He returned to his office and sat at the desk. A map appeared on the screen. A pulsating red dot, for the last ping from Madelyn’s phone, along with a time—11:47 p.m.—and GPS coordinates. He hit several more keys and pulled up satellite imagery, glimpsing a county road that wound through the mountains. Expanding the view even further, he brought up a clearer picture that included a dirt trail disappearing into a dense forest.
He memorized the GPS coordinates before powering down his computer. Pocketing his keys, he left the office and locked the door. The stench of blood, coppery and thick, hung in the air. He turned to look at Anton’s body, growing cold in death.
Even though Oleg had ordered The Prow closed until further notice, it wouldn’t do to leave a corpse in the hall. He hefted the body around until the door could shut. A cell phone clattered from Anton’s other hand. The screen was illuminated, the phone still open. 011-7-208. Anton had begun to dial out of the US and into Moscow, but had died before completing the call.
Oleg searched Serge’s pocket and found his phone. There were twenty missed calls; all from Anton, except one. It originated from a Moscow-based number, as well.
Nikolai?
Oleg would be foolish to assume anything else.
He stepped into the hall and slammed the cooler door shut. Blood spray arched across the walls. A sticky pool of maroon and black covered the floor near where Oleg stood. Bright red streaks leading from where the body had been dragged were still wet. He ignored it all and strode toward the door.
It was far-fetched to think that Madelyn Thompkins had taken a dirt road leading to nowhere, and therefore out of cell tower range, yet it was the only option that provided Oleg with any action to take. And if he was wrong? Well, then he was lost in more ways than one.
* * *
Roman sat at the worktable, tools and wires scattered around. He’d rewired the radio and, in theory, it should work. Yet, for all his technical expertise, he couldn’t get a message out. Frustration, a hot poker to his gut, bubbled up in a curse.
“What’s the matter?” Madelyn sat on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her shapely rear.
“This thing.” He swept his hand toward the generator. “I’m worried that the solar battery has been drained too long to hold a charge. No generator means no radio.”
“And that means you can’t get in touch with your boss,” Madelyn offered. Then she added, “But you left a message last night that something big had happened and you were on your way to Denver. By now, they know you never made it, and must be looking for you. Would they come here?”
RMJ operated more than a dozen safe houses around the state. But they’d look other places first. “Maybe,” he said. “Eventually.”
He moved the generator to another spot in the sun. The needle jerked as the battery began to retain power. “I’ll give it another half of an hour,” he said.
“So what do we do while we wait?” she asked.
Several thoughts, all pretty immoral, came to mind before Roman settled on one that was far too chaste for his liking.
Standing, he held his hand out to Madelyn. She reached for him and he liked the way her palm felt next to his. “I figure I can teach you a few moves that’ll help if you get into another situation. The first lesson of self-defense is that your goal is to get away, not to incapacitate a combatant.”
“Combatant? I’m not a soldier and I’m definitely not at war.”
“Wanna bet? You are unquestionably engaged in a battle against Oleg Zavalov.”
“I’m never going back to The Prow.”
“Just humor me, then. Because I don’t trust him not to come after you.”
She hesitated, then straightened her sweatshirt. “What first?”
“Try to take me down,” Roman said.
“I’m not comfortable with this.”
“You aren’t supposed to be comfortable, Madelyn. You’re supposed to put me on the floor. Look at the tea. You could throw the liquid in my face, then bash me in the head with the cup. It wouldn’t knock me out, but it would make my ears buzz and take me a few seconds to shake off, which is all the time you need to run.”
“It would also have me treating you for burns.”
The tea wasn’t even tepid, much less hot. “Knowing how to defend oneself is the first step in accepting that one isn’t always safe. It leaves a person weak and exposed at first. But until they face their fears, they can never achieve more.”
“Why are you so determined to talk about me getting attacked again? Just the idea that I’ll freeze again is horrifying.”
“The hardest thing I’ve ever done,” he said, now terrified of sharing his lowest moment and being vulnerable himself, “was getting out of the bed after my surgeries had failed. I was given a medical release from the military along with a pension that covered my living expenses. Yet, I’d wanted to serve in the army ever since I was a kid. Soldiering wasn’t a job for me—it was my way of life.”
He paused. His memories of his room at the VA Eastern Colorado Jewell Clinic were as fresh today as they had been six years ago. Three chairs of molded plastic lined the wall next to his bed. The seats created a hideous rainbow: mustard yellow, pumpkin orange and—his least favorite—bile green. The days dragged on, one miserable minute connected to the next.
“My last tour had been in Afghanistan as an intel officer with Delta Force. I’d picked up chatter about a missing platoon being held in some nearby caves. We used the cover of darkness to get close. Everything went as planned until the very end. We were spotted. Shots were fired. Several of their guys were killed. We only had one casualty—me and my foot. I know I’ve told you that part before, but not what happened next.” He drew in a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm, not to let the anger he’d fought for years bubble to the surface again. “I get home and was lauded as a hero and given an honorable discharge in the same breath.”
“What’d you do?”
He shook his head. “There was nothing for me to do,” he said. “My mangled foot was in traction, held right in my line of sight. So, I lay in bed and loathed fate for screwing me over. That hate overflowed into the rest of my life. My marriage had been built on a fault line. You know—it’s all his fault, it’s all her fault.”
“Oh, Roman.” She took his hand. This time, he let her hold him.
“Anyway,” he continued, “my crappy attitude didn’t help. When my ex asked for divorce, I signed—thankful she wouldn’t come for her daily pity visit.
“Then one day, when I was at my lowest, I got a visitor. He was a Brit—clean-shaven, pin-striped suit, yellow tie, pocket square. So very proper he looked like he’d stepped out of a business meeting at Barclays bank or something. He was MI5, retired, and had gotten a hold of my personnel file. He was starting a new private security firm and wanted to build a team.”
“Rocky Mountain Justice,” Madelyn murmured.
Roman nodded. “I recall his exact words, ‘You’re the bloke for me.’”
“Bloke? Did he really say ‘bloke’?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“You must have agreed, because you’re working with RMJ now.”
“I did and I am,” Roman said. “But not right away. In agreeing to take the job—to help start a firm—I had to let go of my loathing for myself and my situation. There is a great deal of comfort in being a victim. But I had to get past that. Once I did, I was free.” He paused, realizing that he hadn’t really let go of all his self-hatred. He’d gone to work, but hadn’t let anyone get close to him since being discharged from the army.
Thankful Madelyn hadn’t picked up on his thoughts and asked him to share, he continued. “Along the same lines, there’s a great deal of comfort in learning how to defend yourself, because once you learn—you are responsible for your own safety. It’s like me with RMJ. In agreeing to take the job, I wa
s responsible for my own future.”
Madelyn licked her lips—just a flash of her pink tongue on her red mouth. The gesture was simple and, at the same time, sexy as hell. It drew him deep into his fantasies. His mouth on hers. His hands on her body. Her breath on his neck, as he slid inside of her. He let the image consume him.
“So, you’re saying...” her words pulled Roman out of the illusion, slamming him back into reality with such force that his head hurt “...that knowing some self-defense is accepting that bad things are possible and that’s frightening?”
“Isn’t it?”
She shrugged. He knew she agreed, but he didn’t push her to say anything.
“What should I do first? And I’m not throwing tea on you.” She picked up her cup and took a sip.
“Don’t worry about hurting the other person. That’s the point. Go for the balls, trust me—it hurts like hell to get kicked there. The eyes, the larynx, the nose. And put all your force into your punch.” He swung his arm out to the side, in demonstration. “Don’t just use the strength in your arm. Bring it up from your shoulder, your waist, your leg.”
Madelyn copied his move.
Roman held up his palms. “Hit me,” he said.
Madelyn threw out a punch. “That hurt.”
Roman nodded. “Keep your fist tight and wrist strong. That’ll help in a real way.” Palms lifted, he said, “Try again, and remember—bring your power up from your feet.” He touched his finger to her bare knuckles.
Madelyn threw a hit and then another.
“Lesson two—don’t simply hit here.” He touched his palm. “Go through the palm. But aim here.” He pointed to a spot six inches behind his hand. Both hands up, he said, “Try again. Fist tight. Wrist strong. Aim behind the target.”
She struck.
Roman shook out his hand. “Not bad at all. I’d say you’ve learned to deliver an effective punch.”
“What if someone comes after me with a gun again?” Madelyn asked. “Even if I hit him, he can still shoot.”
Roman looked around and grabbed a wooden spoon. He held it out to Madelyn. “This will be our gun. Take it and point it at me.”
Roman handed it over. Madelyn squinted down the “stock,” lining Roman up with the wooden barrel. Then Roman was the one pointing it at her.
“Do that again,” she said. “But slower this time.”
Roman held out the spoon to her. “Point it at me.”
Madelyn followed the direction.
“Now I’m going to lift my palms, like I’m surrendering, but what I’m really doing is getting my hands free. I’m going to grab the barrel.” He did and was pleased to see that she nodded at his instructions. “Then I’m going to turn it into your thumb and bring my other hand down on your wrist.” He followed through with the movements and once again, the spoon was in his hand and pointing at Madelyn. “The momentum of the twist will almost pull the gun around.”
“Let me try,” said Madelyn. “Lift. Twist. Strike. Aim.” The movements were slow but at the end, she was the one with the spoon.
“Good,” said Roman. “Just keep practicing until you aren’t performing separate steps, but it comes to you as a single motion.”
They ran through the drill again and again. Lift. Twist. Strike. Aim. Lift. Twist. Strike. Aim. Madelyn’s movements became fluid, like a dance, and she could take the spoon-gun from Roman with the same confidence as he from her.
“Feel better?” asked Roman.
“I do,” she said, her voice and eyes bright.
Roman did, as well. He wanted to do everything he could to protect Madelyn, not just from Oleg—but always. And even though they’d part ways soon, his training would remain with her forever.
“Another tough situation is if you’re ever grabbed from behind. I’m going to grab you.” Roman snaked an arm around Madelyn’s throat. “Move so that my elbow is in front of your throat. It gives you room to breathe. Now squeeze your fingers into the bend, pull out and then drop all your body weight to the ground.”
Madelyn did as she was told, ending up on her knees. He offered her his hand to help her up. Once she was standing, he said, “Next time you’ll be ready and land on your feet.”
She turned her back to him. “Let’s try again.”
Roman reached around her neck, pressing his arm into her throat. As he had instructed, she moved so that her throat was at his elbow. She gripped his arm and pulled away. At the same moment, she dropped down. Her elbow slammed into Roman’s side. A blinding, white light exploded in his vision as pain surged up and down his side. He sucked in a breath.
“Roman.” Madelyn gripped his arm and led him to the sofa. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, I should’ve been more careful.”
“Can I make sure that none of the stitches have torn?”
“Sure,” he said, his teeth gritted. Waves of pain radiated from his side. Madelyn lifted his shirt and prodded the wound. Her touch was soft and cool and soothing.
“The stitches have held,” she said. Her hand remained on his side.
The small cabin suddenly felt massive, and even though she was right beside him, Madelyn was too far away. He wanted to be closer to her, needed to feel the whisper of her breath on his naked skin. He groaned.
“Does this hurt?” she asked.
“Not in the least,” he said, not caring that his statement was brazen and the sexual invitation was unmistakable.
She lifted her eyes. Their gazes held. She bit her lip. He bent to her, sucking her lips free. She sighed and gripped his shoulders, pressing her body into his. Their forms melded, their mouths together, their tongues entangled. In an instant, Roman needed to lose himself inside of Madelyn and the friction that brought complete bliss.
His fingers found their way under the fabric of her sweatshirt. Her skin was warm, smooth and oh so soft. His hand traveled upward, up her torso, her rib cage, until he found her breast. He cupped her, rubbing his thumb over her already hard nipple. She gave a sigh of desire. He wondered if she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
“Madelyn,” he breathed between kisses. “I want you. Tell me that you want me, too.”
His mouth found the hollow of her throat.
“Roman,” she said. Her voice was weak. “We need to talk.”
We need to talk. That was never a good sign. He took a deep breath, recovering, and placed his chin on top of her head. Her hair was soft.
“I like you,” she said, “but this is going too fast, don’t you think?”
He let her go and moved away. For Madelyn, Roman was a protector and defender—a person needed in the moment, but not after. For him, Madelyn represented everything that was good in the world.
Of course, she didn’t want anything beyond a couple of kisses—he’d been a fool to hope for more.
“No pressure from me.”
She bit her bottom lip and he refused to kiss it free, although he was sorely tempted to.
“It wouldn’t be fair for me to lead you on. I am so busy with school and completely committed to my studies that I really make a lousy girlfriend. What’s worse, I don’t want to change.”
He nodded and stood. After walking to the table. He picked up the generator, but saw nothing.
“I’ve offended you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Just living through last night was momentous and I don’t want to start some kind of fling or relationship on this wave of emotion, just because I’m happy to be alive. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us and might confuse things.”
He met her gaze. “I’m not confused.”
“It’s a proven fact that the brain’s chemistry changes after intercourse to create an artificial affection between partners. Mother Nature’s way
to keep couples together in case of a pregnancy.”
The silence that followed was absolute, as if Madelyn’s words had flushed away every sound. There was nothing artificial about the way he felt. Damn it, he hadn’t even liked someone in years. But that barely mattered if she didn’t return his affections.
The fire in the hearth popped and cracked, and then Roman remembered to breathe. He’d be damned if he was going to allow her to use her medical training to negate his feelings. His ego couldn’t stand the sucker punch. “So,” he said, changing the subject completely. “Ravioli or soup? We still have to wait on the generator, so we might as well eat.”
She approached him slowly. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I guess I’m not very good at this relationship thing. I’ve been too focused on my studies for a long time and whenever I try, it never ends well.”
That seemed to be her go-to excuse, although he imagined there was also a measure of truth.
“It’s not that I don’t date,” she continued. “I do. It’s just not that often and I typically wait weeks before...getting intimate.”
His lips quirked in a sardonic grin. “No artificial affections, right?”
“Something like that.”
“Like I said, you don’t have to worry. I’m not offended.” Even he heard the bite in his words and didn’t believe them. “You never told me what you want? Soup or ravioli? I have cans of both.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m not that hungry.”
Roman ignored the regret in her voice. “Ravioli, it is.”
Chapter 6
Madelyn undressed and stood in the middle of the small bathroom with a pot of hot water perched on the edge of the sink. Steam rolled upward, condensing into a mist on the small mirror. The linoleum underfoot was cold and she shivered. She knew that the gooseflesh climbing her skin had nothing to do with the chill in the air. It was Roman who had her trembling with desire.
Her Rocky Mountain Defender Page 9