To Hell in a Handbasket

by Beth Groundwater

  Had Judy and Nick or Petrov hit the pile, too, and fallen? If Judy and Nick didn’t know they were being followed, then they wouldn’t have been in a hurry and probably avoided the slide. Petrov, however, was in a hurry.

  Claire hoped he had tumbled. Otherwise, he had a big lead on them and would reach the kids before Claire and Roger could catch him. Her mouth went dry as an image popped into her mind of Petrov pointing that semiautomatic rifle at Judy. God, no.

  Once on the other side of the slide, she and Roger quickly mounted the machine and took off again. Now three parts of her body complained at every bump and jangle, but Claire told them to shut up.

  She gripped the handlebars, her palms sweating inside her gloves, and wished she had taken shooting lessons. She was hopelessly outmatched by the Russian enforcer. And Roger wasn’t much better, with just some rusty hunting practice. Their only hope was surprise and the fact that it was two of them against one of him. So, if he shot at one, the other might be able to shoot back. But that meant the one he shot could—

  Claire shouted over her shoulder. “I love you.”

  Roger squeezed her shoulder. “We’ll get him, Claire.” He paused. “Love you, too.”

  So he’s reached the same conclusion.

  Eighteen: The Captive

  Claire motored on without speaking for another half mile, with only her desperate thoughts and an occasional “oof” from Roger for company.

  The forest opened before her. A small, dilapidated log cabin squatted in the right side of a small clearing, its windows tar-papered over and a square of blue plastic tarp nailed onto a portion of the roof. One snowmobile sat parked alongside. A dark shape in the woods to the left of the clearing transformed into a figure hunched over a second snowmobile, its motor still running.

  “Kill the engine,” Roger hissed into her ear.

  Claire cut the ignition, which turned off the headlight, and coasted toward the edge of the clearing.

  As they watched, Petrov turned off his engine and clambered off his machine.

  Roger bumped Claire’s back as he readied his rifle. She leaned to one side, unzipping her pocket to retrieve Owen’s handgun with a shaky, slippery hand. She prayed that if she had to use the gun, she could, and would hit her target.

  Because if I don’t, Petrov will surely kill Roger or Judy. Or both.

  Crouching with his rifle at the ready, Petrov duck-walked to the cabin, seemingly unaware of Claire and Roger’s presence.

  Claire gripped Owen’s handgun, the cold metal pressing against her palm. Give me courage.

  “Get down,” Roger whispered.

  Keeping watch on Petrov, she slid off the snowmobile seat into deep snow.

  Roger aimed his rifle and fired.

  Missed!

  Petrov pivoted. Ducking and weaving, he began a steady fusillade of fire.

  Claire rolled onto her stomach, raised her handgun, and thumbed off the safety.

  Roger fell off the snowmobile on the opposite side.

  He’s been shot! Anger and fear pumping her full of adrenaline, she aimed at Petrov’s bobbing chest and squeezed the trigger. The handgun recoiled, threatening to leap out of her fingers, but she held tight.

  She squeezed again. And again.

  Finally, Petrov reeled back.

  A shot rang out from the other side of their snowmobile, but the bullet plowed into the tree next to the Russian.

  Roger’s alive!

  Petrov fell with a thud.

  Roger ran over to the gunman, post-holing in the knee-deep snow.

  Petrov rolled and reached behind him as Claire tromped up, panting with the exertion of pushing through the snow.

  “Look out,” Roger yelled.

  Petrov pulled out a handgun, but before he could raise his arm to fire, Roger stomped on his wrist.

  The man sucked in a breath between clenched teeth, and the gun fell out of his hand.

  Claire grabbed the handgun and tossed it into the woods, then aimed Owen’s gun at Petrov’s chest.

  Nick came running around the corner of the cabin, buttoning his jeans. “We heard the snowmobiles, then shots, but we were afraid to come out until the shooting stopped. What’s going on?”

  “Get back,” Claire shouted. “Wait until we disarm him, and keep Judy inside.”

  At the same time, Roger shoved his rifle into the struggling man’s face. “Don’t move!” He kicked the scoped rifle out of Petrov’s reach.

  With two guns pointed at him, the mob enforcer seemed to finally concede defeat. He writhed on the packed snow, moaning and clutching his shot knee with his free hand, while a spreading pool of steaming red blood stained the pristine snow by his leg. A string of what must have been Russian curses erupted with clouds of condensed breath from his clenched jaw.

  Roger eyed Claire. “You okay?”

  Keeping her gaze on Petrov’s hands, Claire tried to steady her own. “Yeah. What about you? I thought he’d shot you.”

  Roger handed her his rifle, then yanked Petrov’s jacket down to his elbows to immobilize the man’s arms. He ran his hands over Petrov’s body, dug a cell phone out of the Russian’s coat and pocketed it. He glanced up at Claire. “I thought the same thing about you.”

  A silent message passed between them before she returned her attention to Petrov.

  Roger jerked off the man’s boots, eliciting a howl of pain, and dumped a knife out of one of them. “Thank God you got him before he could draw a good bead on us. Why’d you aim for his knee?”

  “I didn’t. I aimed all three shots at his chest.” Struggling to focus over Petrov’s unnerving moans and her own jangly nerves, Claire kept her handgun trained on the enforcer while she laid Roger’s rifle on the snow next to her. “Check his back, too.”

  Roger stuffed the knife he found into one of his coat pockets. He rolled Petrov onto his side and patted his back. With a triumphant grin, Roger extracted another knife and held it up. “Aren’t you smart.”

  Petrov lunged for the knife in Roger’s pocket, but Roger slammed his knee down on that arm, unsheathed the knife he held, and shoved it against Petrov’s throat. Another string of garbled curses erupted from the Russian.

  “Shut up.” Claire yelled. “What other weapons are you hiding?”

  When she got no response, she pushed the muzzle of her handgun against his forehead. One very dangerous part of her wanted to shoot him then and there, get it over with. She willed her trigger finger to stay right where it was and took a deep breath through flared nostrils.

  As if sensing how close she was to losing it, Petrov stilled. He slowly opened his right hand, his left still clutching his bloody knee.

  Roger pushed up Petrov’s sleeve, exposing a wrist harness with a third knife. He extracted that knife as well.

  Claire glared at Petrov. “Anything else?”

  He shook his head.

  “Okay, Nick,” Claire shouted.

  Nick ran over and skidded to a halt beside Claire. He looked down at Petrov, his eyes wide. “Ohmigod, was he after Judy?”

  “Goddamn right.” Claire’s fury at the young man’s stupidity boiled over. “You idiot! How could you expose her to him like this? She was safe with us before you two ran off.”

  “No, she wasn’t,” Nick shot back. “Ivanov asked Mom where your family was staying, and not knowing what he was, she told him. I had to get Judy out of there before this guy came around. Nothing stops a Russian enforcer. He would’ve picked off that rookie cop, no problem.”

  Roger pushed himself off his knees to stand. “How the hell is a deserted cabin in the woods any better?”

  “If they don’t know about it, infinitely better. And we weren’t going to stay here longer than tonight. I was going to keep us moving until I knew Petrov had been captured.” Nick’s face sobered as he stared down at Petrov. “But he was a lot closer on her trail than I thought.”

  He looked at Roger and Claire. “I’m sorry. I was trying to protect Judy. If anything had
happened to her, I never would’ve forgiven myself.”

  Claire could see the young man’s love for her daughter in that look. She shivered.

  “We wouldn’t have forgiven you either,” Roger snapped.

  “I understand, sir,” Nick said solemnly.

  “And what about your mother?” Roger asked. “You led the Russians to your house, then left her alone in there.”

  Nick bristled. “I didn’t know I was leading them there. Besides, she serves Ivanov lunch and tea all the time. When he visits, he brings her flowers. And she doesn’t know anything. He has no reason to hurt her.”

  “Just like he had no reason to hurt Stephanie?”

  “He wasn’t trying to hurt Stephanie, just to scare her, to send a warning to Dad, so Dad would relent and bring me into the business. But this idiot botched the assignment. Instead of just bumping into her and giving her a message for Dad, he sent her careening off into the woods and killed her instead. When you met Ivanov Thursday, he was leaving after apologizing to Dad. Fat lot of good that did.”

  Nick distractedly ran his hand through his hair, mussing it, and scanned the weapons on the ground. “How’d you do this?”

  “Believe me, it wasn’t easy.” Roger handed Petrov’s third knife to Claire, picked up the man’s rifle and handgun, and joined her in aiming the handgun at the Russian. “You got any rope in that cabin?”

  “Yeah, I do.” Nick hurried back around the cabin.

  When he returned with a coil of rope, Judy came with him, her hair disheveled and her coat open and flapping as if she had just thrown it on. She ran over to her mother and gripped Claire in a tight hug.

  “Careful, honey, I’m holding a loaded gun.” Claire put the safety on, slid it into her pocket then clamped her arms around Judy. Tears sprang to her eyes as she thought of how easily the situation could have ended in disaster.

  Nick began looping the rope around Petrov’s wrists.

  Judy stepped back. She eyed the handgun Roger still held trained on the injured Russian. “Did you shoot him?”

  “Your mother did.”

  With her mouth hanging open, Judy stared at Claire.

  To hide her flustered state, Claire knelt on the icy ground to assess Petrov’s knee. She used his knife to cut away the pants material. A shard of shattered kneecap poked out of the wound, which was bleeding profusely. The bleeding would have to be stopped if he was going to live long enough to give the police any information.

  Claire turned to Judy. “Fetch some cloth from the cabin. Rags, anything.”

  As Judy raced away, Claire studied the tortured Russian’s face closely for the first time. She couldn’t feel sorry she had shot him, but she had to stifle an instinctive jolt of sympathy for the man’s pain.

  “Cooperate and I’ll bind this wound. Otherwise, you’ll bleed to death. Understand?”

  He muttered something in Russian and looked away.

  Returning from the cabin, Judy gave a handful of rags to Claire. Nick rose and took Judy into his arms.

  Claire picked through the rags, searching for the cleanest one, then peered at Petrov. “Prepare yourself. This will hurt.”

  Petrov gritted his teeth.

  Working as quickly as she could, she wrapped the rag tightly around Petrov’s knee as he moaned with pain. She grabbed another rag and wrapped it over the first then leaned back to check her work. She cinched a tight knot in the second rag, eliciting a howl of pain from the man.

  She quickly tied two more rags around the wound then glanced up at Roger. “We need to get him to a hospital fast.”

  Roger scooped up his rifle, trotted over to Petrov’s snowmobile, fired it up, and drove it into the clearing. He and Claire lifted the injured man into the passenger seat then tied his bound hands to the rear safety bar. From his slumped shoulders, dejected expression, and pain-whitened face, the Russian looked like he would offer little resistance, but Claire wasn’t going to take any chances.

  “We have to get Petrov out of here,” Claire said to Judy and Nick. “And Detective Silverstone’s been hurt. We need to pick him up on the way back.” She peered at Judy. “You feel confident driving one of these?”

  “I think so. Nick taught me how before, and I drove one on an easy trail.”

  “Good. You ride with Nick until we get to Owen. Then Nick should take Owen as a passenger. You can drive Owen’s snowmobile back.”

  Roger straddled Petrov’s snowmobile, Claire ran to hers, and Judy and Nick climbed aboard theirs. Now that Claire’s adrenaline rush was dissipating, the cold was seeping into her bones. With a violent shiver, she slapped her gloved hands together to get the blood moving in them, then started the engine.

  The return trip to where Owen lay wounded was slower and less bumpy, but Petrov still moaned each time his snowmobile was jostled. By the time they reached the detective, Petrov’s head was nodding with exhaustion from fighting the pain.

  Owen struggled to his feet when he heard them approach. “You got him. Good work!”

  “Did you reach anyone on your radio?” Claire shouted over the roar of the engines.

  “Yes, an ambulance should be at the house by the time we get there.” Owen pointed his chin at the injured Russian. “Looks like he’ll need it more than me. I’ll call on the way back to tell them not to send someone out here for me. Now, about my gun . . .”

  “Oh, sorry.” Claire fished it out of her pocket and handed it to Owen.

  Owen opened the magazine. “Hell, it’s been fired. That means paperwork, and I’ll be the laughingstock of the station for letting you take it.”

  “You really had no choice,” Roger said.

  Owen scanned Petrov. “Whose bullet is in his leg?”

  “Yours,” Claire replied. “I mean from your gun. The rest of the bullets I fired missed.”

  Owen holstered the weapon. “I’m impressed, but I’ll have to get the full story later. We need to get back.” He pointed a finger at Nick. “And you, young man, are in a heap of trouble.”

  “Well, he’ll be driving you back,” Claire said, “so you can yell at him on the way.”

  Judy leapt off the seat behind Nick, ran to Owen’s snowmobile and started it up. Roger and Nick helped Owen to the back of Nick’s sled, then they all roared off again.

  When they pulled into the Continos’ backyard, Claire spotted Officer Ramstead pacing the patio, shoulders hunched against the cold. As they cut the engines, Ramstead hurried over to Owen.

  Nick and Judy ran inside the house, presumably to find Angela.

  Two ambulance crewmen lugging a stretcher followed Ramstead, but Owen pointed them toward Petrov.

  Two other police officers, presumably Owen’s backup, stepped out of a cruiser and joined them. The taller one said, “Sorry we didn’t get here sooner, sir. We were in the middle of breaking up a drunken brawl when we got the call. We had to drop the combatants at the jail first.”

  Owen clamped his gloved hand on the officer’s shoulder. “It’s okay. These civilians did your job for you. But I’ll need one of you to accompany this guy to the hospital. He’s being charged with murder.”

  Ramstead helped Owen over to Petrov’s side while the crewmen loaded the Russian onto the stretcher and started an IV. Claire gave details of how she had treated Petrov in answer to one of the crewmen’s questions while Roger stood with his arm around her.

  Owen waited for the ambulance crew to finish readying Petrov, then told him he was being arrested for murder and attempted murder. After reciting his rights, Owen asked, “Now, where’s your boss?”

  Claire hadn’t thought it was possible for the Russian’s face to get any whiter, but it did. Petrov clamped his lips tight and shook his head.

  Owen leaned in close. “You’re facing two murder raps and attempted murder of a law officer, these folks here, and those two young people. You cooperate with us, and you might get life in prison. You don’t . . .” Owen shrugged meaningfully.

  “Ivanov can get me in
prison,” Petrov said. “He will order someone to kill me.”

  “Not if we get to him first.” Owen laid his hand on Petrov’s shoulder. “We’ll protect you.”

  Petrov looked doubtful. “No, I must say nothing.”

  “All right,” Owen said. “I’ll talk. First, we saw the black Range Rover parked down the street. You and Ivanov rode in it together.” He stared at the Russian.

  Petrov stared back.

  “The car was empty when we saw it, so Ivanov must have come with you to the Continos’ house.”

  Claire gasped.

  Owen shot her a silencing look. “He hid somewhere when you went off on your chase,” he continued, “and waited for you to notify him that the deed was done.”

  Owen turned to Ramstead. “Search his pockets for a cell phone.”

  “I already found it.” Roger handed the phone to Ramstead.

  Owen rubbed his chin as he stared at Petrov. “I bet you had a time limit in which to contact Ivanov, and that limit’s been exceeded. So, he’s left, and the Range Rover’s gone now.”

  Petrov ground his teeth and looked away.

  Owen turned again to Ramstead. “Put out an APB on the Range Rover.” He gave him the license plate number.

  As Ramstead made the call on his police radio, Owen refocused on Petrov. “Now, we need to figure out what direction he’s traveling in. I’m guessing back to Denver. Right?”

  Petrov looked away and winced. “I must go to hospital now.” The additional wrapping the technicians had placed around his knee was soaked in blood.

  Claire pondered the problem of tracking Ivanov, then had an idea.

  “What about the Eagle County Airport? A lot of rich skiers, even from as close as Denver, fly their small planes into Eagle to avoid the traffic on I-70. From the amount of money transfers we saw on Anthony’s computer, I bet Ivanov can afford to lease a private jet.”

  Petrov sucked in a breath, confirming Claire’s guess.

  “Eagle Airport it is.” Owen waved his hand at the ambulance technicians. “You can take him now.”

  He signaled the taller backup cop to go with them.