Greg Rucka: Patriot acts

Miata nudged my left hand with his muzzle. He'd hung back to wait for me, and I reached down and gave him a scratch behind the ears. He looked up, fixing me with those soulful dog eyes, and I swear it was as if he knew what was going to happen next. Dogs' eyes are like that. Sometimes you can see exactly what they're feeling; sometimes, you see exactly what you're feeling yourself.

"Yeah," I told him. "Stop wasting time, right?"

By way of answer, Miata turned and headed up the path to the house.

I followed the dog. Natalie and Dan were in the kitchen, which seemed to be the only room with its lights on, and that was fine with me because there was no way to see into the kitchen from the outside. Looking from the exterior, the house would appear dark, and that was how both I and Natalie wanted it.

"Who's in the tree house?" I asked, taking off my jacket.

Dan's expression was one of both disappointment and surprise. "You saw him?"

"Not soon enough."

That mollified him, and he grinned. "That's Vadim up there. He's my boy."

Natalie arched an eyebrow. "You've got a son?"

"Nineteen," Dan said, then added, "He has promise."

I hung my jacket on the back of the nearest chair, fighting off a wave of sudden exhaustion while listening as Natalie and Dan continued discussing the security arrangements for the safe house. Oxford's death diminished the threat against Alena, but none of us was willing to say it was gone, not yet. Three hours before Oxford had planted his dagger in Scott Fowler's heart, Scott and I had met with two men at a Holiday Inn off Times Square. Two men who, we'd assumed, had been holding the end of Oxford's leash. One had been a big stack of jovial threat who had done most of the talking, but the other had been a quieter and more thoughtful piece of menace named Matthew Bowles.

Bowles and his partner hadn't been the instigators, though; they were middlemen, the ones responsible for tasking Oxford, for directing him at some other's request to clean up the mess that Alena and I had become. But Oxford had become a liability to them. In the end, Scott and I had persuaded Bowles and his partner to cut their losses. We'd watched Bowles make a four-second telephone call that terminated Oxford's contract, firing the assassin with all the ceremony and care of ordering take-out.

Oxford hadn't liked that. He'd liked that I'd stolen most of the money he'd made from two decades of killing people even less.

That was when he'd begun murdering anyone who'd ever had the misfortune of calling themselves my friend.

He'd killed Scott in Madison Square Park while I was close enough to see it and too far away to stop it. Scott had died in my arms while Oxford had fled, unnoticed and unmolested. The irony of that-if there was an irony to be found-was that I was now wanted for Scott's murder, for the murder of a federal agent.

There were ways out from beneath the charge, of course. Most obviously, I could just turn myself in to the authorities and confess the whole story of everything that had transpired. It could probably work. Until I'd disappeared to Bequia with Alena, I'd had a good reputation in the New York security community; I'd had some respect and even a modicum of brief fame. With a strong lawyer and a little good faith, the truth behind Scott's death would be revealed. At the least, I could be exonerated for the murder of my friend.

But that would require Alena's corroboration, and as Alena was known in certain law enforcement and intelligence circles as Drama, and as Drama was wanted in connection with something in the neighborhood of two dozen murders-for-hire, the odds of her corroboration being seen as credible were pretty damn low. If she walked into the Federal Building in lower Manhattan, the only way she'd walk out again would be in full restraints, with a phalanx of guards, on her way to arraignment.

If she walked out at all.

Someone had hired Oxford to kill her, after all, and that someone was most likely connected with the government. Just because Oxford was currently bloating with swamp water in the Allendale Nature Preserve didn't mean another attempt on Alena's life wouldn't be made.

Even now, we didn't know who had bought the hit. We didn't have the first idea.

I had given Alena my word that I would protect her. I had sacrificed friends and future because I believed her when she told me that she was a killer no more. I had promised her that she would be safe. The best way I could keep that promise was to button her up someplace safe and secure, and that someplace was this house in Cold Spring. Natalie would run the security, and Dan would provide the muscle and the firepower. Nothing fancy, just a safe place that could be secured and controlled for a week, maybe two at the outside. Long enough to be sure that the threat to Alena was gone, that Oxford was the end of it. Long enough for me to disappear someplace far, far away. It didn't matter where.

Just someplace where the people I loved didn't die because of the things I'd done, or the man I'd become. Miata padded off into the darkness, in search of Alena, and I listened with half an ear to Natalie and Dan, standing around the kitchen table, discussing the security he'd put in place. Vadim up in the tree house had been a last-minute addition, it seemed, placed up there while Illya-the guard on the front door-had been dispatched to find me a car. While they talked I found myself a nearly clean glass and filled it with water, drinking it down. I was still wearing my Kevlar, and while it was a light vest, about as thin and comfortable as these kind of things ever managed to be, I was warm in it.

I thought about taking it off, leaving it behind, but I could just imagine what Alena would say if she saw me remove it. She'd call me a fool, and ask me if I wanted to die, and if I answered that things, for the moment, seemed to be safe, she would have snorted that near-contemptuous snort of hers and left it at that.

Natalie had given me a pistol before my meeting with Oxford, and that I did remove, setting it on the table. If I was going to be catching a plane anytime soon, it'd be best to go light. The vest could be ditched easily enough at the airport, if needed; the gun would be harder to dispose of, and since I didn't know where she'd acquired it, I didn't want to risk it being traced back to her. Better to leave the problem for Dan and Natalie to solve.

"There are three," Dan was telling her, indicating a rough drawing he'd made on a piece of paper that rested on the table. The drawing was a map of the house and the immediate area, and it looked quickly done, but more than serviceable. "Not counting Vadim on overwatch. He's got a rifle up there, and night-vision."

"And hopefully a blanket," I said.

"You've got coms?" Natalie asked Dan.

Dan reached into the outside pocket of his jacket, held up a Nextel mobile phone. Natalie nodded slightly, and he dropped the phone back where he'd found it.

"What about the other three?"

"Illya's on the door, you saw him as you came in. We loaded his shotgun with the Brenneke rounds, better for dealing with vehicles if a vehicle should come. Yasha is covering the back door, and Tamryn is sleeping upstairs, in the room next to Tasha's."

"So six altogether, counting you and me."

"You think more?"

"No, six should be plenty, at least for tonight."

They both looked at me.

"Dandy," I told them.

Dan considered my lack of enthusiasm, then said, "I'll go check on Tasha, make sure she's comfortable."

He left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Natalie and I stared at each other. After a couple of seconds of silence, I said, "I'm not sure it's safe to leave the two of you alone. I'm thinking I'll come back to find a gaggle of little red-haired Russian thugs-to-be shaking down the nearest kindergarten."