Susan Downs - Ekaterina

She dove for the door. The handle moved but the door didn’t release despite the added umph of her shoulder into the window. Her heart sank like an anchor. So much for a painful escape. “Let me out!”

“When we get to Pskov. I need your help.” Ryslan said in a quiet voice.

“Never,” she ground out. “I’m not going to help someone steal from their own country.”

“What do you care?”

“I’m Russian!”

“Good for you,” he snarled. “Then help your fellow narodina dig up the past.”

“What are you looking for?” Panic pushed her voice higher than she preferred.

“Like you don’t already know?” His gave flicking to the rear view mirror and it held just enough menace to turn her weak. “The crest. Four million dollars of gold and jewels. Hidden by your great-grandfather.”

“I don’t know anything about it.” She fought to still her thundering heartbeat as she eased her satchel off her shoulder and gripped the strap in two hands.

He harrumphed. “You’d better know, or you’re going to die.”

Kat tried to ignore his words. “Why are you doing this?”

His fingers whitened on the steering wheel. His jaw tense. “Freedom.”

“This isn’t going to give you freedom. Vadeem will find you. He’ll never let you get away.” This much she knew for certain. “He’ll track you down, no matter where you are. You’ll never be free.” Bracing her feet, Kat inched forward.

He laughed, cruelly. “I’m not afraid of Vadeem.”

What he left unspoken was whom, exactly, he feared. She pounced on it. “But you are afraid.”

“ Zamolchi, doragaya ,” he said, his tone dangerous. “It would be wise if you learned to shut that mouth of yours.”

Kat swung her satchel wildly, praying she’d hit flesh—his.

He swore, jerked the wheel. The car screeched across the lane. “You want to get us killed?’

The question seemed inane coming from a man who had wielded precisely that threat.

She clenched her jaw as he pulled the car over in a cloud of dust. Her heart rammed into her throat when he turned. His eyes had the dark ring of hate. “Give me that bag.”

Okay. She trembled as she handed it over. “I’m sorry,” she tried, forcing a humble tone. Every self-defense lesson she’d ever taken, at Matthew’s urging, told her that she had to slow this down, to think it out, to watch her attacker and discover his weakness.

She wanted to live. Why, oh why hadn’t she listened to Vadeem? Why hadn’t she curbed her irrationally impulsive urges?

He threw the bag down into the front seat and gunned the car onto the highway.

Oh yes, she was going back to Pskov. For the first time in four days, she wished she were on a plane home.

Vadeem’s meager breakfast was about to come back up, right here in his office. He even grabbed the metal waste can once, but gulped enough deep breaths to keep sane, for the moment.

Ryslan wasn’t in Pskov. Vadeem had given up trying to get a hold of the guy and gone right to Pskov FSB HQ. No, he hadn’t been there.

At all.

Never.

Vadeem braced both hands on his desk. His breath scraped against his ribs.

Denis, the poor kid, had nearly gone white when Vadeem suggested they dig a little into the activities of Ivan Grazovich, cross-referencing them with Ryslan’s cases. Bingo.

It was a sweet, smooth operation, one that took someone with Ryslan’s brains and history. A growing slush fund, operations, and expenses for the recovery of Russia’s stolen treasures. A fund with significant withdrawals, which, when lumped together, equaled disturbingly large amounts. Amounts that could purchase a trainload of AK-47s. Or Bizon-2 submachine guns, or even a T-725 tank. Weapons that Ryslan, a former soldier with friends in every branch of the military, would know how to get his hands on, legally, or otherwise.

Vadeem went cold. Sell it back to the Russian church, indeed. That is exactly what Ryslan and Grazovich were up to… for the last five years at least.

He’d found his middleman.

And the man had Kat. Vadeem knew it in his gut. Except he knew where they were headed. He dialed his cell phone as he headed out the door for the airport.

If he ever needed faith in a Big God who could raise people from the dead, it was now.

Grazovich was late. Ryslan stared at the woman, waxed white from the pale fingers of moonlight that filtered into the cave. He didn’t dare leave her to go hunt for the smuggler. The woman had enough cunning in her petite frame to sneak out under his nose—had already tried twice, and he’d been forced to bound and gag her. He wasn’t about to let her get a head start. He’d already lost a footrace to her in the wilds of Yfa.

Ryslan checked his watch then took another slug of his vodka, deciding about two hours ago that beer just wasn’t strong enough to kill the frustration churning in his gut.

Wind rustled the shadow of trees, and the fresh, crisp smell of the Velikaya River, not far away, snuck into the cave. The walls felt damp, the cave dark, and hiding too many secrets. Ryslan had taken two wrong turns before he found it… just where Grazovich had directed. He supposed it would be just as difficult for Vadeem and his cronies to find it as well. Yes, it was the perfect place to hole up while Grazovich and Miss Moore dug into the past, and he whittled a cool four million from the books in expenses. Ryslan’s only prayer was producing the crest. And then he’d get out of Russia and put a healthy distance between himself and Grazovich and his gang of bullies. He’d bury himself in some South American country, deep enough so that the tendrils of the Russian government would never track down a traitorous mercenary who fought against them in the Georgian/Abkhazian war, should Grazovich decide to spill his secrets.

He took another swig. The vodka burned as it went down. Ryslan breathed into the cuff of his shirt, deadening the bite of the alcohol.

Moore watched him with wide, doe-brown eyes that betrayed more than a hint of fear. He smiled. “Vadeem thinks you’re touching down, right about now, at JFK in New York. Are you going to miss him?” His voice lifted in sarcasm as he thought of Vadeem jumping a plane to Yfa as if it had been his own, brilliant idea. Thankfully, Vadeem’s daily check-in calls had been just what Ryslan needed to keep him in pocket. Only, half the time, Ryslan had been staring at him from across the room while they talked.

He laughed at that.

She turned away, and he saw a tear hanging on her eyelash.

A crack, like the snap of a twig, brought him to his feet. The room spun slightly, and he gulped a breath before throwing the bottle across the room. Cursed drink.

He stumbled out of the cave, but didn’t call out. Grazovich knew where the grotto was located. Still, every hair prickled on the back of Ryslan’s neck. He heard the rush of wind scrape the darkness. The ground crackled beside him.

He turned.

Not fast enough.

“Good-bye Ryslan Ilyitch,” Grazovich growled.

White-hot pain speared into Ryslan’s neck. He opened his mouth, but his voice box had been severed. Blood clogged in his throat. He fell to his knees, his meaty hands clawing at an arm clamped over his eyes. Wet soil seeped into the knees of his pants. Then, warm blood spilled down his shirt and he fell forward, flopping like a freshly hooked fish who knew he’d flirted with the bait far too long.

Grazovich’s FSB tails were both dead. Their windpipes severed, their eyes wide with horror. Vadeem watched as the FSB forensics team went to work, fingerprinting, photographing, taking blood samples. He stood in the hall outside the room above the grocery store, his hands in his leather coat, gasping for calm.