Authors: Susan May Warren
“Wait, you lost me at uranium—as in
radioactive
uranium? The stuff used in nuclear bombs?”
“The very same. And someone has been selling it to terrorists outside of Russia.” He took off his hat, wiped his brow with it. Obviously, he wasn’t real thrilled to be ten meters away from the stuff, either.
“The thing is, this uranium isn’t supposed to be here. If indeed it is uranium. It might just be the containers.”
He moved toward the door and she grabbed his arm.
“Have you lost it completely? You can’t go in there! Not without protective gear and—”
“Relax, Doc—it’s only radioactive if ingested.”
“Oh, that makes me feel so very much better. Radioactive means
radioactive
in my book, Roman. Please, let’s get out of here. I—”
He clamped his hand over her mouth and pulled her tight against him. Very tight, and protective-like. She could hear his heart pounding as they stood in the darkness.
Footsteps. Outside in the hall.
Please, please, keep going.
But, no. They stopped.
And that’s when she felt Roman reach for his gun.
She just knew he was going to get killed one day and she’d be around to see it…or worse, get killed right along side him.
Why did she always have to be right?
“P
lease, Sarai, just don’t move.” He placed his mouth very close to her ear, and his lips brushed her neck as he spoke. He felt her tremble, but she said nothing, just turned and dug her grip into the lapels of his jacket and pulled him closer.
He’d wanted her in his arms, but this wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind—especially with potentially radioactive material behind door number one, and a Bad Guy behind door number two.
He put his arm around her, positioning her behind him as he heard the handle click. She seemed to read his thoughts, for she put her head down, right into his spine.
He gripped his service pistol with both hands as the door swung open. Thankfully, he had all seventeen rounds in it.
Milky hall light cut through the darkness, a second before a guard appeared.
No, a
thug.
An out-of-place thug with the demeanor of a mafioso in his leather coat, his high and tight crew, the look of suspicion on his face, and especially the .40-caliber Varjag pistol he aimed at Roman.
Briefly aimed. Because Roman kicked the gun out of his hands and followed with a cuff across the jaw.
Mafia hit his knees.
“Roman!” Sarai rushed out.
He caught her. “Stay back.”
The moment cost him. Mafia had palmed his two-way.
“Pomagee!”
Roman snatched it away from him, cutting off his call for help, and threw it against the wall. “Put your face on the floor, hands behind your head.”
The man obeyed. “This is a government facility. You’re trespassing.”
Roman put his foot on the man’s neck. “I’m FSB. Tell me, how many guards on duty?”
Mafia goon stayed silent.
Roman pressed down. “See, you don’t look government.
I
look government—hungry, cold and just a bit desperate.” He touched his gun to the man’s head. “All I want is information.”
“Roman.” Sarai’s voice held just enough shock to make him pause. “Please, let’s just get out of here.”
He shouldn’t have brought her along. He relaxed his posture. “Listen, all I want to know is the lot number on the containers there.”
Mafia stayed silent. Roman glanced at Sarai and shook his head.
Footsteps thundered down the hall. Sarai yanked his arm. “Roman!”
Now he really wanted to shoot someone—namely himself for putting her in danger. Alone, he’d have no problem sticking around and shaking the truth out of these punks. Instead, he grabbed her hand.
It was cold and small in his.
Poking his head out of the door, he saw two uniforms heading his direction. “Keep up!” he said as he bolted out the door.
“Perestan!”
He ignored the command to stop and pulled Sarai down the hall. They rounded the corner as two shots chipped off the concrete wall behind them.
Shooting? In a nuclear facility?
He stopped, waved Sarai on. “Run!”
She didn’t hesitate, which he attributed to her fear rather than obedience.
As the first guard rounded the corner, Roman squeezed off a shot just over his head just to put a hiccup of fear into their hot pursuit. The man backpedaled, bumping into the second and Roman turned and sprinted down the hall.
The fewer shots fired, the better.
Sarai had already reached the back door and barreled through.
He followed her just as an alarm sounded. It deafened him and echoed out into the cold.
Sarai fought with the snow, her steps heavy and slow. Roman charged past her and scrambled up the fence, leaning over the top to grab her hand.
She took it, and he hauled her over just as a contingency of guards burst from the door.
Roman pulled her down into the snow and tucked her under him as shots whizzed over their heads.
“Why are they shooting at us?” Sarai said, her voice muffled and very high.
“That’s a good question.” Roman pivoted and returned fire.
The guards scattered. He hauled up Sarai by her armpits and half pulled, half pushed her toward the trees, shooting on the run.
As Sarai collapsed by a tree, breathing hard, Roman ducked behind the snowmobile and yanked at the cord.
Nothing.
Sarai gave him a wide-eyed look. “Start it!”
What did she think he was trying to do?
He pulled again. It sputtered, died.
And then, over the siren, he heard an engine roar. Sarai looked past him in horror.
“Company?” he asked as he grabbed at the cord. Please,
please.
“Hurry, Roman!”
She stood, ran behind him, as if to help. Another gunshot drove her to her knees. “They have snowmobiles!”
Of course they did, probably nice ones. Definitely a mafia operation. Because, according to his last intel, nuclear plants in Russia weren’t privately owned.
Then again, nowadays “private” meant adopted by a former Communist.
He felt Sarai grab the arms of his jacket in a death grip as he gave the cord another yank. He added juice and the machine spluttered and caught. Thank you.
“Yes!” Sarai leaped on the snowmobile. “Hurry!”
No, he thought he’d check the oil first. Roman climbed on and they roared off, him still standing.
He ducked as they jagged through trees.
“Roman, there’s two of them. And they’re gaining!”
He sat down and dug his feet into the floorboards. “Hang on!”
She didn’t need the encouragement. She’d turned into a little backpack of terror, such was her grip on him. She ducked her head into his spine. “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.”
It was about time.
He gunned the engine, flew around trees, through the tangle of brush. His heart lodged in his throat when he clipped a tree and nearly dumped them as he leaned into a turn. Sarai stayed glued to him.
Compared to the sleek machines of his pursuers, his snowmobile was a tank. He plowed through ice-caked drifts and heard their engines dying as he tunneled farther into the forest. He tightened his grip on the gas. The snow machine gave a little hiccup, revved into high and burst into a pristine indentation of virgin white. Was this a lake?
He angled toward it, tasting his successful getaway. Behind them, on the other side and through more trees, he
could barely make out the tall smokestacks. The alarm still sounded, a muffle of panic behind the forest. The mafia boys’ boss would be hearing about the break-in right about now.
If only Roman had gotten the lot number on the Uranium casings. But, at least he and Sarai were safe.
For now. But if Malenkov wasn’t mad at him before…
He felt her hold loosen, and she lifted her head. “Are they gone?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. We’re going across this lake and into that forest. We’ll lose them for sure on the other side.”
He glanced back at her, and his throat constricted at her expression of fear, and the tears ringing her eyes. “Sorry, Sar. I didn’t think it would go down like that.”
“Well, what did you think would happen when you sneak into a government facility with a gun? That everyone would sit around and eat cake?”
He smiled. “I would have never let them hurt you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “See, this is why you scare me. Because you don’t care if you get killed.”
His smile vanished. Didn’t care? Is that what she thought? Sorry, but he had a lot of living left to do, thanks. He wasn’t a martyr.
He left that kind of idealism for Sarai.
Sarai felt just one second shy of breaking into hysterical laughter or maybe crying. Her nerves buzzed just below the surface and nothing short of a hacksaw could break her death clamp around Roman’s waist. But, beneath the fear,
the shock, even the adrenaline, she felt the tiniest tinge of amazement.
He’d broken them into a nuclear reactor and raced out, guns blazing, hauling her up and over the fence like a rag doll. She’d have to be made of concrete and steel not to be aware of his strength, his cool head, the way he put himself between her and bullets.
Bullets!
She began to tremble as they drove down the embankment toward the lake.
Calm down, Sarai, you’re fine.
Fine? She was
not
fine. If she wasn’t going to get her visa revoked before, Roman had just made it a thousand percent certainty.
Hopefully, that wasn’t a part of some diabolical plan, and merely a byproduct of being in his personal space.
Along with the feeling of his protection. Starting with the tickle of his lips on her throat as he whispered to her in the facility, right before the heavy drama.
He scared her, he intrigued her, he made her furious…yet he also reached out to the scared woman inside and made her feel safe. Even with bullets whizzing past her head.
Go figure.
They sped out onto the ice, and she lifted her head and surveyed the landscape. On the other side of the lake, a pink-painted conrete house parted the trees. Two stories of grandeur, it looked like it may have been built for a Party official, probably the one who ran the nuclear facility. Now it stared dark and forlorn under the burden of snow.
Sarai looked behind them. Nothing but snow and forest
and gray sky. Relief ran through her like melted butter. Maybe they’d escaped.
See, she was starting to think like a criminal. She shook her head, easing her grip on Roman. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“What?”
“Broke the law!”
“I didn’t break the law…I just dodged it.”
For crying out loud.
“I can’t believe you, Roman. I’m around you for five minutes, and suddenly I’m in a Jackie Chan movie only with bullets. You’re a magnet for disaster. Or is that special treatment just for me? What were you looking for, anyway?”
“Uranium.”
“Then you should consider this mission a success. Or would you be happier if we were both deep crispified in there?”
“What I want to know is who was shooting at us.” Roman slowed the machine. “Regular army would have had AK-47s. These guys had top-of-the-line Izmekh Varjag pistols…and the look of hired—”
A crack, like the sound of branches breaking, cut off his words.
He slowed the machine to a crawl.
More cracking, like the litter of applause and Sarai’s heart blocked her throat. Ice. Cracking!
Roman must have read her mind. He gunned the snowmobile to the background noise of shattering ice.
“Faster!”
Roman leaned into the snowmobile, as if somehow making himself smaller might make him…lighter?
She looked back and her heart left her.
Ice opened in their wake, and only their forward momentum kept them above water.
“Faster!”
The cracking circled around them. Sarai watched in horror as a plate broke off in front of them, and the snowmobile nosed up. The back end slid toward the water.
“Jump!”
Adrenaline launched Sarai off the back, and she aimed for solid ice. Two steps and a leap.
Her body landed on the edge, her hands scrambling for purchase as her legs dunked into the cold water. A thousand shards of pain knifed into her legs at the contact. She screamed, kicked her legs. The panic propelled her onto the ice like a walrus.
She rolled over, scooting back to safety.
Roman!
She saw him behind the handlebars, his jaw set as he fought to get free from the press of the windshield. “Roman!”
The snow machine sunk deeper, only its skids above the surface. Roman clawed his way over the windshield, and his head cleared the water.
“Sar—”
The snowmobile bobbed, then slid into the blackness. And, as if tethered by a hook, Roman went with it.
Governor Bednov hung up the telephone. Sitting back in his leather chair, he steepled his fingers. The sun
streamed into his office, and he heard the ticking of the clock behind him.
The hotshot FSB agent in Khabarovsk had come to Irkutsk. He’d most likely found Riddle’s uranium shipment, although he couched it in terms of hunting for clues about the dead American. According to Bednov’s FSB contacts, the agent had headed straight for Smolsk.
Bednov saw coincidence there—what was this FSB agent’s connection to the American doctor?
He dialed Fyodor’s cell phone. “Where are you?” He needed a drink. The image of Julia, her mouth swollen, passed out on the sofa again today made his stomach churn. She was starting to feel like a liability.
“I’m in Khanda. She was here last night. Left before the storm. But we waited in Smolsk all night and had her flat and her clinic under surveillance. She hasn’t returned.”
Bednov frowned and rubbed his finger and thumb into his eyes, seeing flashes of light. “Could she have left the country?” Not preferable, but he still might be able to track her down outside his borders.
Then again, without proof, what could she do? He’d simply make sure she never set foot in Russia, at least Irkutia, again.
Was she somehow connected to the FSB agent? Only, how? And if they were together and got out of Irkutia, they could do serious damage to his long term goals. “The Khabarovsk FSB has a loose cannon. He’s in Smolsk, looking for clues to Riddle’s death. He may even be with the American. If you run into him, you know what to do.”
Silence on the end of the line told him Fyodor’s reaction.
“Did you hear me?”
“Kill him?” Fyodor’s voice edged on defiant.
“What do you think? Yes. Kill him.”
“But he’s an FSB agent. I could—”
“I’ll protect you. I’ll list him as a rogue agent, an enemy of the state. If you kill him, it will be in the line of duty.”
Silence. “Yes, Governor.” Fyodor clicked off and Bednov rested the receiver back in the cradle.