by Pam Crooks
“You do not know when, Sokolov?” someone with a thick Polish accent demanded.
“We know only that he is coming.”
“Ain’t no good if we don’t know when,” another called out.
The Russian’s ice-blue eyes locked over him. “Do you think I do not understand that exact thing?”
An arm waved, capturing his attention from the other side of the room.
“Your friend going to let you know when he finds out?”
“He is.”
“What if he don’t find out soon enough?”
“I am prepared for that as well.”
An expectant silence fell over the men.
Again, that ghost of a smile. “No one has asked who is coming. Only when he is coming.”
They exchanged glances among them. Clearly, it hadn’t mattered.
“You’re sayin’ someone of the highest authority?” one of the more astute among them asked. “As high as McKinley himself?”
“It is him.”
Instant cheers went up, the sound deafening in the packed room. Nikolai let them enjoy the moment before he raised his hand, commanding their silence again.
“We cannot allow this precious opportunity to be lost,” he said. “We must show America we demand deliverance from oppression!”
“Yes! Yes!” they roared.
“We must lay the misery of thousands of laborers at the president’s feet!”
“Yes! Yes!”
“We must destroy the hypocrisy!”
Emotions whipped into a frenzy.
“We must destroy the tyrant responsible. We must destroy President McKinley!”
Fists shook. Voices chanted.
“Death to the president! Death to the president!”
Rage bubbled inside Creed. Sheer self-control kept him in his chair and clinging to his cover. Never had the need to defend the United States against vermin like these burned so hot inside him. Only years as a mercenary soldier, hard-won years of experience infiltrating hostile countries, kept him from doing some pretty strong yelling of his own.
Because key information was at stake. Revealing himself now, giving in to the patriotism surging through him, would destroy what he needed most.
The knowledge the War Department would use to protect their leader. At all costs.
Including the lives of these men, if necessary.
“Does anyone among us work at the train station?” Nikolai called out.
The room quieted. Heads shook in negative replies.
Sweat glistened on the Russian’s forehead, the exhilaration coursing through him. “We must be there when McKinley comes. We must be ready.”
“Yes, yes!” the men cried.
“But we need information. The day, the time, of his train. They will try to keep it secret from us until the last possible moment.”
“Then how will we get it?” someone sounding French asked.
“From the inside,” he said.
“But how?”
For the first time, Nikolai hesitated, the solution evasive. “We will find a way. We will use someone they will not suspect.”
“A woman,” Alex said suddenly.
His sibling’s blond head whipped toward him.
“A cleaning woman,” Alex rushed, leaping from his chair in excitement. “No one will think to suspect such an insignificant laborer. Yet she would have access to the itineraries when no one is looking. When they are gone from their jobs for the day.”
“Brilliant, Alex,” Nikolai breathed, his pride shining.
“She must be one of us. Someone who believes as we do.”
“Yes…”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then, as if the idea dropped into their brains at the same time, everyone turned to the only woman in the room, the one draped in a dark fringed scarf in a far corner.
And Creed’s heart forgot to beat.
The color drained from her cheeks. She shook her head in vehement refusal.
“You have sympathy for our cause, comrade,” Nikolai noted softly. “That is why you are here, is it not?”
She didn’t move but for the hand that slipped slowly into her coat pocket….
“Stand so we can see you better,” he commanded.
Every muscle in Creed’s body tensed. Gina, the crazy, crazy fool—
He had to get to her before anyone else did. Before Nikolai, especially, and his legs braced to bolt, his instincts wired for the precise moment…
She stood, and Creed could taste the courage it cost to reveal herself to these men who were no better than a band of cold-blooded assassins.
She showed no fear, but damn it, she looked small among them. Vulnerable. Utterly defenseless.
One ice-blue eye narrowed over her, as if Nikolai strove to see past the fabric that shielded part of her face. As if something about her nagged at him.
“Speak, woman,” he ordered.
Still, she said nothing. Her fingers lifted to the knot under her chin.
“We ask for your help,” he grated, the hard edge back in his tone. “Are you willing to give it for our cause?”
The scarf fell away, and Gina stood defiant before him.
“I will do no such thing, Nikolai,” she snapped, the Italian accent in her words a sharp contrast to the guttural Russian in his. “Do not ask me again.”
“She is from the factory!” Alex exclaimed. “I remember seeing her there.”
“I have seen her, too. Many times.” Nikolai’s voice had turned soft, lethal. “Her name is Gina Briganti, and she is much more beautiful when she is not trying to hide her identity from us.”
The mood shifted in the room. From revolution to unease.
Creed carefully parted his coat, his hand only inches from the Smith and Wesson tucked into his waistband.
Tension emanated from Nikolai, the trouble he could sense coming. “So you have learned about the secret meetings of the anarchists from our friend, Sebastian.”
“He wants nothing to do with your crazy ideas. I do not, either.”
His burly shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. “Then it is a shame. The revolution will come. We will change society for the good of everyone, but especially the laborers who must work like animals.”
“There is no shame in working for an honest wage, Nikolai,” she said. “You come here, like me, to live in America. You want to prosper and succeed, and why not? It is the Great Land of Opportunity. But you have no pride in learning new skills. You want only to hurt the innocent with your wild ideas!”
He jerked as if she’d slapped his face, the insult she hurled at him for everyone to hear.
“That is enough!” he bellowed.
“So you start the fire at Premier, then you run like a coward.” Her fury fueled the accusations. “You leave behind death and pain. Yet you feel nothing. You suffer nothing.”
Startled murmurs rippled through the men. Their reaction to his guilt, the implications from it.
Gina flashed a contemptuous glance over them. “He does not admit to you what he has done? Maybe you do not care? Or maybe you would do as he does, if you have the chance.”
Backs stiffened. The unease in the room shifted to hostile indignation.
“You got nerve with your sass, lady,” a Polish man called out.
“Someone must help us,” a Frenchman claimed. “Sokolov is the man to do it, and if he thinks setting a fire at Premier will get society to change their thinking, then so be it!”
“Yeah. Get out! You ain’t got no right sneakin’ in here anyway. We got freedom of speech. We can meet and talk, same as anyone else.”
“But I have a right, too,” she said with chilling calm. She pulled out the little pistol Creed had given her. Steadying her aim with both hands, she leveled the barrel right at Nikolai. “He must not get away with what he has done.”
No one moved. No one breathed. No one went for a weapon.
Except Nikolai.
A revolve
r, hidden behind a stack of flyers on the desk, a Russian Army .44 more deadly, more powerful, than her derringer could ever be.
If he pulled the trigger, if his aim was true, she’d never have a chance.
And Creed died a thousand deaths.
Nikolai’s gaze hardened. “I would not have thought a woman with such beauty and talent would be so foolish to try to kill me in front of so many.”
“No, Nikolai. Not that. I want only to see you rot in jail the rest of your life, and Alex, too, if it is the last thing I do.” Her voice quivered with the avowal.
Suddenly, one of the men jumped from his chair.
“She’s a spy for the police!” he yelled in panic.
“It’s a raid!”
“Let’s get out of here!”
Pure chaos erupted.
Creed burst into action. He shoved aside the man next to him, then another and another, barreling his way toward Gina with a clatter of chairs and bodies. He tackled her to the floor, and the derringer went off on their way down, the sharp report masking her startled scream.
Nikolai yelled. Alex, too. The Army .44 fired. Thwap! A bullet lodged into the back of a nearby chair. Thwap! Another, somewhere over their heads.
Creed sprawled on top of Gina, protecting her from a stray shot. No more came. He stabbed his gaze through the chair legs surrounding them. Raked it across the front of the room.
The brothers weren’t there.
He caught sight of a leather boot sticking out past the edge of the desk. Nikolai’s. Either he was hurt or hiding or dead. Creed didn’t care which. He had to get Gina the hell out of there.
“Get up,” he said and hastily helped her to her feet.
The doorway was crammed with panicked, fleeing men. Creed grabbed the nearest one by the front of his grimy shirt, shoved the nose of the Smith and Wesson into the man’s throat and sandwiched Gina between them.
“You’re going to be a shield for us, y’hear?” he hissed between his teeth. “Just in case Nikolai starts shooting. Your back before us.”
“I ain’t done nothin’,” the man said, raw fear in his eyes as he stared down at the gun. “I swear it.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll get us out of here. C’mon. Move it!”
Creed’s grasp stayed tight on the man’s shirt, and the pressure of the revolver against his throat even tighter. He yanked the man forward, forcing Gina to walk backward with him. They managed an awkward but quick escape by squeezing themselves through the doorway, down a single step and into the night outside. All around them, men scattered like cockroaches in the dark.
“Where’s your horse, Gina?” he demanded.
“Over there. By the fence.”
On the far side of the warehouse. The palomino was closer. Creed shifted direction, headed toward his mount first, tethered to a tree near the corner. When they drew alongside, he released his grip on his captive’s shirt to give her a firm nudge toward the horse.
“All right, comrade.” He lifted the Smith and Wesson from the man’s throat. “Get out of here, and don’t look back. Y’hear me?”
The man didn’t need to be told twice. He broke into a full run in the direction they just came. Creed watched long enough to see him disappear into the clutter of fleeing horses and wagons.
He tucked the revolver back into his waistband and vaulted into the saddle behind Gina, then reached around her and pulled the Remington from its scabbard. He felt better having a more accurate weapon, one capable of rapid fire. He knew only too well what the Sokolovs were capable of.
“Let’s go,” he ordered.
She gripped the reins and took control of the ride, freeing him to defend them if necessary. As they rounded the far side of the warehouse, approaching the bay, Creed ordered her to pull up, deep in the building’s shadows. The office light was still on; he didn’t want to take any chances before they claimed the mount.
His glance searched the road in front. The anarchists had wasted no time escaping, for sure, but a couple of horses remained. He had a pretty good guess to whom they belonged.
The office light went out. Except for the silvery sheen cast from a half moon, the area around the warehouse plunged into darkness. Two men emerged, each carrying bundles, the propaganda so important to their cause, neither was willing to leave it behind.
They cast cautious looks around them and went straight for the horses. Alex mounted; his brother managed it eventually, and ugly realization swept through Creed.
Seemed Nikolai would take a memento home with him tonight. He’d be more dangerous than ever because of it. Worse, there’d be no telling how he’d retaliate. Or when.
But one thing was sure. No one was safe if he did.
Especially Gina and President McKinley.
Chapter Thirteen
He was angry with her.
Gina knew it from the hard set to his mouth, the clipped way he moved, the grim look on his face…but mostly she knew from his silence.
She sat on the cot and clasped her hands tight in her lap. He hadn’t spoken during their ride back to the West Camp’s line shack, not even at the warehouse to suggest that she switch to her own horse after the Sokolov brothers had ridden off.
Instead, Creed had shared the sleek palomino with her. Maybe he felt it was faster and safer to do so. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to lose sight of her in the dark night. But the anger had been there in the tautness of his body and in the aloof way he held himself against her in the saddle.
She could feel it.
She didn’t like it.
She kept thinking of the first time they’d ridden together, when he’d taken her back to the tenements in hopes of finding her mother after the fire. How careful he’d been to keep her warm. How their conversation had been intimately hushed while they rode on the deserted streets. The feel of his chin against her hair…
Now, he was at the table again with the mirror propped in front of him, peeling the fake beard from his cheek. His lean fingers worked deftly to dismantle the disguise and turn him back into the man he truly was.
And she didn’t know who that might be. Not really. A score of questions swam in her mind as she sat watching him, the curiosity she didn’t dare satisfy.
Yet.
It’d be up to her to clear the air between them first, she knew. He had his reasons for being upset with her, but he had to understand her side of it. Why she’d done what she’d done. Not for herself and her dream for prosperity in America, but for her mother and all the other seamstresses at Premier.
She drew in a breath, let it out again, bracing herself to meet his wrath head-on.
“You want to be angry with me, Creed, but I do not apologize,” she said finally.
His glance found her in the mirror. “Not even if I told you barging in on that meeting was one of the most stupid things you could’ve done?”
Her hands clasped tighter. She did not “barge,” but she declined to clarify the point. “No.”
“Or that you could’ve gotten yourself killed? And me right along with you?”
Her heart fluttered against her breast. In that regard, he might be right. “I never want to put us in danger tonight.”
He tossed aside the beard and set to work on the moustache. “Well, honey, that’s exactly what you did.”
“I want only to avenge my mother. I cannot sit back and do nothing.”
“You damn near destroyed any chance of getting the brothers behind bars anytime soon.”
“How?”
The moustache came off. He went for a brow next. “By sending them into hiding. Until they’re ready to come out, they’ll be more elusive than ever.”
She rejected his logic with a firm shake of her head. “I do not think Nikolai hides for very long. The anarchism is too important to him.”
“He’ll fight for his cause just as easily underground.” He dropped the second brow on top of the hairy pile in front of him and turned toward her, Creed Sherman again. “And you know what
else?”
She hesitated to answer. “What?”
“He’ll come after you next.”
She sucked in a breath. Was this his way of punishing her for confronting Nikolai? By trying to frighten her?
“You don’t believe me?” He rose, took off the baggy coat and tossed it over the back of the chair. He proceeded to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt, as casually as if they only discussed the day’s weather. “The brothers know who you are. They know you witnessed their crime. You think either of them want you going to the police and spilling your guts?”
“I do not regret telling the Sokolovs what I see,” she said, rising from the cot. Suddenly, she was cold. Shivery cold. “Can you not understand why it is important for me to get revenge for all they have done?”
“Revenge? How the hell did you think you’d manage it with that little pea-shooter I gave you?”
Her brow furrowed at the unfamiliar word. “The pistol? I never intend to kill Nikolai.”
“No, but you wounded him.” He yanked the shirt from his pants waistband, little savage movements that indicated his anger with her. “That was enough. Now he’ll want to get even for it.”
She crossed her arms under her breasts and swallowed. Hard.
The shirt landed on top of the coat. Creed stood bare-chested and muscular and so vibrantly male that he unsteadied her already unsteady breathing.
“You have any idea how much that scares me?” he asked roughly.
She turned away. Her eyes closed. She couldn’t think when he looked like this, half undressed, frowning, blaming her for what she had done when she thought it was the right thing to do.
“Maybe I begin to,” she admitted.
“It does. Plenty.”
Clothing rustled as he exchanged the pants he wore for his Levi’s. She tilted her head back and stared at the shack’s rough-log ceiling. She didn’t want to imagine what he looked like, all but naked, unbothered by modesty. Or that she was alone with him, in this tiny house. And he distracted her from matters far more troubling.
“Gina.”
His voice came from right behind her, sending her thoughts scattering. His hand grasped her shoulder, his touch both firm and gentle. He turned her toward him.