Hidden Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  Gavriil clenched his jaw. What if he was telling the truth? “What’s the second problem?”

  “Your second problem is that we don’t have the book. It’s in a hidden compartment in the trunk of the NCSC agents’ car. That’s easy enough to confirm. You can kill us both then search the house. Of course, then you’ll have no journal, no one to decode the journal you don’t have, and a whole list of felony charges. You might get away before the others come back and evade capture, but still, I imagine you’ll be in trouble back at the office, as it were.”

  Gavriil was sorely tempted to shoot him just to shut him up.

  Then the doctor glanced behind him to his right. When he looked back at Gavriil, his eyes were wide with surprise.

  “I guess you actually have three problems.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Ms. Lin seems to have vanished.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  For a while, Hannah huddled in the corner of the porch, trying to stop trembling, while Bodhi spun lie after lie for Fyodorovych. Once she’d gained some sort of control over her limbs, she started to think.

  Bodhi’s tactic would stall the Russian. Maybe for a good while.

  But ultimately he’d find the book and then she’d be in trouble. If he didn’t believe she was the only one with the code, he’d just execute her and Bodhi. If he did believe Bodhi’s story, she foresaw an unpleasant episode of being tortured to break a code she actually couldn’t break. She might survive that. The police chief and the NCSC agents had to come back sometime.

  But what if he killed Bodhi, grabbed the book, snatched her, and took off? She’d be his prisoner.

  She looked behind her. The porch wrapped around to the side of the house. Not all the way—but it extended about six feet back. She rolled to the edge. Then silently, like the ninja she’d grown up dreaming she’d become, she dropped to her feet in Chief Clark’s flowerbed.

  She could hear Bodhi talking on and on, and Fyodorovych’s staccato expressions of disbelief. She hunched down and duckwalked toward the backyard, hewing tight to the wall.

  She burst into a low run when she spotted Chief Clark’s shed. She knew it would be locked. Of course it would be locked, the owner was the chief law enforcement officer for the county. But it would provide cover while she planned her next steps.

  Because hope never dies she tried the shed door anyway. Locked.

  She crept around to the back of the shed.

  Standing in a plastic bucket was a fishing pole. Hannah pictured rods, tackle, and related fishing accessories in the shed. Lined up in tidy rows, neatly put away, until the chief’s next fishing trip. But this rod was bent and broken. It was destined for the trash heap. A limp tangle of fishing wire hung from it.

  Hannah smiled. She had to stop herself from laughing out loud and giving away her position.

  Now, Fyodorovych really did have a problem. He just didn’t know it yet.

  The irate Russian wrenched Bodhi by the arm and dragged him through the open front door in search of Hannah. Bodhi considered pointing out that Fyodorovych would have seen Hannah if she’d slipped through the door while they were talking. But, he estimated that there were better than even odds that the spy would shoot him if he did. So he held his tongue.

  He was glad he had no clue where Hannah had gone. There was no chance he’d give away her hiding spot, either inadvertently or as the result of being tortured. He was reasonably sure Fyodorovych was going to kill him sooner or later. At least he would die knowing that Hannah had escaped into the woods behind the chief’s house and would get to safety.

  “Where is she?” Fyodorovych growled.

  “I don’t know.”

  He shoved Bodhi forward toward the kitchen, scanning each room they passed for signs of movement. Bodhi could feel the man’s anxiety ratcheting up. Fyodorovych was racing a ticking clock. Soon, Chief Clark and NCSC would return. And then Fyodorovych would be outgunned.

  Through the window over the kitchen sink, Bodhi spied a flash of black. Hannah’s dark hair. It streamed behind her as she weaved through the trees at the edge of the lawn.

  He glanced at Fyodorovych. He gave no sign of having seen her. He was busy reading the notes from Chief Clark and Clausen. He gave a satisfied grunt.

  “Sit.” He pulled out the chair closest to him and pushed Bodhi into it.

  Bodhi maintained a neutral expression. Fyodorovych had placed him facing the front door.

  “I’m going to have a look around. If you move, I’ll shoot you in the leg. If you yell, I’ll shoot you in the mouth. Any questions?”

  “No.”

  Bodhi tracked Fyodorovych’s progress around the kitchen as he opened drawers, turned over baskets, and pawed through the freezer in an apparent effort to find San’s journal. Out of the corner of his eye, Bodhi also watched as Hannah padded barefoot through the front door. She held a length of fishing wire, each end of which was tied to a stick. An improvised garrote.

  She tilted her head to the side. Where is he?

  Bodhi twitched his own head slightly to his right, toward the refrigerator, in a quick motion then yanked it back.

  She nodded and pressed herself against the wall. She slinked toward the kitchen. He averted his eyes, afraid to give away her position, and returned his attention to the Russian, who was now rifling through a stack of cookbooks.

  Bodhi risked a glance. Hannah had reached the corner where the hallway and the kitchen intersected. She held the garrote in front of her, ready.

  Fyodorovych had shoved the gun in his waistband to conduct his search. Even if he pulled it, there’d be a delay. Bodhi pushed off from the edge of the table and tipped the heavy oak chair back on two legs. As he headed for the floor, he imagined every muscle in his body relaxing, growing heavy and limp. The chair crashed to the ground.

  “What the—” Fyodorovych turned and stalked angrily toward Bodhi. He pulled his gun out and aimed it at the toppled over chair as he approached. “Stay there.”

  As the man crossed the hallway, Hannah reached out like a shadow and looped the fishing line around his neck from behind. She pulled the sticks, stretching the wire tight across his neck. The wire applied pressure to Fyodorovych’s carotid arteries and respiratory tract. He slipped out of consciousness within seconds.

  Bodhi took cover under the table in case the gun fired when it hit the floor. But it bounced out of Fyodorovych’s hand and landed, inert, as its owner collapsed facedown in a heap. Bodhi ran to Hannah, who was staring down at the Russian with a horrified silent scream etched on her face.

  “Did I … is he dead?”

  Bodhi gently moved her to the side. “No. He’s unconscious. You cut off the supply of oxygen to his brain. He might wake up stupider, but who’d be able to tell? He will wake up though—pretty quickly. We have to hurry. Get the gun.”

  She nodded and ran to retrieve the weapon. He removed the fishing line from Fyodorovych’s neck and looped it around the man’s wrists, pulling his hands together near his tailbone. He tied a quick surgeon’s knot and pulled it tight. Then he used his foot to nudged Fyodorovych onto his side. The Russian was already moaning.

  Hannah pointed the gun down at him. “Be quiet.”

  She gave Bodhi a sidelong look. “Now what?”

  “Now we wait for the cavalry.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Sunday morning, before sunrise

  Bodhi and Bette sat on her back porch and gazed up at the morning star, bright in the gray pre-dawn. She pointed out other stars and planets, rattling off names between sips of coffee. Bodhi listened and drank his tea.

  When the shining Pleiades constellation at last faded into the background and the sun streaked pink and orange across the horizon, Bette said, “Thurman texted me. The NCSC is finished interviewing Hannah. She’ll be back from Chicago tonight—are you sure you don’t want to stick around another day?”

  “I’m sure.”

  A moment passed.

  “
She’s been very cooperative, according to Thurman.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Fyodorovych isn’t talking. But it really doesn’t matter. They have what they need.”

  Bodhi nodded. “All in all, things worked out as well as they could have.”

  That drew a snort of laughter. “I have a monk in jail, a dead farmer, a dead Chinese spy, and a farmer who lost a field to arson. It hasn’t been a banner week for Onatah.”

  He smiled. “But I met you.”

  Her eyes sparked. “Me?”

  “You know what’s curious about the Pleiades, Bette? Alcyone draws all the attention because she shines so bright, but it’s elusive Asterope that’s the double star. I thought Hannah was vulnerable and needed rescuing. Turns out, she rescued herself. I’m genuinely happy things are going to turn out okay for her. But she also got herself into her mess because she wasn’t steady. Asterope is steady. And bright. That’s my kind of star.”

  He felt enormously stupid and lapsed into silence.

  Bette placed her mug on the deck railing and leaned over. Her silvery hair made such a contrast with her quick green eyes and her smooth face. For an instant she looked like an elf, not a badass police chief.

  She pressed her lips against his in a warm, firm kiss. He tasted coffee. He took her face in his hands. After a long moment, she pulled back and searched his face.

  “Are you sure you want a ride to the bus depot this morning?” Her breath was hot on his cheeks.

  He swallowed. “On second thought, what’s one more day?”

  Thank You!

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  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling author Melissa F. Miller was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Although life and love led her to Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, D.C., and, ultimately, South Central Pennsylvania, she secretly still considers Pittsburgh home.

  In college, she majored in English literature with concentrations in creative writing poetry and medieval literature and was STUNNED, upon graduation, to learn that there’s not exactly a job market for such a degree. After working as an editor for several years, she returned to school to earn a law degree. She was that annoying girl who loved class and always raised her hand. She practiced law for fifteen years, including a stint as a clerk for a federal judge, nearly a decade as an attorney at major international law firms, and several years running a two-person law firm with her lawyer husband.

  Now, powered by coffee, she writes legal thrillers and homeschools her three children. When she’s not writing, and sometimes when she is, Melissa travels around the country in an RV with her husband, her kids, and her cat.

  Connect with me:

  www.melissafmiller.com

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to everyone involved in the production of this book—in particular, my phenomenal editing and design team.