hand away from her nose. Looked at it, and Roman’s sweaty, blood-soaked shirt. “I think it’s stopped bleeding.”
David tilted her chin up and surveyed her nose. “Maybe. It might be broken.”
She didn’t want to confirm that it felt like it might be broken. Because, then he’d go all horror face on her again, and possibly treat her like she might be pitiful or weak.
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