Ekaterina (11 page)

Vadick swallowed a lump of horror, not wishing for any of his father’s words to be realized. Desperate to change the subject, he looked at Mama. “The note? Please, read it. Say, yes, please!”

Mama smiled, tiny wrinkles lining up and curling around her blue eyes. She dug the note out of the pocket of her apron and opened it.

The color drained from her face. “No. Oh, no.” Her brow furrowed and a troubled gaze settled on Vasha.

Something inside him tore open, bringing a wave of pain.

“What is it?” Papa took the note and read it. “They want Vadick to join the Pioneers.”

Dread cinched Vadick’s chest. “Please?” he asked feebly, bewildered at their ghastly expressions.

“Oh, Lord, please help us.”

-

“Lord, please, help us!”

Vadeem spiraled away from the echo of the past, into the moaning of a voice, this time in English. “Please, don’t let him die.”

“I’m not dead.” He heard his voice. It thundered inside his head. Forcing his eyes open, he found himself swallowed whole by Kat’s horrified gaze. Her worried expression went straight to his soul. Then her face spun at retching angles. He clenched his eyes shut. “Give me a minute here. My head feels like it’s scattered all over the street.”

She answered only in sobs.

Slowly he became aware of her. . .holding him. Her hand clutched the back of his head, probably to keep his gray matter from draining completely onto the sidewalk. Her other hand, she rested on his chest, over his heart. It radiated warmth through his muscles down to his toes. Her hair spilled onto his face, and her perfume—it spiraled to the urge inside which had him longing for sweet oblivion, and yanked him back to the living.

Except, he was in her arms—did he have to wake up?

She hiccupped a sob, then begged, “Please.”

Perhaps it was the pleading in her voice. Or the way she held him, her hands warm against his throbbing pain. Or maybe it was simply that she was still here when she could have sprinted into the night.

She wasn’t in cahoots with General Grazovich. For some insane reason, he wanted to break out into tears.

He opened his eyes. “I’m okay.”

Her concerned expression left him breathless. When was the last time he’d seen a look like that. . .for him? “What happened?”

Her face crumpled.

He sat up, aware of the world spinning, feeling like he’d left a part of his skull behind on the pavement. He braced his hand on the ground and cupped her chin, suddenly panicked. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

He blinked, sorting through the final moments. They’d been walking, his head exploded. . .“Did you get a look at who did this?”

She shook her head. “He hit you, and then. . .and then. . .” She looked away, her chin trembling. For the first time he saw the angry red line around her neck, a rip in the sleeve of her blouse.

He felt sick, as if he was going to empty his stomach right there on the street, right beside his brains. He scanned her quickly, terrified at what he might find. Her hair was a tousled rat’s nest, her eyes swollen. A vicious red scrape ran down her chin. He went cold when he glanced down and saw her blouse lacked two buttons.
Oh no, please, no
.

“Do we need to take you to a doctor?” he asked in a voice that betrayed his darkest fears.

She shook her head. Her entire body trembled. Bewildered, Vadeem did the only thing he could think of. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest. She sank against him willingly, clutching his leather jacket, digging her fingers right thought it to his soul. Her wretched sobs peeled away his heart in jagged chunks until he, too, wanted to weep. He smoothed her hair, feeling completely undone.

What had happened while he lay sprawled on the sidewalk like a side of meat?

“I need to get you to headquarters. Figure out what is going on, tuck you away someplace safe. Did they get your bag?”

She shook her head, but didn’t pull away.

Wow. Yes, he could sit here on the sidewalk, the cold digging into his backside, his head screaming, her hands clinging to him like he was her lifeline, all night if he had to. He could stay here for a year. He tightened his grip and pressed his cheek against her head. “Shh,” he soothed.

It took a moment for him to realize she was speaking. He felt movement against the hollow of his neck, felt her lips moving. For a wild moment thought she might be. . .no, she was speaking, mumbling. He pulled away, and cupped her face in his hands. She met his eyes with the most desolate expression.

Her words stabbed his soul.

“He took my key.”

Chapter 8

Kat curled her hands around the warm cup of cocoa, inhaling the aroma, profoundly grateful for something to focus on while the Twilight Zone shifted around her. She could now describe the layout and general procedures of the FSB stations in two different towns in Russia, as well as the one inside Sheremetova airport. She should write her own chapter, and send it in to
Lonely Planet Travel Guide
, “how to conduct yourself in an FSB interrogation.”

It helped that Vadeem hadn’t left her alone. Not once. Not during the ride over, not for the last hour, as an FSB doctor gave her a cursory exam, not even when a parade of agents filtered through the office she supposed was Vadeem’s, eyeing her as if she were a stolen icon.

If Kat harbored any doubts about Vadeem’s connections or abilities as he lay bleeding on the sidewalk while a goliath thug wrestled the key off her neck, they were obliterated when Vadeem called one of his FSB chums on his cell phone, and within moments, an unmarked black sedan screamed up to the curb. She conjured up a plethora of Cold War era images as the car whisked her through Moscow towards the infamous Lubyanka Square and KGB Headquarters.

Because, she realized that’s exactly what organization Captain Vadeem Spasonov was with. New initials didn’t hide old identities. FSB—the acronym spelled out meant Federalnaya Slyuzhba Bez-Opostnosti—Federal Safety Service. It wasn’t a gargantuan leap from the old, traditional moniker, KGB, Kommunisticki Gosyudarstvani Bez-Opostnosti—The Safety of the Communist Government. And, even though Captain Spasonov had ceased his menacing posture, well, that is if she ignored the fury that crossed his face moments after she’d revealed the thug’s crime, his boys in the brotherhood definitely had KGB aura. Take the skinny agent, with the crew cut coal-black hair and darting hazel eyes. He scurried in like a beetle in answer to Vadeem’s barked commands and scrutinized Kat like she was a prime cut of beef bleeding secrets all over their floor. She had no doubt he was the type to turn on the bright lights and wear a tread around an unlucky suspect.

As if in contrast, the one who now huddled with Spasonov in the corner of the sparse office looked like a DC Comics villain, all stubby hair and etched glower, muscles that had to be chiseled from pumped iron, a stance that screamed, “Make my day.” Even his gun, tucked in his arm holster, seemed a toy under his timber-sized arms, now clamped over his massive chest. He would produce equally effective results, maybe better, by using those burly hands digging into his biceps to take down a suspect.

They were a cookie-cut bunch, she thought, comparing the hulk to the FSB agent who’d freed her from Vadeem’s custody only yesterday morning.

A situation she couldn’t seem to shake.

Kat shivered and took a sip of the hot cocoa Vadeem had managed to conjure up. It was just barely keeping her composure glued.

Night blackened the windows, but the overhead light glared down on two metal desks that had been shoved into opposite corners of the shoebox-size office. A coat tree divided the room, and beside it, a wooden straight-back chair mirrored the one in which she now sat. Her backside ached, and fatigue pushed against her eyes like weights. She shivered, feeling cold, raw and hollow, tasting despair as it rose in her clinching chest.

The key was gone.

She had a multitude of reasons to be grateful she’d only earned a scrape on her chin, but that didn’t stop frustration from burning her eyes. She swiped at her tears, determined not to dissolve into a fresh mass of blubbering, although the now somewhat-common act of unloading her sorrows into Vadeem’s capable chest, sheltered inside his protective arms, battled her feeble stoicism. The last thing she needed, was to encourage his mission to pack her up and send her home. Thankfully, he’d abandoned that crusade in favor of justice and retribution.

Poor Vadeem. He looked like he’d been run over by a truck. He held an ice pack to his head while he talked, obviously not heeding the advice of the resident medic to run down to the hospital and get a CAT scan. Kat stared at her hands, still stained with his blood, dried now and cracking in the creases of her palm. She’d have to toss her formerly white blouse and her khakis—well, maybe she could use them for paint pants. She gulped a breath as she teetered on the edge of shattering. She’d made the mistake of checking out her appearance in the pocket mirror of her backpack, and now tried not to conjure up the sight of the face that had stared back, chunks of mascara clinging to her eyelashes, eyes streaked red, a bruise circling an ugly scrape across her jaw. She wasn’t sure how she’d added that last feature. Probably when her attacker shoved her up against the building, face first. She could still feel his grip crunching her neck muscles, the icy scrap of his ring finger chafing her skin. The memory of the thief’s hot breath on her neck as he growled in her ear sent a prickle down her spine.

She’d never forget the man’s voice. Never. Low and animal-like, in control and purposely driving fear through her body. If it weren’t for her desperation, she would have collapsed. But the brute wanted her key, and that knowledge kept her upright. Tensed. Furious. The key had brought her to Russia and tangled her into this mess, but it also unlocked answers, and perhaps peace.

He would take it off her over her dead body.

No wonder she was sore. Her hand went to her neck, felt the raw burn from where the thug yanked on it, again and again, hoping it would snap.

New shoelaces don’t snap. It had to go over her head. He’d nearly ripped off her ears, had surely taken a chunk of her hair in his fist with it.

And still, she’d lit out after him as if she was Wonder Woman, completely abandoning her common sense, along with the man who had saved her life only twenty-four hours earlier.

Thankfully, she’d stumbled to a halt, guilt hitting her like a fist, in time to run back and pull Vadeem into her lap. She was mortified to think she nearly deserted him on the sidewalk.

As if he knew her secret, Vadeem suddenly turned and looked over at her.

The look in his blue eyes said everything his unfaltering presence confirmed. Guilt. The guy was beating himself up for being comatose while some mugger roughed her up. The FSB captain had left a huge swatch of pride on the sidewalk.

To seal her suspicions, Vadeem stepped over, peeled off his leather jacket, and draped it over her shoulders. He squatted before her, his hand on her knee. “Ryslan is going to put out a search for the thief. We’ll find your key.” He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear, all the time drawing her in with those compelling blue eyes that played havoc with her focus. “I’m sorry this happened.”

So was she. But more than that, she wanted to know why. What was God up to? Had He completely forgotten that she existed? Forsaken her to tromp about Russia on her own?

No, not on her own. With the Russian KGB. There was a particular irony in that. She let a small smile tug at her mouth. “Vadeem, I have to believe God was watching out for us. I’m okay. But, I think you should get you head looked at.”

He ran a finger lightly over her bruise. “I’m sorry you got hurt.” His voice was tender, his touch gentle. And that guilty look speared right to her heart and made her want to weep.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered.

She saw it again, the flicker of longing in his eyes. In a terrifying, wonderful, exhilarating instant, she remembered herself in his arms, felt his hands in her hair. She again smelled leather, strength, and masculinity, a byproduct of having her nose buried in his chest. Then her mouth turned dry, recalling the horrified look in his eyes when he ran his gaze over her, wondering how terribly she’d been hurt.

She chewed her bottom lip, struggling for words, anything to run from that incredibly delicious memory before he, too, saw longing in her expression. “When you say we’ll find my key. . .does that mean I’m staying in Russia?”

His gaze clouded, and he looked away from her. She felt as if he’d ripped out her heart.

“No?” Her voice quivered.

“I have to do my job. I can’t do that and protect you at the same time.” He glanced at Ryslan the comic book villain, obviously his partner in crime, who was seated at a black metal desk shoved up against the wall. Ryslan turned away, as if not wanting to be a part of this conversation.

Something ugly, along the lines of sarcasm, or argument, pushed into her throat, tasting bitter. He sounded just like Matthew.
Don’t get in over your head, Honey. Make sure you’re home early, Sweetheart. You don’t want to go to Russia, you’ll just get into trouble, Darling.
Protective. . .no, bossy. Dictatorial. Bullying.