Sin on the Run

by Lucy Farago

“Blake,” she shouted, “there’s an alligator.” She pointed to the sinister mass. But with all the splashing, he hadn’t heard.

  Using her T-shirt, she tried to dry the gun, making no headway, as her shirt was drenched in sweat. She looked up to see arms, legs … and tail. They were under attack. Panting, she hugged her belly and prayed Blake would emerge. The seconds dragged on.

  Then her heart stopped beating all together. She couldn’t breathe as the Russian swam to shore. Frantic, she watched the water for signs Blake would be next. Nothing. Even the alligator had disappeared. The Russian drew near. Fumbling with the gun, she turned on her heels to run. She slipped on the mud and was about to land on her ass when she was yanked up by her arm. He snatched her wrist and took the weapon from her. She was defenseless. And without Blake.

  He said something that sounded like a curse in Russian, his hand going to his bleeding arm. He’d been injured. Good, maybe he’d bleed to death. A slow, festering infection would be nice. Her attention on the water, she silently ordered Blake to emerge. She was still commanding him to live, when she was hauled away. No, no, no. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. What the hell was wrong with him? Why wasn’t he climbing out of the swamp.

  “Don’t bother,” the Russian said. “Alligator food.”

  Rhonda’s feet grew heavy as she doubled over, the contents of her stomach splattering the marshland. Lightheaded, she blinked. Blake was not gone. He wouldn’t do that to her. She was not that unlucky to have the only man she’d ever loved taken from her.

  The bastard allowed her to finish retching before dragging her off. She wiped her mouth on her arm. Blake gone? How could that be? She glared at the hand now around her bicep, wanting to sink her teeth into those ugly fingers. This monster had killed her man. And she’d find a way to make him pay.

  *

  His head was going to explode. Every blood vessel screamed for air. Blake’s arm was numb, and he could forget about his hand. He knew where it was and what had it and he only hoped it was still there, if he managed to escape. The water grew murkier as the alligator spun him around, which meant he had only seconds left. Using all his strength, he wrapped his legs around the animal’s torso, his free arm around his snout, and tucked and rolled with the reptile. There was only one way to dislodge his arm. The nasty jaws had to let go.

  Contrary to belief, alligators didn’t enjoy fighting with their food. If this bugger thought Blake too much of a hassle, he’d release him in search of another meal. But if the beast didn’t open his mouth soon, Blake would pass out. Either from the rolling or from lack of oxygen, his lightheadedness made it hard to focus, but if he wanted to live, he had to hang on. He clenched his eyes shut hoping to stave off the nausea, now threatening his concentration.

  His fingers sprang open, his numb arm floating freely in the water. The alligator had given up. Using what little energy he had left, he kicked his feet, hoping his head didn’t implode. In an explosive burst, he broke the surface and sucked in every ounce of air his lungs would absorb. Gasping, he grappled his way to shore with one arm, at last finding purchase on the muddy bottom. Dizzy, he fell onto the marshy embankment.

  Trying to steady his breath, he refused to look at his arm. His shoulder burned and he seriously feared that it had been torn out of its socket. His first coherent thought—Rhonda. He scanned the area. No sign of her. Orlov hadn’t killed her. Which way had they gone? He drew another deep breath and forced himself to think. His entire body vibrated as he tried to stand. Steeling himself, he looked at the damage. He had at least eight puncture marks, two more nasty than the others and bleeding profusely. He had to get out of here and find something to wrap his arm.

  He chose the clearest path, hoping Orlov had done the same. And there he saw it. Someone, most likely Rhonda, had vomited. It wasn’t exactly breadcrumbs leading the way, but he’d take it. Never had he been more grateful for puke.

  He’d only been assigned a couple of jungle missions, but knew what to look for. He spotted broken branches and as the marsh turned less muddy, he saw footprints. He picked up his steps. They couldn’t be that far ahead. His chest ached but he ignored it, pushing to a faster pace. He had to get to her. He didn’t know how long she’d be kept alive.

  Then he heard an engine turn over. He ran toward the sound. He hadn’t yet cleared the reeds when he saw an unconscious Rhonda being shoved into the passenger side of a black sedan. He had no weapon, no way of freeing her. So he focused on the New Jersey license plate as the car drove off with Rhonda inside.

  They were on a dirt road, an access road, he guessed. He had to get to a phone and started to jog. It was then he felt the brunt of his injuries. He’d need to stop the bleeding, but he had nothing. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Damn, it was getting hot. Cradling his wounded arm, Blake dragged his feet. Pinprick-sized stars marred his vision. He couldn’t pass out. Rhonda would die.

  He kept the image of her beautiful face in the front of his mind and forced himself to move. “Keep walking,” he said. “This is just a scratch.”

  He lost track of time. How long had Rhonda been at that douchebag’s mercy? Behind him someone honked. He stopped, blinking the haze from his vision.

  A pickup stopped and an older man got out. Wearing a worried expression and a green shirt with a nametag that read “Walt,” he regarded Blake’s arm, the blood now running over his hand and down his fingertips.

  “Gator?”

  Blake nodded, unable to say anything.

  “Come on,” he said.

  He helped him into his truck. Opening the door, he insisted Blake sit. From under the worn seat, the man withdrew a clean-looking tackle box.

  “You’re lucky I found you,” he said. “If the bite doesn’t kill you, infection will.”

  “And how?” Blake drew a shaky breath and started again. “How does that make me lucky?” He really wanted to know.

  “Because.” He opened the tackle to an array of first-aid equipment. “I always carry. Can never be too careful out here. Now, you can either wait until I get you to a hospital … or.” He opened a small rectangular box and pulled out a syringe. “It’s an antibiotic. I’m one of the handlers in the park. I’ll tell you now, I’m not a licensed anything, but I’ve done this on more than one occasion. I am trained in first aid. Your choice, son.”

  It wasn’t a choice. He didn’t have time to take care of his boo-boo while they did God knew what to his Rhonda. “Shot.”

  Walt nodded.

  The alligator must have done nerve damage, because Blake didn’t feel the liquid being poured over his arm. Quickly and efficiently, Walt wrapped layers of gauze over the holes, then he pushed Blake back onto the seat and lifted his feet into the cab. And before his would-be savior came around the truck and took the driver’s seat, he poked Blake in the arm with the needle.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Blake.”

  “Well, Blake, didn’t your mama ever tell you not to swim in a swamp unarmed?”

  “She told me to use the fork on the left for my salad but forgot to mention the alligators.”

  Walt laughed. “Good to see you have your sense of humor.”

  “What I don’t have is my phone. Do you have one I can use?”

  “Sure.” He opened the glove box, keeping his eyes on the road. “In there, somewhere.” Then he reached under his seat and pulled out a thermos. “Can’t stand bottled water.” He passed it to Blake. “Drink, it’s from the tap and you need it.”

  He took the thermos. Under a pile of gas receipts—and a handgun—he found the phone.

  The man shrugged at Blake’s cocked eyebrow. “Can never be too careful.”

  Walt seemed to have mottos he lived by. Blake punched Monty’s number and while he waited for an answer, he drank the water.

  “Who is this?” Monty answered, obviously not recognizing Walt’s number.

  “It’s me. I need you to run Jersey plates.” The car had out-of-state pla
tes, so unless a tourist had picked up Orlov, it was a rental. “Find the rental company, then hack in. He’s got Rhonda, and I don’t know how long she has. I need you to GPS that car. Tell me where he’s going.” Many rental companies had installed GPS units in their cars. If a car was stolen or not returned, they could track it.

  “Shit, this might take me a few minutes.”

  “She might not have that long.” He didn’t know what the Russian had planned. He hadn’t killed her in the swamp, so he had something else in mind for her. And sick bastard that Orlov was, Blake didn’t like it.

  “I’ll call you when I know. I can reach you at this number?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He hung up, precariously close to losing it. Christ, this was his fault.

  “You in trouble?” the old man asked.

  “My girl is.” He’d need this guy’s gun. Better to tell him the truth or some version of it.

  “Can I help?”

  “Not unless you have an arsenal of weapons handy.” How long would this take? Was Rhonda all right? Had they killed her and dumped her body somewhere?

  Walt’s phone rang. Blake answered. “Go.”

  “You got lucky. Looks like he stopped along the South Dixie. Satellite’s coming now.” There was a pause while they waited. “Yeah, he’s at Bram’s Motel. Or the car is. That’s cocky.”

  “Orlov thinks I’m dead, and he’s injured.”

  “Why does he think you’re dead?”

  “Maybe because an alligator tried to eat me. Bram’s Motel?”

  “I know where that is,” Walt told him.

  “The smart animal didn’t have a taste for haggis?” Monty asked.

  “Funny. Anybody in the area?” Backup would be nice.

  “Cowboy might be. Let me track him down, get him headed in your direction.”

  If Cowboy could make it in time, it would help. Blake couldn’t use his injured arm and while he could shoot with one hand, he couldn’t fight. Maybe they’d get lucky. He hung up, eyeing the closed glove compartment.

  “Blake?” said Walt.

  “Yes, sir.” What were the odds he’d have to wrestle this nice old man for his gun?

  “Some Russian has your girl?”

  “Yes, sir. And he’s going to kill her if I don’t make it on time.”

  The old man accelerated. “Before I trained for this job, I served in two wars. Marine Corps.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Walt. This country needs people like you.” None of his family had served in the military and when he’d talked about enlisting, his grandmother had threatened to cut him off. He’d been seventeen at the time and not man enough to tell her to shove it. Plus the accident had thrown the family into turmoil. It wouldn’t have been fair for him to take off.

  “Yes, sir, they do. And I’m gonna help you get your girl back.”

  “Walt, I appreciate that. But this guy is dangerous and,” he turned to look at the man, “he wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.”

  Walt smiled. “Wouldn’t be the first to try.”

  *

  Blake counted on Orlov’s wounds being severe. Otherwise, why not keep driving? That alligator had gotten in one good snap before he’d set his sights on Blake. In the parking lot of the cheap motel, Blake sat in the pickup with Walt, contemplating how he was going to get Rhonda out without getting her killed.

  “You’re not going to call the sheriff for help, are you?” Walt said.

  “I don’t want a shootout and Rhonda to get caught in the crossfire. What I need is a distraction. He didn’t drive that car, which means there are at least two of them in there with her. I have to take at least one out.”

  “The black sedan with the Jersey plates?” Walt pointed to the car parked outside a motel room. “I heard. How about a little fire? Would that work?”

  “Sure, got any suggestions?”

  Walt turned, reaching into the back cab of the truck. Grabbing the tarp strewn across the back seat, he tugged. “Is TNT to your liking?”

  In a wooden crate, lay ten or so sticks of dynamite. He didn’t ask. Didn’t want to know. “Yeah, that’ll work.” He smiled. “How much ammo do you have for that pistol?”

  “The one in the glove compartment? Hell, that’s a pea shooter.” He got out of the truck, motioning for Blake to follow.

  He didn’t realize how useless his injured arm was until he tried to open the door. He hoped he could use whatever Walt was going to show him.

  The old guy dropped the tailgate and hopped in. Using a key next to the truck ignition key, he unlocked a padlock. With a wide, knowing grin, he popped open the lid.

  Blake looked at the contents, then at Walt. “You expecting a war?” Inside were more guns than he’d seen in the trunks of FBI snipers.

  “Like I said, I always carry. Plus—”

  “You can never be too careful?” Blake finished for him.

  Walt rolled his shoulders. “I did some sharpshooting when I was overseas. Hard habit to give up. The only thing I get to pick off now is rabbits and the occasional deer. I don’t much care for hunting animals.”

  Blake took another peek inside the box. “Is that a tranq?”

  “Never know when you’ll find a gator in your backyard. I own a ranch. Got some livestock, so I’m licensed to have it.”

  “What’s the range?” he asked, looking back at the motel room.

  “That one?” He tipped his head back and forth. “Mmm, I’d say a hundred feet.”

  He’d need to take the driver out, then get inside and deal with Orlov. But he couldn’t very well have Walt shoot anyone. “You still want to help?”

  *

  Rhonda moaned. How the hell did she end up in a stampede? She slowed her breathing. She was lying on something soft. One at a time, she pried her eyes open, ready to tell whoever was jackhammering her skull to stop. The room was dark. How much time had passed? She unstuck her dry mouth and tried to focus on the blob sitting somewhere in front of her. Her vision slowly cleared, and she recognized the asshole from the swamp.

  He had a gun on the table beside him, his arms lazily draped over the armrests of a chair. He hadn’t been happy to find the Russian bleeding. Then he’d stuck her with something. She’d heard Orlov call him Albert, and right now, Albert was looking at her like she’d done something wrong, like she was to blame. That couldn’t bode well for her. Blinking away the remains of whatever drug they’d given her, she saw the ring on his finger. It was the same gold band with a red stone as the one she’d seen in Vegas. Was this some kind of brotherhood? Killers-R-Us?

  Albert called out in Russian and Orlov came into the room from the bathroom. He was shirtless. He glanced over at her and said something to Albert. Watch her? The Russian she learned from Mrs. Grekov was a little rusty. Then she thought he asked his pal for more medication. While Albert didn’t appear happy about it, he popped open a pill bottle and gave him one anyway.

  The bandages on Orlov’s hand showed he was tending to the injury on his arm. And all of Albert’s fussing and the gentle way he touched Orlov’s shoulder led her to believe she’d gotten the Russian’s intentions toward her wrong. These two were more than associates. She glanced at Albert’s ring finger again. Might these two be married? Russia wasn’t exactly liberal with gay rights.

  She went to scrub her face and realized her hands were tied. She did it anyway, the dirt and grime like sandpaper against her skin. And with all the sweating she’d been doing, her wig itched like crazy.

  Orlov returned to the bathroom. The men kept talking. She worked out that they intended to sell her, and from the name-dropping and the words she could make out, she figured it hadn’t been the Russian mob who’d hired them, but Sorrentino. Either that, or these two were taking money from both sides.

  She drew her arms in close, balling herself up, the air conditioner cold against her damp body. If these two morons thought she’d go down without a fight … they didn’t know her very well. She’d survived too much shit in her li
fe. She tried to not to think about the drug they’d shot her with … and the side effects. There was nothing she could do about that now. First, she had to get away.

  She eyeballed Albert, too concerned about his partner to do as he’d been told and watch her. Would he shoot her before she made it the short distance to the door?

  She debated pretending to be sick, but doubted either of these two would care.

  She tried not to think about Blake. When she got out of this, then and only then would she allow herself that grief. Now, she had to focus on getting out alive.

  Orlov stuck his head into the bedroom, his glassy eyes trying to focus on her before speaking to Albert. Her skin crawled every time he looked at her. To think Blake was dead because of this slimy bastard. How much would yanking the lamp out of the socket reduce the force behind her slugging him with it? Judging from how stoned he was, would it take much?

  He told Albert to call someone. The remainder of the conversation happened too quickly for her poor Russian. She glanced down at Orlov’s arm. It would take more than a makeshift first-aid kit to bandage that wound, but if infection didn’t set in, the bastard would live. She shivered, refusing to think of the damage an alligator would do to a man’s body. She wouldn’t go there. Later.

  Orlov was retreating into the bathroom when someone knocked. His flunky had just sat and was now looking at him for instructions. He was told to answer but the rest was lost to her. The younger man rose, his gun by his side. What would happen if she screamed? Would they shoot whoever was at the door? Slowly, she sat up, putting her feet on the floor.

  The bed was to the left of the door, so she couldn’t see.

  “Howdy.” A man’s voice filtered into the room.

  “Yes,” he replied in an accent heavier than Orlov’s.

  “Sorry to bother you, but is that your car? The black one in front?”

  The young man tucked his gun under his shirt, letting out a long line of Russian curses, some of the first words Rhonda had learned. She didn’t have to know Russian to understand something was on fire. She could smell it. The car? Good, maybe it would explode.

  Orlov bolted from the bathroom, his injured arm now wrapped, his free hand carrying his own gun. The two exchanged words, then Albert headed outside, slamming the door behind him. They were alone, and while her hands might be tied, he was injured and … sedated as shit, possibly not thinking clearly. He split his attention between her and listening to outside. She planned it out in her mind. Grab lamp, hit jerkoff, run for door. Her butt had barely lifted from the bed when she heard the boom, then felt the whoosh of heated air as the front window shattered.