“Roman.” Sarai’s voice held just enough shock to make him pause. “Please, let’s just get out of here.”
He shouldn’t have brought her along. He relaxed his posture. “Listen, all I want to know is the lot number on the containers there.”
Mafia refused to speak. Roman glanced at Sarai and shook his head.
Footsteps thundered down the hall. Sarai yanked his arm. “Roman!”
Now he really wanted to shoot someone—namely himself for putting her in danger. Alone, he’d have no problem sticking around and shaking the truth out of these punks. Instead, he grabbed her hand.
It was cold and small in his.
Poking his head out of the door, he saw two uniforms heading his direction. “Keep up!” he said as he bolted out the door.
“Perestan!”
He ignored the command to stop and pulled Sarai down the hall. They rounded the corner as two shots chipped off the concrete wall behind them.
Shooting? In a nuclear facility?
He stopped, waved Sarai on. “Run!”
She didn’t hesitate, which he attributed to her fear rather than obedience.
As the first guard rounded the corner, Roman squeezed off a shot right over his head just to put a hiccup of fear into their hot pursuit. The man backpedaled, bumping into the second, and Roman turned and sprinted down the hall.
The fewer shots fired, the better.
Sarai had already reached the back door and barreled through.
He followed her just as an alarm sounded. It deafened him and echoed out into the cold.
Sarai fought with the snow, her steps heavy and slow. Roman charged past her and scrambled up the fence, leaning over the top to grab her hand.
She took it, and he hauled her over just as a contingency of guards burst from the door.
Roman pulled her down into the snow and tucked her under him as shots whizzed over their heads.
“Why are they shooting at us?” Sarai said, her voice muffled and very high.
“That’s a good question.” Roman pivoted and returned fire.
The guards scattered. He hauled up Sarai by her armpits and half pulled, half pushed her toward the trees, shooting on the run.
As Sarai collapsed by a tree, breathing hard, Roman ducked behind the snowmobile and yanked at the cord.
Nothing.
Sarai gave him a wide-eyed look. “Start it!”
What did she think he was trying to do?
He pulled again. It sputtered, died.
And then, over the siren, he heard an engine roar. Sarai looked past him in horror.
“Company?” he asked as he grabbed at the cord. Please, please.
“Hurry, Roman!”
She stood, ran behind him, as if to help. Another gunshot drove her to her knees. “They have snowmobiles!”
Of course they did, probably nice ones. Definitely a mafia operation. Because, according to his last intel, nuclear plants in Russia weren’t privately owned.
Then again, nowadays “private” meant adopted by a former Communist.
He felt Sarai grab the arms of his jacket in a death grip as he gave the cord another yank. He added juice and the machine spluttered and caught. Thank you.
“Yes!” Sarai leaped on the snowmobile. “Hurry!”
No, he thought he’d check the oil first. Roman climbed on and they roared off, him still standing.
He ducked as they jagged through trees.
“Roman, there’s two of them. And they’re gaining!”
He sat down and dug his feet into the floorboards. “Hang on!”
She didn’t need the encouragement. She’d turned into a little backpack of terror, such was her grip on him. She ducked her head into his spine. “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.”
It was about time.
He gunned the engine, flew around trees, through the tangle of brush. His heart lodged in his throat when he clipped a tree and nearly dumped them as he leaned into a turn. Sarai stayed glued to him.
Compared to the sleek machines of his pursuers, his snowmobile was a tank. He plowed through ice-caked drifts and heard their engines dying as he tunneled farther into the forest. He tightened his grip on the throttle. The snow machine gave a little hiccup, revved into high, and burst into a pristine indentation of virgin white. Was this a lake?
He angled toward it, tasting his successful getaway. Behind them, on the other side and through more trees, he could barely make out the tall smokestacks. The alarm still sounded, a muffle of panic behind the forest. The mafia boys’ boss would be hearing about the break-in right about now.
If only Roman had gotten the lot number on the uranium casings. But at least he and Sarai were safe.
For now. But if Malenkov wasn’t mad at him before…
Her hold loosened, and she lifted her head. “Are they gone?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. We’re going to cross this lake and go into that forest. We’ll lose them for sure on the other side.”
He glanced back at her, and his throat constricted at her expression of fear and the tears rimming her eyes. “Sorry, Sar. I didn’t think it would go down like that.”
“Well, what did you think would happen when you sneak into a government facility with a gun? That everyone would sit around and eat cake?”
He smiled. “I would have never let them hurt you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “See, this is why you scare me. Because you don’t care if you get killed.”
His smile vanished. Didn’t care? Is that what she thought? Sorry, but he had a lot of living left to do, thanks. He wasn’t a martyr.
He left that kind of idealism to Sarai.
Sarai felt just one second shy of breaking into hysterical laughter or maybe crying. Her nerves buzzed just below the surface, and nothing short of a hacksaw could break her death clamp around Roman’s waist. But beneath the fear, the shock, even the adrenaline, she felt the tiniest tinge of amazement.
He’d broken them into a nuclear reactor and raced out, guns blazing, hauling her up and over the fence like a rag doll. She’d have to be made of concrete and steel not to be aware of his strength, his cool head, the way he put himself between her and bullets.
Bullets!
She’d begun to tremble as they drove down the embankment toward the lake. Calm down, Sarai, you’re fine.
Fine? She was not fine. If she wasn’t going to get her visa revoked before, Roman had just made it a thousand percent certainty.
Hopefully, that wasn’t a part of some diabolical plan, merely a byproduct of being in his personal space.
Along with the feeling of his protection. Starting with the tickle of his lips on her throat as he whispered to her in the facility, right before the heavy drama.
He scared her, he intrigued her, he made her furious…yet he also reached out to the scared woman inside and made her feel safe. Even with bullets whizzing past her head.
Go figure.
They sped out onto the ice, and she lifted her head and surveyed the landscape. On the other side of the lake, a pink-painted concrete house parted the trees. Two stories of grandeur, it looked like it may have been built for a Party official, probably the one who ran the nuclear facility. Now it stared dark and forlorn under the burden of snow.
Sarai looked behind them. Nothing but snow and forest and gray sky. Relief ran through her like melted butter. Maybe they’d escaped.
See, she was starting to think like a criminal. She shook her head, easing her grip on Roman. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“What?”
“Broke the law!”
“I didn’t break the law…I just dodged it.”
For crying out loud.
“I can’t believe you, Roman. I’m around you for five minutes, and suddenly I’m in a Jackie Chan movie, only with bullets. You’re a magnet for disaster. Or is that special treatment just for me? What were you looking for, anyway?”
“Uranium.”
“What I want to know is who was shooting at us.” Roman slowed the machine. “Regular Army would have had AK-47s. These guys had top-of-the-line Izmekh Varjag pistols…and the look of hired—”
A crack like the sound of branches breaking cut off his words.
He slowed the machine to a crawl.
More cracking, like the litter of applause, and Sarai’s heart blocked her throat. Ice. Cracking!
Roman gunned the snowmobile to the background noise of shattering ice.
“Faster!”
Roman leaned into the snowmobile, as if somehow making himself smaller might make him…lighter?
She looked back and her heart left her.
Ice opened in their wake, and only their forward momentum kept them above water.
“Faster!”
The cracking circled around them. Sarai watched in horror as a plate broke off in front of them and the snowmobile nosed up. The back end slid toward the water.
“Jump!”
Adrenaline launched Sarai off the back, and she aimed for solid ice. Two steps and a leap. Her body landed on the edge, her hands scrambling for purchase as her legs dunked into the cold water. A thousand shards of pain knifed into her legs at the contact. She screamed, kicked her legs. The panic propelled her onto the ice like a walrus.
She rolled over, scooting back to safety.
Roman!
She saw him behind the handlebars, his jaw set as he fought to get free from the press of the windshield. “Roman!”
The snow machine sunk deeper, only its skids above the surface. Roman clawed his way over the windshield, and his head cleared the water.
“Sar—”
The snowmobile bobbed, then slid into the blackness. And, as if tethered by a hook, Roman went with it.
Governor Bednov hung up the telephone. Sitting back in his leather chair, he steepled his fingers. The sun streamed into his office, and he heard the ticking of the clock behind him.
The hotshot FSB agent in Khabarovsk had come to Irkutsk. He’d most likely found Riddle’s uranium shipment, although he couched it in terms of hunting for clues about the dead American. According to Bednov’s FSB contacts, the agent had headed straight for Smolsk.
Bednov saw coincidence there—what was this FSB agent’s connection to the American doctor?
He dialed Fyodor’s cell phone. “Where are you?” He needed a drink. The image of Julia, her mouth swollen, passed out on the sofa again today made his stomach churn. She was starting to feel like a liability.
“I’m in Khanda. She was here last night. Left before the storm. But we waited in Smolsk all night and had her flat and her clinic under surveillance. She hasn’t returned.”
Bednov frowned and rubbed his finger and thumb into his eyes, seeing flashes of light. “Could she have left the country?” Not preferable, but he still might be able to track her down outside his borders.
Then again, without proof, what could she do? He’d simply make sure she never set foot in Russia, at least Irkutia, again.
Was she somehow connected to the FSB agent? Only, how? And if they were together and got out of Irkutia, they could do serious damage to his long-term goals. “The Khabarovsk FSB has a loose cannon. He’s in Smolsk, looking for clues to Riddle’s death. He may even be with the American. If you run into him, you know what to do.”
Silence on the end of the line told him Fyodor’s reaction.
“Did you hear me?”
“Kill him?” Fyodor’s voice edged on defiant.
“What do you think? Yes. Kill him.”
“But he’s an FSB agent. I could—”
“I’ll protect you. I’ll list him as a rogue agent, an enemy of the state. If you kill him, it will be in the line of duty.”
Silence. “Yes, Governor.” Fyodor clicked off and Bednov rested the receiver back in the cradle.
13
Roman felt the water close over him. He fought not to open his mouth and gasp. But oh, how he wanted to scream. Every nerve felt filleted, bare to needles of cold that turned his brain to ice. Momentarily.
Then fear kicked in and with it the heat of common sense. The snowmobile had snagged him by the boot, and he kicked to free himself even as he plunged into the depths.
He tore off his gloves, not really feeling his hands, and bent to pull at the laces. His lungs blazed. He grabbed, and the lace tightened into a knot.
The lake sucked him down. He felt his lungs leaking. Lord, help, please!
His knife. He grabbed for it, just above his boot, and barely felt it in his grip as he sliced at the boot laces.
Free! He yanked his foot out and kicked hard, shedding his coat as he fought his way to the surface.
He hit his head against the ice and nearly blacked out. But light beckoned and he kicked toward it, feeling his remaining air seep out. Two more kicks.
Shadow swept into his brain, clouding it like smoke. Tired. So very tired. He fought through the web of exhaustion pulling at him. Sarai.
Sarai.
The blackness swept over him. He felt heavy. So heavy.
Then something pulled at him. He gave a feeble kick.
His head broke the surface and he gasped. Air. Sweet, precious air. Burning his lungs. He sucked it in and his vision cleared.
“Roman!”
Sarai lay on her stomach on the ice, holding the back of his shirt as he tried to tread water. But his arms felt thick. Sluggish.
“Roman, hold on.”
The sun seemed so bright this side of the ice. Bright and spotty in his eyes. He reached out for the edge, but it broke off. “B-back up, Sarai. You’ll…go in.” His voice sounded strained, and he knew he should be alarmed.
“I’m not letting go of you.” Her eyes found his, and despite his brain-frozen state, he saw something hot, even angry, or maybe afraid. “Kick hard.”
“I’m k-kicking. But the ice…isn’t s-strong enough to hold both of us.”
Behind his words, he heard a low hum. Sarai must have heard it also and turned to look.
“Snowmobiles,” he said. He willed her to look at him and winced at the fear in her eyes. “Run, Sar.”
She shook her head.
“Run!”
“I’m not leaving you!”
“You have to. Go. W-with luck they’ll…come out on the ice, and they’ll end up in the drink. You can get away. G-go back to Anya’s dacha.”
“No! I don’t want you to die.” Her eyes filled.
“The feeling is very mutual. And if you stay here with me, the minute those snow machines come out on this ice, you’ll go down. Run, Sarai.”
“What if they follow me?”
He nearly cried with relief. “If they catch you, tell them I kidnapped you. Only don’t speak Russian. Please, it’s the only way.”
She stared at him, her face tight, her expression horrified. Then, abruptly, she let him go, backed away, and fled across the ice.
He was obviously already frozen because watching her go, his heart felt cold and dead in his chest.
Sarai ran across the ice, careful to veer away from the gaping patch of ice chunks their snowmobile had furrowed. She raised her arms, waving at them. “Pomagee menye!” She didn’t look back at Roman, but prayed he stayed above the surface. “Pomagetye!”
Two red snowmobiles with warmly dressed mafia thugs mounted on the back came into view. She ran to the edge of the lake, waving hysterically.
They angled toward her. She glanced back at Roman. His head barely broke the surface of the water. He couldn’t have had the strength to yell, because he’d be shouting at her if he’d heard her speaking Russian.
And if he knew her intentions. Get help, even if from the bad guys. Roman would just have to strangle her later.
They came closer and she ran toward them, her arms up.
They stopped their machines, and
one raised a pistol. “Stop!”
“Please. Help my friend!” She pointed at Roman. His head bobbed, went under, then bobbed again. “He’s the one who broke into your facility.”
They glanced at her, then at Roman.
“Please! I’ll tell you everything I know if you help him!”
“You’ll tell us anyway.”
“He’s an FSB agent. Just think what he could tell you!”
For a moment, those possibilities and the fact that she’d just handed him over to have information tortured out of him nearly doubled her over. It took all her resolve to stare at them, hard, challenging.
I’m sorry, Roman. But she didn’t care what lines they had to cross. She wanted Roman alive. And she wasn’t going to let him die if she could do something about it.
The thugs looked at each other and in mutual assent got off their machines. One opened a box behind his seat. He pulled out a webbed tow rope with a hook on the end and flung it at her.
She caught it and jogged back out onto the ice. “Roman, stay with me!”
He didn’t turn toward her voice. She saw him sink under the water again. No!
She got on all fours, then shimmied out to the edge. He was fighting, kicking hard to stay up. His head broke the surface and she grabbed his shirt.
“Roman, I have help.” She fed the towline into the water, around his shoulders, and hooked it onto itself at his chest. He looked chalky white, frost and ice around his mouth.
“Hold on, hero,” she said, her voice shaky, as she backed away. Roman held on to the rope, his gaze in hers. Dark eyes that she couldn’t read.
She backed onto solid ice, sat up and began to pull.
He moved toward the edge. But she couldn’t move him onto the ice. Lord, please help me! She dug in her feet, wrapped the webbing around her hands, leaned back.
Roman inched up, then fell back as her strength ebbed.
No. He couldn’t die because she didn’t have the strength to pull him out. No!
“Dye Menye.” A shadow over her shoulder reached for the webbing. Mafia Man sat next to her and heaved.
Roman slid onto the ice, half in, half out. Sarai got up to go to him.
Never Say Goodbye Page 14