Never Say Goodbye

by Susan May Warren

  He closed his eyes. “I’ll stay here. Just for a minute. You go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

  She said nothing, but he heard her footsteps crunch away.

  Right behind her. Perhaps that was where he was destined to forever be in Sarai’s life. Her bodyguard. Her protector.

  Not her husband. He’d never be enough for her. Why couldn’t he figure that out?

  She didn’t want a man who dedicated his life to throwing bad guys out of her path or tracked her down the dark alleys of her life. She wanted a man who would go to the ends of the earth with her declaring salvation. A preacher.

  What she didn’t know was that he really didn’t have it in him. He didn’t know how to save souls, to lead someone to Christ. It was all he could do to try to walk as a disciple, one day at a time, and not to give in to the urges of his loneliness or the temptations of his profession. Plenty of his fellow COBRAs knew he was a Christian. But to get into detail with them felt a billion times harder than just saying nyet to their off-duty activities.

  No, he wasn’t a preacher. The best he could hope for was that Sarai looked past his actions to his heart—he only wanted to keep her safe and be a friend to her brother.

  Hopefully he’d do both without becoming a national traitor. Because, despite their brief snowbound interlude, Roman kept the stakes in the forefront of his brain.

  He had twenty-four hours to get Sarai out of Irkutsk. And when the clock ticked down to zero, he’d have no choice.

  If he didn’t take drastic measures, he would have to arrest her.

  One of them was going to a gulag.

  He’d stayed there in the snow, letting the flakes that peeled from the sky wet his cheeks as he stared into the black expanse that reached to heaven. “Lord, I don’t know why You sent me out here. I know David asked me, but I didn’t really consult You first. I’m asking You now, especially since I’m already here—what should I do? I can’t let her stay, can I? How do I get her to see that she’s really in danger?” Stubborn, blind Sarai. What would he have to do to get her to believe him, to trust him?

  He just has so much potential to be more. And he’s blown it.

  “Lord, Sarai’s words hurt. But mostly because I do want to be everything You want me to be. You know I’d be a horrible preacher. But if You want more of me, help me to want that too.”

  He wiped his cheeks with a gloved hand and felt the heaviness lift, just a little.

  What did God want of him?

  That question continued to ring in his thoughts as he came inside and watched Sarai prepare his victory supper.

  “Pizza’s in the oven,” Sarai said as she came up behind him.

  He felt her more than heard her, especially the way his skin prickled. He stepped away from her. “I’m going to take a sauna,” he said without looking at her.

  He strode out into the night. Snow still fluttered from the canopy overhead. He followed a trail out to a small shack, letting the smell of wood smoke lead him.

  Inside, candles flickered against the wood paneling. The sauna house had two rooms, one that held a small table and samovar for tea. The inner room held hooks and a washbasin of cold water. Roman noticed that Genye had already stoked the stove, and he guessed the man was inside, sweating.

  The sauna room was dark, with only the coals lighting the room with an eerie, hissing orange as Roman went inside. Genye greeted him with a grunt as Roman sat on the planks and inhaled the hot, thick air. He let it fill his lungs, cleanse them.

  Sweat began to pour down his face, onto his chest, along his spine.

  “I fixed the snowmobile. You’re ready to go tomorrow, if you’d like.” Genye spoke from out of the darkness.

  “Thanks,” Roman said, but he felt a heaviness settle inside, a dread that filled his bones. Tomorrow, then, they’d leave, back out into the chaos of his world.

  He cleaned up and exited the sauna with few words, and hiked back to the dacha. He saw Sarai through the window, working at the table, cutting the pizza. She looked up as he entered.

  “You look refreshed.”

  Or wrung out. He smiled, however. “Smells good.”

  She shrugged. “I had to make it with bacon and dill. Not your standard pizza, but I hope it’ll be okay.”

  He met her eyes. “I’m sure it’ll be perfect.”

  He tried not to notice the blush, as if his words had touched her. As if she might be pleased that she’d made him happy. Sarai, please don’t.

  Thankfully, his heart took up a defensive position. It erased his smile as he brushed past her. “I talked to Genye. He said he fixed his snowmobile. If the weather clears, I’m going first thing in the morning to take a look at that reactor. I’ll be back to take you to Smolsk by lunchtime. We’ll be in Khabarovsk before midnight.”

  Sarai froze. He watched out of his peripheral vision as her blush shifted to anger. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He glanced at her. “Yes, Sarai. I’m taking you to the nearest airfield and flying you out of here. I know you don’t believe it’s urgent, or that you’re in real danger, and it has been rather surreal today, but you have twenty-four hours to leave Irkutia. And I’m going to make sure you do.”

  “Because you’re an FSB agent?” Her eyes flashed.

  “No. Because I’m your friend.”

  She said nothing, but he saw a muscle tense in her jaw. Then, “You’re not my friend, Roman. You’re my keeper. My brother’s errand boy.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it before his tone could betray how her words sliced him. “Ladna,” he said and turned away. “Think what you want. I need to check out that nuclear plant. Be ready to leave by the time I return.” He glanced back at her. “And don’t try any stunts. That ambulance is pretty well packed in, but, Sarai, if you try to ditch me again, I’ll track you down and find you. And haul you out of Irkutia over my shoulder if I have to.”

  He probably should have ducked, because the glare she gave him felt like a jaw-splitter. He tried not to wince. But she morphed so quickly from the girl who’d made him pizza to the one who wanted to scalp him with the knife, it was more than he could bear.

  “I’m going with you to the nuclear plant.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not. For one, it’s a long cold trip. Secondly, I don’t know what to expect.”

  “And you think either of those reasons scare me? Clearly you don’t know me that well.”

  Oh, yes, he did. And that’s what unnerved him. “You’re not going with me,” he repeated slowly.

  She stabbed the knife into the cutting board. “Those are my patients who are infected, and if I can figure out why, you can’t stop me.”

  Roman turned away from her and crouched before the wood stove. Opening the door, he grabbed the poker and stabbed at the wood. Sparks flew out of the grate and landed at his feet. “I’m not kidding, Sar. It could be dangerous.”

  He heard her tromp across the floor. She stopped at the foot of the ladder to the loft. “Oh, Roman, I’m not worried,” she said.

  Her tone made him turn. She was smiling sweetly. Too sweetly. “You see, I have a hero, don’t I?”

  Sarai pulled the comforter up around her face and tucked her nose underneath, breathing into the folds to warm it. A chill nipped the corners of the attic. The fire had to have gone out downstairs.

  Or maybe the cold emanated from inside. Deep inside, where she’d harbored the last hopes that Roman still loved her.

  Once, maybe, loved her.

  Roman ground to a cinder any illusions she might have courted about his feelings. I got over you, he’d said.

  Yeah, he had. Why not? It had been nearly thirteen years since she’d about-faced in his life.

  Me too, she’d retorted. Sorry for that lie, Lord. She hated the ache that gripped her chest. And it didn’t help that her breathing hitched every time she glanced at him. He was a dangerous mix of charm and power, and those smoldering hazel eyes turned her mouth to dust.

  Es
pecially today in the snow. For the briefest of moments she’d thought he’d wanted to kiss— No. Her overactive imagination had her in his arms, right where she’d dreamed of being for so many years. And then, she’d seen herself holding on to him, crying, even begging him to give up everything he’d worked so hard for, just to be with her. How incredibly selfish. No, how incredibly naive.

  Thankfully, he didn’t harbor any naiveté about their future. He’d shrugged away from her without an inkling that she’d been about to grab him by the jacket and kiss him.

  Being with him, even this short time, had shaken her to her core. She missed the memory of his embrace, but also his strength, the way he had some sort of mental GPS trained on her—if she just looked over her shoulder he’d be there. He had hero written all over him, with his well-toned physique that bespoke confidence and ability. Beneath that, in his determination and sheer stubbornness, she saw commitment. He’d followed her for two days, putting his job in jeopardy.

  He’d followed her after she’d ditched him, twice, and told her that he’d keep following her, even if he had to drag her out of Russia.

  She closed her eyes, letting herself remember him as he’d been thirteen years ago.

  Younger, for sure, with less experience in his eyes. And the way he held her hand—she could be anywhere in a crowd and somehow, Roman could zero in on her and appear. Like that time on Arbot Street when she went shopping with David’s American friend Mae. The renowned cobblestone street from the time of the czars was filled with painters, food vendors, music, and plenty of local hoods hoping to separate her from her backpack. Mae, with her curly red hair and stunning looks, seemed to announce their tourist status, and Sarai prickled every time someone brushed by her.

  She’d stopped to admire the work of a chalk artist when she felt the tug on her backpack slung over her shoulder.

  The thief moved so quickly, it took several seconds for Sarai to realize what happened.

  He’d cut her bag right off her shoulder.

  About her height and weight, the kid knocked over the chalk stand as he fled down the street. With her passport. Her visa.

  Her money.

  Sarai didn’t think. She lit out after him, yelling. Years later, when she replayed the scene, she saw herself, a crazed tourist, yelling in Russian, “Give me back my umbrella!” But at the time, she thought herself brave, righteous, and fierce. A woman who could save herself, who could face any foe.

  Until she found herself turned around, out of breath, and alone behind an apartment building. The thief had vanished. Around her, garbage dumpsters overflowed with refuse. Dogs and pigeons circled the trash, and above her, from tiny balconies, laundry snapped in the summer breeze. She heard doors slam, the cry of a child.

  She looked behind her and realized she was lost.

  Certainly she hadn’t run so far that she couldn’t find her way back to Arbot Street. But without money or a passport…and where, exactly, did David live?

  Panic tried a choke hold she refused its grip. Think, Sarai.

  Nothing seemed familiar as she wandered back toward Arbot Street. Or in the direction she thought was Arbot Street.

  Shadows darkened the alleys as the sun dipped below view, mocking her attempts to find her way home. The air gathered the night chill and pressed it into her short sleeve shirt. She passed a huddle of black-shirted youths dressed in leather jackets and eyeing her with smirks. She wrapped her arms around herself, told herself to keep walking.

  Steps echoed behind her.

  Don’t panic.

  She picked up her pace, then broke out into a jog. She heard scuffling and leaped into a full run.

  She turned the corner and discovered yet another narrow street packed with three-story apartment buildings. A dead end. A hand snatched at her shoulder, and she screamed, wrenching away from it.

  Laughter. It sliced through her like a scalpel.

  Then another hand grabbed her arm, yanked her to a stop. “Kakaya zhenshina mwe nashli?”

  Sometimes, in the darkest corners of her heart, she could still hear his voice. What kind of girl have we found? Right then she knew the truth.

  She wasn’t fierce or brave.

  She was afraid. So darkly afraid that she kept it packed down under self-reliance. Under bravado and her noble cause. Under pure foolishness. Because to acknowledge it would force her to admit that she needed someone besides herself.

  Olive-skinned, with short dark hair and darker eyes, her attacker smelled of vodka. He shoved her against the door to an apartment building. Finding her other arm, he held her wrists in a viselike clamp that made her cry out. “Leave me alone.”

  More laughter. She looked past him, and her breathing turned to razors in her chest. Maybe six boys, all wearing crooked smiles.

  “Please…don’t hurt me. I’m just trying to find my way home.”

  She spoke in English and knew that had been a mistake the moment they exchanged looks and grinned.

  She closed her eyes and prayed.

  “Otsan ot yeyo!”

  She heard the voice, and for a second the words didn’t register. Only the feeling of relief that seemed so powerful, it threatened to take her knees out. Get away from her!

  Sarai opened her eyes to see Roman take down the hoodlum who had backed her up against the building.

  She screamed as Roman sent his fist into the kid’s face—one, two, three times. Until her brother pulled him off. “Let him go!”

  Roman turned and his expression etched forever in Sarai’s thoughts. She still revisited it whenever she felt so alone she wanted to crumble.

  Roman didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. He pounced to his feet and crushed her to himself, holding on so tight it scared her a little. “I was so worried,” he said into her ear, and his tone nearly broke her heart.

  She closed her eyes, caught in the moment when she’d imagined herself brutally raped and beaten by a Moscow gang.

  “Thank the Lord, Vicktor had a thing for Mae. He was following you. I swear, I’m never letting you out of my sight again.” Roman put her away from him, breathing hard. He looked stricken, and in the fading light he looked fierce and dangerous in his jean jacket and black jeans. “I’m sickened by what might have happened to you.” His voice sounded broken, and his eyes were wet. He didn’t bother to blink them dry.

  “I can’t believe you found me.”

  He frowned, shook his head. “I’ll always find you, Sar, I promise. I’d be lost without you.”

  As Sarai bracketed his face with her hands, she saw in his eyes a truth that she wanted to hold on to. She had his attention. His full, breathtaking attention. It felt sweeping, and she reacted with tears.

  Roman mistook it for fear and held her.

  But what she’d felt hadn’t been fear, but relief. Deep, soul-filling relief. God had sent her a man who looked past the facade of independence and spunk and saw that inside she feared so much. Loneliness. Failure. Weakness. A man who let her fool the world, even herself, but knew the truth.

  She needed him.

  Roman’s voice was roughened with vestiges of anger when he finally spoke. “For every jerk out there, there are guys in Russia who are decent and honorable. Those punks won’t get away with this, Sar. I’ll make sure you’re never afraid again.”

  Obviously, thirteen years later, he still operated on that principle—making sure that thugs like the ones who’d chased her down Trotsky Street ended up in prison. One by one.

  Trying to prove that Russia wasn’t a land of thugs and criminals.

  Thirteen years later, she hadn’t changed either. She still wore the facade of tough girl. However, this time he wasn’t getting under it.

  “Lord, why is Roman back in my life? What are You trying to do to me?” Sarai ran her hands over her eyes. They came away wet. Downstairs she heard creaking, the squeak of the gas stove. Someone loaded wood in the potbelly stove, and her heart felt thick and heavy in her chest.

  I’ll always
find you, Sar.

  Maybe he’d kept that promise also.

  12

  “Please, Sarai, just don’t move.” He placed his mouth very close to her ear, and his lips brushed her neck as he spoke. He felt her tremble, but she said nothing, just turned and dug her grip into the lapels of his jacket and pulled him closer.

  He’d wanted her in his arms, but this wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind—especially with potentially radioactive material behind door number one, and a Bad Guy behind door number two.

  He put his arm around her, positioning her behind him as he heard the handle click. She seemed to read his thoughts, for she put her head down, right into his spine.

  He gripped his service pistol with both hands as the door swung open. Thankfully, he had all seventeen rounds in it. Milky hall light cut through the darkness a second before a guard appeared.

  No, a thug. An out-of-place thug with the demeanor of a mafioso in his leather coat, his high and tight crew, the look of suspicion on his face, and especially the .40-caliber Varjag pistol he aimed at Roman.

  Briefly aimed. Because Roman kicked the gun out of his hands and followed with a cuff across the jaw.

  Mafia hit his knees.

  “Roman!” Sarai rushed out.

  He caught her. “Stay back.”

  The moment cost him. Mafia had palmed his two-way. “Pomagee!”

  Roman snatched it away from him, cutting off his call for help, and threw it against the wall. “Put your face on the floor, hands behind your head.”

  The man obeyed. “This is a government facility. You’re trespassing.”

  Roman put his foot on the man’s neck. “I’m FSB. Tell me—how many guards on duty?”

  Mafia goon stayed silent.

  Roman pressed down. “See, you don’t look government. I look government—hungry, cold, and just a bit desperate.” He touched his gun to the man’s head. “All I want is information.”