by Nic Saint
When he released her, she stood wobbling on unsteady legs for a moment.
He fixed her with a piercing glare and rumbled, “Lidiya is friend, not lover.”
“Oh, all right,” she muttered weakly. “That’s fine, then. Super-duper.”
He started down the stairs, easily carting their suitcases. As she tripped after him, her thoughts kept wandering back to the inevitable. “Where are we going?”
“Safe place,” he barked.
“Maybe we could stay with Nikosj,” she suggested. She wasn’t too keen on the theater manager, but it was as safe a place as any. Then she remembered Nikosj worked for the Gornakov brothers. So that was out of the question. A crazy notion suddenly entered her mind. “We could go to Tennessee! I bet no one would think to look for us in Wallisburg!”
Roman halted mid-stride, and she bumped into him. Then he turned and gave her a wry look. “It is the first place they look. Last place we should be.”
“Oh.” Her eyes wide, his words registered, and she blinked. “Will they be safe? I mean, if these gangsters suddenly show up on Mom and Dad’s doorstep, won’t they—”
“Your parents are fine. Gornakovs want me. Not Mom and Pop Tackelburg.”
“Oh, all right,” she said, only partly satisfied. Who knew what these people were capable of? If even Roman wasn’t safe, what about her family?
They’d finally reached the first floor, and she panted from the exertion. “Oh, Roman, what a mess,” she lamented. She now wished she hadn’t put on heels.
He merely grumbled something in Russian. And they’d just reached the door to the lobby when it was thrust open with so much force that they were both pushed back, Roman almost trampling Dora underfoot as he did so.
A small rat-faced man, dressed in the costume of a hotel clerk, stood before them, and Dora felt that for a five-star hotel it simply didn’t do to hire ugly people like this. Then the man suddenly produced a gun and aimed it at Roman with surprising speed. She screamed, bringing her hands to her face in agony.
Before their assailant could pull the trigger, though, Roman had flung the gun from the man’s hand. It skittered across the floor, and then Roman grabbed the man by the lapels of his costume and picked him up as if he weighed nothing. With a grunt and a jerk, he heaved him over his head and then threw him down on the hard floor. The man bounced once, a look of surprise on his repellent face, then skipped along the floor. Easily segueing from a wriggle to a scrabble, he went for his gun, but then Roman was upon him, picked him up with one hand and held him up, studying him like something he’d just discovered crawling from the gutter.
“Oleg,” he intoned nastily.
“Hi, Roman,” the little guy squeaked, his eyes widening at the proximity of the big man’s face. He landed a punch on Roman’s jaw. It connected, and Roman, looking more annoyed than hurt, suddenly grabbed the man with both hands and squashed him against the wall like a pesky fly. The man slid down the wall and fell into a heap of human misery at Dora’s feet.
She prodded him tentatively. He didn’t move. “Do you think he’s dead?”
“Not,” said Roman as he picked up the man’s gun and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. Then he took her hand. “We go.”
She pointed at the little guy. “Shouldn’t we, you know, call the cops or something?”
“Not,” was Roman’s curt response, and then they were out in the lobby and hurrying along the soft carpeting, past the posh desk with three liveried reception clerks.
“Won’t they be upset that you just beat up one of their colleagues?”
But then they were through the revolving door and out onto the street. Roman quickly hailed a cab and ushered Dora inside, then filled up the remaining space with his large body, and told the driver to step on it.
“Where do you wanna go, buddy?” the driver called out. He was a gangly Hispanic man with a hideous wisp of a mustache.
“Greyhound bus station,” Roman told him. Turning to Dora, he added, “We visit my brother.”
CHAPTER 13
A rambling, muttering fool. That’s what she was. A raving lunatic. Dora knew exactly what Roman must think of her. For the duration of the trip—actually, if she were absolutely honest, for the duration of their ‘relationship’—she’d acted the part of a crazy person.
Why hadn’t Roman stopped her when she went on and on about the dangers that now surrounded them? Why hadn’t he taken her hand and pressed it tenderly and told her to shut the fuck up?
Because he cared? Or because he didn’t care at all?
They’d been cooped up on this bus for hours now, and all he’d said was that once they arrived they’d be safe. But then why did he keep staring down every person who got on? Why did he give off this vibe of danger? And, most importantly, why did he keep the gun tucked away in his vest pocket and kept feeling for it? Bringing his hand to brush over the hard piece of cold steel as if to make sure it was still there? That his lethal package was still concealed and ready for use?
She’d gone from a full-blown panic attack to silent resignation to simmering rage at the fate that had befallen her.
She was an actress, dammit. She should be on Broadway right now, rehearsing her next play. Instead, she was on the lam with the biggest, baddest Russian she’d ever met, and people were trying to kill them! Actually trying to kill them!
Well, perhaps not right this minute. After the attack at the hotel, nothing had happened. Though from the awkward looks the bus driver kept awarding them through the rearview mirror, he might be one of them, too.
One of whom? Well, the Russian Mob, of course! The people who didn’t mind to shoot you down like a dog just because they didn’t like your face.
“We can’t go back, Dora,” Roman had repeated. “You can’t go on stage. Oleg will kill you.”
It was the first time anyone had ever gunned for her, if she didn’t count that time the New York Times critic had gone on a personal vendetta against her. Just because she said all critics were idiots and didn’t know their ass from a great performance. The man hadn’t appreciated her candor, had dipped his pen in vitriol, and proceeded to viciously pan every single one of her performances for at least a year before she’d called him and suggested a truce.
Well, actually Nikosj had managed to arrange the truce. She wondered how the manager was holding up. Would he be in danger, too? Just because he’d suggested her for the role of Ariel Cole in the first place?
Oh, God. What a mess. And all because of this big, brutish Russian! This horrible, wonderful man!
What would her mother think when she brought a mobster home? And why, for God’s sake, did she suddenly care what her mother thought!
God. She was a basket case, wasn’t she?
Roman sat staring out the window, wondering if the surprise he was about to spring on Dimitri would be well received. He doubted it. But still, filial loyalty had its demands, and he would see to it that Dimitri did right by him. After all, he’d never laid a hand on his brother or his girl. Only told him not to fall for her. And then, of course, he did. That all seemed like such a long time ago. As matters now stood, he found himself in the same boat as his errant brother: being chased by the same people he used to work for.
How ironic.
He glanced over at the woman by his side. Dora wasn’t holding up well under the strain, as was to be expected. Whereas his life had been a constant barrage of danger, her life had been peaceful to a degree, with never a hint of peril. And now she was running from the Mob, just because he had put her in that position.
He regretted having dragged her into this. But he didn’t regret bringing her along. She’d be dead if he hadn’t.
She wanted to return to her old life, of course. Being a stage actress was everything to her, and he’d taken that away from her. She probably resented him for it, but that couldn’t be helped.
What could be helped was staying focused, for her sake as well as his. He couldn’t risk slipping
up now. The fact that the rat Yugurov had been waiting for them back at the hotel told him the Gornakovs would go to any length to take him out.
What he didn’t understand was why. What had he done to provoke their ire? He hadn’t completed the mission. He hadn’t managed to lay his hands on Callaway, but there was still time. The mission wasn’t over. Why give up on him now?
It was all a mystery to him. The only thing he did understand was that he was in a strange land, governed by strange customs, and all the old rules didn’t apply. The only friend he had was Dimitri. He just hoped his brother wouldn’t have been turned against him. For, in that case, all was lost.
CHAPTER 14
“So, little lady, which one will it be? The leather-bound or the paperback?”
Joanna didn’t want either. What she needed was her husband home right this instance! She stared at the moon-faced salesman on her doorstep and wondered why he was still there.
“Look, I really don’t want any of them. I’m not in the market for Bibles right now, so if you could please go away, I’d be very much obliged.”
If she thought this would do the trick, she was sorely mistaken. The bulbous man plastered the most hideous smile on his face, patted his combover, and stayed put, tightening his grip on the holy book. “I’m sure that if you would just have a look, you will find that the good book has wise lessons to impart.”
She ignored the man and stared out across the front yard to the street beyond. Where was that husband of hers? Vitaly had said he would be home any minute now, and yet he was nowhere to be seen.
They lived at the end of a small cul-de-sac, and from her vantage point she could see the street that stretched beyond the small circular end of the cul-de-sac. There were only two villas here, and the other belonged to Marjorie Jackson and her husband Hank.
In a pinch, she could always go over to Marjorie, and ask for her help.
No, she decided. This was not the time to bother her neighbors, especially since it concerned a matter of life and death.
“The word of the good Lord will bring not only solace and balm to the wounded heart, it will also soothe your qualms and aid in healing the broken straws of your life,” the man insisted.
How did this infuriating man know she had broken straws in her life? Was he psychic or something? Finally, she was ready to cave and accept a Bible when a gruff voice spoke behind her. “Are you having trouble, Joanna?”
Grateful for the interruption, she turned to Dimitri.
The Bible salesman’s eyes traveled up from Joanna to the hulking Russian filling the doorframe, and he visibly blanched.
“This man wants to sell me a Bible,” she explained. “And even though I’ve told him ten times already I’m not in the market for Bibles right now, he refuses to take a hint.”
Dimitri stepped out onto the porch, approaching the man with a good-natured frown. “The lady says she doesn’t want a Bible, so I suggest you go peddle your stuff elsewhere, buddy.”
The man’s face clouded, but only for a second, then he was regrouping. “I can’t help but notice that your accent indicates you hail from Russia, sir.”
“You guessed right,” grunted Dimitri.
“Then I’ve got just the thing for you,” chirped the salesman, and he dug into his bag to unearth a strange-looking Bible, gilded Cyrillic lettering on the cover.
Dimitri took it and eyed the thing curiously. “Hey, what do you know?” he muttered. “My mother had one just like this.”
“Of course she did, my good sir,” riposted the salesman gleefully. “This is the standard Russian Orthodox Church Bible. None like it in the whole world, and it can be yours for only 9.99.”
Just at that moment, Vitaly finally came barreling down the street, his lime green Jeep hurtling down the road at top speed, then screeching to a halt in front of the house.
The Bible salesman looked over his shoulders and did a double take at the sight of this second huge Russian approaching him with a look on his face that spelled trouble with a capital T.
Vitaly came stomping up. “What’s the problem?” he asked the moment he was within earshot.
The salesman held up his hands in a feverish gesture of submission. “I’m going. I’m going already. No need for violence, my good man. No need at all!”
But Vitaly ignored him, and when he’d reached the small group, bundled his wife into his arms and held her close.
“Oh, Vitaly,” she murmured. “I really can’t deal with this right now.”
“Don’t worry, honey,” he said soothingly. “I’m here now. It’s fine.”
Together, they stared at the taxi that sat idling on the curb, a man casually leaning against the hood and staring at the house with a look of censure.
Dimitri returned the look with equal intensity.
“I can come back later,” suggested the salesman, who clearly had no clue what he’d gotten himself involved in.
No one paid him any mind.
Vitaly stepped up to Dimitri and placed his hand on the man’s chest. “I’ll handle this, Dimi. You stay out of it, all right?”
“He has no right to come here,” muttered Dimi, eyes shooting fire. “I told him already to take a hike, but he won’t listen. Says he has no place to go.”
“Just let me handle it,” repeated Vitaly, then started crossing the front yard to the street, approaching the taxi a little wearily. The man awaiting him looked like Dimitri, only bigger and darker. He was about the same body type he was, and he immediately recognized in him the sign of the enforcer: eyes casting a look that could wilt, muscular arms folded across an expanding chest, and the lips tightened into a thin line. The man had Russian Mob written all over him.
Beyond the man, he detected a scared-looking taxi driver, who would rather be anywhere but here. And then there was the woman in the back seat. Blond and beautiful, yet looking just as scared as the taxi driver, she was probably the actress he’d heard so much about.
It was strange, to meet Roman Loginovsky in the flesh for the first time in front of his own house, and if the message Joanna had sent him earlier hadn’t rung true, he wouldn’t be approaching the man unarmed as he was doing now.
He’d neared the enforcer close enough so his speech carried. “Roman Loginovsky,” he called out by way of greeting.
Roman inclined his head. “Vitaly Loganov.”
“What brings you here, my friend?”
Roman’s eyes flickered beyond Vitaly to the house. “My brother Dimitri. I need to speak with him.”
“He doesn’t want to speak to you. Says you tried to kill his wife.”
“I did. Now I don’t.”
“Dimitri doesn’t believe you.”
“He should. I’m speaking the truth.” Roman gestured to the car. “I’m facing the same predicament you once did, Vitaly.”
Vitaly looked at the woman in the car. She looked like a scared little rabbit, and he didn’t blame her. Being cooped up with Roman Loginovsky for hours, and spending time in his company for days, would do that to a girl. He’d heard stories about Roman, and knew him to be the meanest, most efficient enforcer who had ever lived and worked in his former home country.
“Why don’t you take her back to Russia? You’ll be safe there.”
Roman shook his head slowly. “Not anymore. The Gornakovs have declared me a wanted man. They’ve washed their hands of me. I fear for both my life and Dora’s.”
This surprised Vitaly, and he wondered if this wasn’t some trick. Some ruse to gain access to his brother and the woman who’d incurred his wrath.
He frowned darkly. “Are you telling me you no longer work for Yuri and Vladimir Gornakov?”
“That’s correct. They sent Oleg Yugurov after me.”
The name rang a bell with Vitaly. He’d heard of him, of course. “But Oleg doesn’t work for the Gornakovs.”
“He does now.”
Vitaly considered this. If what Roman said was true, he really was in danger, and so
was the woman. He turned to check the house. Joanna was still standing on the porch, and so was Dimitri, looking like a sentry. He sighed inwardly. If he allowed Roman to enjoy the sanctuary of his home, it would cause trouble with Dimi, with whom Roman seemed to have some sort of vendetta going. But if he didn’t help Roman, the man would be dead by morning. And so would the woman.
“Out of the goodness of your heart, Vitaly,” growled Roman, and Vitaly knew how hard it was for the other man to even voice the question. Roman was a proud man and had never accepted help from anyone. If he was asking for it now, it meant he had no other way to turn.
He leveled a calculating look at Roman, who didn’t flinch. Neither man spoke for a full minute, the silence hanging in the air like a palpable presence. Finally, he inclined his head, then gestured to the house. “Get her inside. I’ll pay the driver.” Then, as Roman clasped his hand and pressed it firmly, he whispered, “Stay away from Dimitri. He’s not very happy with you, my friend.”
“Thank you, my brother,” said Roman in a soft rumble, then turned to open the cab door and invite Dora to join him.
As Vitaly watched the couple walk up the garden path to the front door, he shook his head, wondering what he’d gotten himself involved in now. His gaze caught Joanna’s, and when she gave him a curt nod, he knew she agreed with his decision.
No matter what happened next, he had her support, and they would get through this, the way they had gotten through any crisis in the past: together.
CHAPTER 15
Dora had watched from the car as the negotiations between Roman and the other Russian proceeded. They’d arrived at this quiet house in the suburbs one hour ago, but Dimitri had refused to talk to his brother, and they’d been forced to wait out in the car while the man of the house was brought in. He was, after all, the one who decided who got to stay. Roman said Vitaly Loganov was a good man, and wouldn’t turn them away, even if there was bad blood between him and his brother, but Dora wasn’t so sure.