Her Rocky Mountain Defender. Jennifer D. Bokal
chert voz mi, ty delayesh?”
Madelyn had no idea what he’d said, but then again, she didn’t need to. The gun in his hand spoke volumes.
* * *
Glaring at Roman, Serge switched to English. “What the hell are you doing?”
One person. One gun. Roman’s odds were getting better and better. He stepped in front of Madelyn, shielding her with his body. The need to protect her was more of an instinct than a thought and he held his hands up, as if he intended to surrender.
Wordlessly, Serge jerked the gun toward the cooler.
Roman nodded, hands still lifted, and moved from the door. His focus sharpened to a razor’s edge. He kept his gaze connected with the thug’s, yet his concentration was on Serge’s hand, his arm, his gun.
Back to the wall, Roman inched toward the cooler—and Serge. Five feet away. Four feet. Three feet. Strike. Roman grabbed the gun’s barrel and wrenched it to the side. He twisted the firearm toward Serge’s thumb and at the same time, chopped down on the thug’s wrist. Roman righted the firearm, placing Serge into his sights.
Not sure of his next best play, Roman paused. In Russian, he said, “Opustoshit vashi karmany.” Empty your pockets.
Nikolai’s nephew gave a wry smile and shook his head. “Ty govorish’ po-russki?” You speak Russian?
“Da, chert voz’ mi, teperi’ opushoshit’ vashi karmany.” Damn right, now empty your pockets.
“Da, da, da,” said Serge. He withdrew his cell phone, wallet and a package of cigarettes from his blazer. He tossed them on the floor. From the pocket of his slim trousers, he pulled out the set of keys and threw those into the pile, as well.
“Walk,” Roman said, his voice little more than a whisper. “And if you make a sound I’ll blow your brains all over this hallway.”
Serge sauntered toward the cooler. He reached for the handle and then he swung out. Roman dodged back, but not far enough and the blow hit the gun’s barrel, knocking it from Roman’s grasp. The gun skittered down the hall, stopping next to where Madelyn huddled by the door. Roman wanted to tell her to run, but he could hear Oleg’s voice behind his closed office door, which meant that Oleg would be able to hear into the hallway, as well.
Serge bolted forward. Roman held out his arm, catching the other man midchest with a clothesline and knocking him back. Roman pounced before Serge had a chance to rise. He drove his fist down again and again. Roman’s arms ached, a stitch in his side burned and throbbed. His sweat-damp shirt clung to his torso like a second, gritty skin.
Nikolai’s nephew held up his arms to block the blows. His hands and wrists took more punishment than his face. Serge brought up his legs, hooking them over Roman’s shoulders. Shifting his weight, the thug knocked Roman onto his back. Then Serge crawled to stand and Roman grabbed him by the foot. He came down hard and Roman pressed down on his back. As Serge began to scream, Roman clamped his hand on the other man’s mouth and nose. His arms swung out wildly with ineffectual punches. His hits slowed and then stopped altogether.
The body went limp. There was no breath. Roman felt for a pulse that he knew he’d never find.
“Damn it,” he cursed.
In the silent hallway, he heard Madelyn’s stifled sobs and Oleg’s voice from behind the door. “Konechon, Otets, ya ozhidal uvidet’ vas poslezavtra.” Of course, Father, I will see you here tomorrow.
Otets. Father. Sire. It was a code name often used with Nikolai Mateev. Was the head of the Russian Mafia coming to Boulder? It was the information that Roman had been waiting five months to gather. He needed to contact the team from Rocky Mountain Justice right away, but first he had to hide Serge’s body.
He grabbed all of Serge’s personal effects and dropped everything, except for the keys to The Prow, on the dead man’s chest. Roman opened the cooler door and then dragged the body inside. He locked both locks and returned to Madelyn.
“Is he...?” She hiccupped as tears ran down her face. “Is he dead?”
Neither of them had time to mourn. “It was him or us,” he said as he entered the back door’s code. The lock disengaged with a click and Roman pushed the door open. He peered outside and saw nothing more than a set of metal stairs ascending to the alley and the backside of a Dumpster.
He opened the door further and reached for Madelyn’s hand. They’d done it. They’d escaped. But then from behind came an all-too-familiar voice. “Black!”
Oleg stood in the corridor. “Anton,” he screamed. “Serge! After them.”
Anton rushed out of the office.
“Get the car,” Oleg said. “Chase them down.”
Roman didn’t wait to see if Anton followed the orders. He pushed Madelyn into the night and pulled the door shut. Gripping Madelyn’s hand again, he sprinted up the stairs. His feet hit the pavement as a large raindrop fell on his forehead and the back door to The Prow burst open.
He held tight to Madelyn and willed his legs to move faster. The stitch in his side had returned, turning every breath into a fiery torture. He fixed his gaze on the intersecting street and ran faster still. Rain fell, wetting his skin and blurring his vision.
“My car’s two blocks up and one over,” Madelyn said, her voice breathless with exertion.
He liked that she was thinking. All they needed to do was outrun Oleg and Anton for three blocks. Or better yet, lose them. Roman pushed on. The end of the alley grew larger with each step. He ran through the intersection. On the other side, he kept close to the buildings and let the shadows hide his movements.
Still running, he began to scan the alleyway. The recessed doorway ahead was deep enough to surround them in complete darkness. Rudimentary, sure. But simple plans were often the best.
He ducked in and drew Madelyn in behind him. Together, they huddled in a corner. Her chest rose and fell with each labored breath. Her heartbeat resonated within his flesh. Maybe it was all those months of undercover work, but he was getting a little too used to holding her.
In the darkened alleyway, her skin took on a luminescent quality. Her lips turned a deep shade of burgundy, like a sultry and smoky wine. Her nose was small and straight and the hollow on her neck looked as if it had been meant to be kissed—by him. Next to her, Roman felt too large and at the same time, protective. It was because he blamed himself for getting her involved with Oleg.
Oleg. His footfalls echoed off the buildings while he ran past. The sound died away as he continued to run.
“Is he gone?” Madelyn whispered.
Roman held one finger to his lips. He peered down the alley, Oleg’s retreating silhouette was nothing more than mist in the increasing rain.
“He’s gone,” Roman said. “Let’s get out of here. It won’t take long for him to figure out that we’ve given him the slip.”
Together, they ran to Madelyn’s car. The pace was slower, but still Roman ached. One block up and one block over, but to Roman it felt like miles.
“What is that thing? It looks like a toy.”
“That,” said Madelyn, “is my car.”
“That thing?” The powder blue auto came up to his chest. He’d never fit inside, or at least he’d never be comfortable. “Does it have a motor?”
Madelyn opened the driver’s side door. “If you want a ride, get in.”
For Roman, many things had gone wrong over the last few hours. But having to fold himself into some kind of origami figure just to ride in this car might actually be the worst part.
* * *
Putting the gearshift into Drive, Madelyn pulled on to the deserted street. The road