“Also, please protect Vicktor. I…I don’t know how I feel about him, but You love him and I pray he would see his need for You and turn to You. And, well, help me to be wise and trust in You.”
There were so many other things she wanted to say, things that swirled in her heart but that seemed too fresh, too tender to admit aloud. Things that maybe a smart girl shouldn’t be feeling about a man who lived in another country, who personified danger, who didn’t share a belief in eternity with her. But also a man who pushed her fears into the night and made her feel safe…and beautiful.
And who would have predicted that? Dressed in her leopard-skin shirt and second-skin pants, her hair falling in tangles around her face, well, she knew she looked…well, there probably weren’t words. But when Vicktor looked at her, she saw respect, and just enough awe in his eyes to make her feel whole and clean.
“Lord, forgive me for getting into trouble here. I’m sorry. Just…help me not to do something really, really stupid.”
A gunshot cracked the air. Gracie jumped, nearly dropped her weapon. Her heart hammered through her chest. She flattened her cheek against the car window and craned her neck to stare at her ninth-story window. Dark as night.
Another crack, and her pulse roared in her ears. She glued her gaze to the entrance of her building. The gun shook in her hand.
A thousand minutes thundered by as she waited, gulping her heart back into her throat.
The two men staggered out. No, oh please, no! Her gun fell to the floorboards. Gracie fumbled for the latch, opened the door and fell out of the car.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Gracie cradled Andrei in her arms, his hot blood saturating her shirt. Gritting her teeth, she pressed her hand into the wet tissue of his jagged stomach wound. “What happened, Vicktor?”
Vicktor’s hands shook as he redialed the cell phone. He couldn’t look at her.
Andrei started to moan.
“Zero-one at Leningradskaya Street, building fourteen,” he barked in Russian at the dispatcher who answered. “I need an ambulance and backup.” He snapped the phone shut. Retrieving his trench coat, which lay in a pile beside the car, he knelt beside Gracie. “Put this on the wound and press hard.” She took it without meeting his eyes.
Guilt churned in his chest. Vicktor rested the butt of his gun against his forehead, the cold metal shocking his sweaty skin. He’d been careful, checking the shadows as he shoved Andrei off the elevator in front of him…
They swept the flat together, Vicktor’s fist knotted in the collar of Andrei’s coat.
The trashed flat seemed untouched—boxes upended, closet doors thrown open, their contents spilled like the insides of a gutted animal. The house reeked of rotting tomatoes.
Gracie’s bedroom was so quiet he could hear birds singing in the trees and the low rumble of a bread truck as it shuddered over hardened ruts in the courtyard. Vicktor flung open the bathroom door, smacking on the light. The smell of mildew stung his nose, but there was no one hiding behind the flimsy shower curtain. Or in the living room, or hiding in the odorous fog of the kitchen.
Not a trace of the agent he’d sent to guard the flat.
The fine hairs on his neck stood up.
He should have paid attention.
Gracie’s two bulging suitcases sat where Andrei had left them, against the wall in the corridor.
Vicktor forced Andrei to his knees. “Open them.”
He watched Andrei for any subtle movements as the man unzipped the first suitcase. It popped opened like overripe fruit, spurting bulky socks and sweaters into the hallway. Andrei lowered it onto its side and began to paw through the contents.
“Hurry up.”
Andrei pulled out books and prodded hidden places under the folds of sweatshirts. “It’s not here.”
“Open the other one.”
Andrei moved toward the second bag. It, too, spurted open. Vicktor pictured Gracie sitting on it to zip it closed. “Hurry.”
Andrei rummaged through the clothes and souvenirs. “Gracie was wrong. The information isn’t here.” Andrei tossed out a wad of socks. Something shattered on the wooden floor.
Vicktor picked it up and grimaced when he found the smashed remains of a zhel ring holder. “Take it easy.”
Andrei lifted a pile of jeans. “Got it.” He shot Vicktor a look of triumph and held up a large manila envelope. Andrei studied it for a moment before Vicktor yanked it from his hands.
“University of Minnesota Cancer Center.” Vicktor breathed for what felt like the first time in hours. Beside him Andrei climbed to his feet.
Whoever the assailants were, they had the speed of panthers.
The weight of a man on his back slammed Vicktor to his knees. Vicktor jerked hard with his elbow and rolled. The attacker tumbled off and Vicktor leaped to his feet.
A black Baikal pistol stared him in the face.
“Give me the envelope.” A pig of a man with a ruddy face and dilated pupils, he glared at Vicktor. He wore a shiny black leather jacket.
“Nice coat,” Vicktor said, and dropped the envelope.
As the man followed the envelope with his eyes, Vicktor cracked him in the chin with his right fist, deflected the muzzle of his gun with his left. The gun went off as the pig’s head whipped to the side. Vicktor spiked him in the chest with his elbow. Breath wheezed out of him.
The pistol fell to the floor. Vicktor jumped for the weapon. Another shot sounded as he swept it up.
The pig pounced just as Vicktor turned, weapon in hand. Vicktor cuffed him hard. The thug dropped like a stone.
“Vicktor!”
Vicktor looked at Andrei and turned cold. Andrei clutched his stomach, blood spurting through his fingers. The other hand indicated the back of the other attacker as he escaped.
Gracie waited downstairs.
Vicktor started after the intruder.
Andrei’s breath was ragged. “Stop, Vicktor. I shot him. He won’t go far.”
Vicktor hesitated.
Footsteps thundered down the stairwell.
“Are you sure?” Vicktor scrambled back to Andrei, already punching in zero-one. The chauffeur was white. He slumped against the wall, eyes big and scared, but nodded. He kicked a silver Tanager, no bigger than a lighter, toward Vicktor.
Disbelief froze Vicktor, even after the dispatcher came on the line. She hung up before he could recover. Andrei had had a gun this entire time and hadn’t used it on him?
Gracie had been right. Andrei was the truest friend she could have here, despite his not-so-righteous role as traitor. A sheep among the wolves.
“I’m sorry, Vicktor.”
Vicktor cringed. Andrei’s saturated shirt dripped blood where a knife had dug a hole under his rib cage.
“Get me downstairs. I have to talk to Gracie.” Andrei’s voice wobbled.
“Of course.” Vicktor felt ill, seeing the chauffeur’s life ebb out.
Tucking the manila envelope inside his belt, Vicktor threaded an arm around Andrei and towed him to his feet. Andrei howled in pain. Vicktor dragged Andrei to the hall and called the elevator.
“Sergei—what about Sergei?” Andrei’s voice was a scant whisper.
“Who’s Sergei?”
Andrei coughed. “The one who jumped you.”
Sergei. Andrei’s boss? “Out cold.”
Andrei slouched against him as Vicktor dragged him out of the apartment and laid him in Gracie’s embrace….
“Hang on, Andrei,” Gracie whispered. Andrei moaned.
Vicktor paced the yard. Where was the ambulance? He released a pent-up breath. Why hadn’t he called Roman, or Arkady? He winced, indictment sinking razor claws into his heart.
Andrei’s breathing was labored. Gracie sobbed.
Vicktor wanted to drop to his knees and howl. Hadn’t she been through enough? Now he had to go and kill her best friend?
She met Vicktor’s eyes, desperation screaming from her tortured expression.
&nbs
p; Vicktor looked away, into the sky, at the pigeons, the spying babushkas, the impatient people in the bread queue—anywhere but at Gracie.
“I called the ambulance,” he said starkly.
Andrei’s skin turned a smoky gray, his lips purple; his life was pooling on the ground.
“No, oh no, Andrei,” Gracie moaned. She bent her head close to his face, her hair and tears dripping into his eyes.
“Gracie,” Andrei rasped, “I’m sorry…please…forgive me.”
Gracie choked her sobs. “I already have, Andrei. I already have.”
A small smile crossed Andrei’s ghostly face. In the distance a siren whined through the air.
She couldn’t stop shaking. Disbelief cut a jagged swath through her heart as Gracie hugged herself and watched the EMTs load Andrei’s body into the ambulance. They’d made a gallant effort to revive him, despite their meager resources, Andrei still died before her eyes.
The wind nipped her ears, blew tears from her cheeks. Never in her worst nightmares had she believed she’d see the lifeless bodies of three of her best friends in one week’s time. Agony forced her eyes heavenward. “Why?”
The sunrise had bruised the sky a deep purple, and gray clouds prophesied a misty day. Gracie bit the inside of her cheek, feeling scraped out from within. “I need You more than ever today, God,” she moaned. “Hold me up.”
Ten feet away, Vicktor stared unmoving at his bloodied trench coat. His wan expression betrayed tortured thoughts. He looked up and met her eyes. The agony in his gaze wrenched her heart. She took two steps toward him. He blinked and his expression hardened.
“We need to go. Now.”
Gracie halted and glanced at the ambulance. “I need to call his cousin.”
Vicktor closed the gap between them. “You can do that from my house. I have to change.” He studied her. “And so do you.”
He strode toward the car. Rattled by the steel in his voice, she blinked after him, then examined her clothes.
She was covered in Andrei’s blood. It had turned the black pants a russet brown and saturated her leopard-skin shirt. Red etched the grooves of her hands. Her stomach lurched, a small moan escaped her lips and her knees gave way.
“Oh, Andrei.” She crumpled to the ground, fell forward and covered her head with her hands, moaning. Andrei was gone. Killed because he’d been protecting her. She felt parted down the middle.
“Gracie! Oh no, don’t do this. Please hold together.”
Vicktor’s arms enclosed her and she felt him pull her to his chest. He lowered his face close.
“I’m going to get you home. Don’t be afraid.”
Gracie dug her fingers into his shirt. “It’s all my fault, Vicktor.”
His sharp intake of breath was followed by a groan. “No. This is not your fault.”
“Yes, yes, it is. Andrei was supposed to be protecting me.”
“Nyet. Listen to me.” He leaned away from her, grabbed her shoulders.
Gracie saw a haunted look creep into his face.
“If anything, it’s my fault,” he said.
She started to shake her head. His grim expression silenced her.
“I’m taking you home.”
Then he lifted her. And she, because she was boneless with grief, let him. Somehow it just seemed easier to bury her face in his chest, curl her arms around his neck and hold on.
Larissa rolled up a pair of jeans and tucked them into her carry-on. She wouldn’t have to take much. Looking at herself in the mirror, she ran a hand over her face, noticing the dry skin. She needed a tan, and perhaps a massage. She wasn’t used to this kind of stress.
It would be over in a few hours.
She’d feel a lot better if Andrei answered his telephone. Where was he?
In her heart, she hoped he had found Gracie and coaxed the information out of her. She really didn’t want Gracie to die. She put her hand to her throat and grimaced at the empty place there. Boris was definitely stressed. The man was practically coming unglued, pacing her apartment half the night. His plan would never work. She’d have to do it herself. Sometimes she wondered how he’d ever thought up the scheme in the first place. Dumb luck, perhaps.
His dumb luck was running out. And if she didn’t help him, he was going to get them both killed. She picked up the necklace, broken in the middle, pried open a tiny link and wrapped the ends together. It would hold just long enough to help her finish the job.
Gracie sat on Vicktor’s bed, numb, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring out the window.
A pigeon sat on a balcony just across the alley, and Gracie focused on it, on the movements of its tiny head, on the dark eyes. Andrei’s brown eyes, thick with emotion, bored into her memory. She saw his fierceness, swelling when he kidnapped her from Vicktor. His words returned like a haunting prophecy. I am so sorry I got you into this. But I swear I won’t let him hurt you.
Was he referring to Vicktor? Or someone else, someone he feared more? Gracie clutched her forehead with her hands and took a cleansing breath. Andrei, her best friend, her protector, her translator in this harsh Russian world, had died in her arms. Her clothes were stained with his blood.
Betrayer’s blood.
Protector’s blood.
He’d stood between the KGB and her for two years, and paid for it with his life. Oh, God, why? A fresh sob shook Gracie. Please, don’t let his death be in vain. She crunched the envelope to her chest and raised her eyes to heaven.
She heard the water running in Vicktor’s bathroom. Poor man. He’d looked hunted. It made her ache to think he blamed himself for Andrei’s death. The ride to his flat had been agonizingly silent—Vicktor battling some unspoken pain, she gulping back horror. She didn’t want to admit how much she longed to be safely tucked back inside Vicktor’s embrace. But he had no room for her.
His guilt took up all the space in his heart. She could see it, even if he couldn’t. Vicktor needed forgiveness like a person needed air.
What did he have planned next? Where would she run to that she couldn’t be found? Or was Vicktor planning on giving away the envelope? To whom? Who wanted this information, and why?
Money. If Leonid truly had been cured of cancer, then the antidote would be priceless.
And worth dying for. She ran a finger over the address Evelyn had written. This information would not land in the hands of Dr. Willie’s killer—not without the battle of her life. She’d leave Russia with the notes.
Or die trying.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“C’mon, Vicktor, sort this out.” Vicktor sat on the edge of his bathtub, the door securely locked, muttering to himself. Steam hung near the ceiling and sent rivulets of perspiration down his face. His clothes clung to him, sweat coursed down his back. He shoved his hand through his hair, then pushed his palms against his temples.
Think.
“Sergei,” Andrei had said. Vicktor flashed the face through his memory. When his FSB backup had arrived at Grace’s flat, they’d arrested a reviving Sergei and hauled him outside. Slouched in the back seat of the squad car, he’d glowered at Vicktor. The thug had seemed familiar. Vicktor scowled, willing the memory to come to him.
They’d found the rookie FSB agent assigned to watch the flat trussed up on the balcony.
Vicktor stared at his hands, crusty with dried blood. It wasn’t the first time he’d held a dying man, wasn’t the first time his hands had been covered in blood. He felt cold now, however, seeing how red filled every pore, even the grooves of his fingernails. Self-condemnation hit him low and hard in his gut.
After peeling off his clothes, he stepped into the shower. The heat nearly took off a layer of skin. He turned and put his face in it, wanting it to hurt. When he could stand it no longer, he cranked on the cold and grabbed the soap. Blood pooled brown at his feet as he scrubbed.
Moments later, he was toweling off. He let the water run for Gracie who had insisted he shower first. He tugged on a pair of sweatpants,
pulled on a T-shirt and wrapped the towel around his neck.
Steam drifted from the bathroom when he opened the door. The cool air hit him. “Gracie? It’s your turn.”
Silence.
He walked down the hall and stopped at the doorway of his bedroom.
She stood with her back to him, staring out the window.
“Gracie, you okay?”
She shrugged. He saw grief in the curve of her shoulders, her wretched posture. His heart ached, knowing he had caused it. He winced and ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could take them back ten hours to that moment in the garden and never let go. Something wonderful, magical, so right it hurt, had passed between them. And he’d killed it this morning. He clenched his jaw, willing himself not to fall apart in front of this woman who had more guts than anyone he’d ever met.
“I’m going to die, aren’t I.”
Oh no, Gracie, please don’t think that. He couldn’t stop the groan as he walked toward her. “Don’t give up hope, Gracie.” If the light in her eyes died, it just might kill him. He put his hands on her shoulders. “No, you’re not going to die.”
He lowered his forehead to her hair. Her smell played havoc with his emotions. How was he supposed to say goodbye to the one person that made him feel hope? He tried to keep the agony from his voice. “Not if I can help it.”
She turned, and he was shocked—no, terrified—by the fierceness in her eyes. She lifted her chin.
“I’m ready to die. I don’t want to, but I’m ready. I don’t want you to give Dr. Young’s medical notes to this maniac. I want you to send them to America.”
He went dry-mouthed, picturing the worst. Gracie, shot dead, or worst, knifed by the Wolf. His body reacted to the picture, his breathing almost painful. He stepped back. “No.”
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