Of course he didn’t. Sam frowned, thinking. Outside, the streets were deserted. Most people would stay home on a day like today—no point in going out and getting stuck in the snow. “Who knows he lives here?”
“Just me and Mama.”
He looked at her sharply. “But you’ve been coming up here for two years.”
She looked stubborn. “I’ve told no one. Our last name isn’t the same as his, and anyway he changed his name.”
“He should’ve left you and your mother and never made contact again.”
Her eyes widened, outraged, but Sam hadn’t the time for her sensibilities. George Whatever-His-Real-Name-Was was a fool. Simply staying in touch with May and her mother put them all at risk.
Letting May visit him here in Coot Lake was an act of suicide.
“So Kasyanov might be a Russian hit man,” he said.
Her head jerked up, her eyes widening. “He didn’t seem like—”
He looked at her. “A good hit man wouldn’t.”
All the color drained from her face. “Oh, God, Dyadya.”
“Was he at all nervous yesterday?”
She broke eye contact with him. “No. Well, maybe a little.”
His own eyes narrowed. “May, now isn’t the time to keep secrets from me.”
She pursed her lips and glared at him. “I’m telling the truth. He’d made borscht like he does for company…” Her voice trailed away.
“May?”
“He was expecting him,” she whispered. “I thought the borscht was for me, but he was surprised when he opened the door and saw me. He’d forgotten I was coming.”
Sam sighed, took off his hat, ran his hand through his hair and resettled the hat. “Okay. He must know Kasyanov, then, right?”
“I…” She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
He watched her a moment more, wishing he could trust her to tell him everything. That was the problem, though, wasn’t it? May didn’t trust him. She wouldn’t open herself fully to him, wouldn’t let him in to find out who she was. To let him help her.
And it might get her or her uncle killed.
Sam made up his mind. “Let’s go find your uncle.”
He pushed opened the truck door and got out.
He rounded the hood to find her hesitating at the passenger-side door. “What about Otter?”
He shrugged. “He’s fine in the truck.”
“Won’t he get cold?”
“He’s got fur.” He took her elbow, sharp and delicate even through the padding of her shiny black down jacket. “Come on. Let’s see if George just went to breakfast.”
It was beginning to look less and less like Old George’s disappearance was that simple, but they might as well start with the easiest explanation and work out from there. George’s battered blue Ford pickup wasn’t parked out front, but there was always the possibility he’d parked somewhere inconspicuous.
Sam glanced at May. Her head was down-bent as she watched her footing on the narrow, cleared path to the café’s front door. He could see only the black cap of her hair. She liked holding all her secrets close to her vest, but she was going to have to reveal them to him if George was in trouble. If she was in danger.
And he might not have the time for patience.
He opened the door for her, the little bell jingling overhead. Haley Anne was sweeping the floor while Jim Gustafson nursed a cup of coffee in the corner. Jim was the only customer. He sat with his year-round John Deere bill cap pulled low over thin hair in need of a cut. Jim was a bachelor farmer, mostly retired now, with the vaguely neglected air of a man without a woman at home to tell him when he needed grooming.
Sam nodded at the man as they walked to Haley Anne.
“Want a table, Sam?” the waitress asked, setting aside her broom. She eyed May.
“That’s all right, Haley Anne,” Sam said easily. “We were just wondering if you’d seen George this morning.”
“Sure.” Haley Anne looked back at her broom as if debating whether to work or talk. Gossip won out. “He was in with a round little guy, kind of squirrelly. They ate breakfast together.”
Ilya Kasyanov. It had to be. Sam glanced at May, but if she was surprised her uncle had had breakfast with the other Russian, she hid it.
He turned back to Haley Anne, now poking hopefully at the tip jar near the cash register. “When did George leave?”
Haley Anne gave up on the nearly empty tip jar and frowned. “Uh… like, half an hour ago? Maybe more?” She shook her head. “The café cleared out at about the same time. I didn’t really notice.”
“Twenty minutes,” came a voice made raspy from disuse.
Sam looked at Jim. “You sure, Jim?”
The farmer nodded at the big front window in front of him. “They left a bit before those black SUVs went through town, and that was fifteen minutes back. Says so on the First Bank clock right there.”
Sam swiveled. The old First Bank clock was kitty-corner across the street, directly in Jim’s line of sight.
Then a thought struck. He swung back at Jim. “What SUVs?”
Jim looked at him. “Three of ’em, ’zactly alike, one after the other. Going through town.”
“Kind of weird, huh?” Haley Anne piped up. “I mean, the roads are pretty bad. Haven’t had anyone but locals in this morning—’cept for the squirrelly guy. Oh, and a friend of Molly Jasper’s, but he left with Molly and Karl. Black SUVs sound like something out of a movie.”
“Government spies,” Jim said darkly.
Or Russian mafiya.
May was obviously way ahead of him. Her face was white and she was already heading to the door.
“And the weirdest thing?” Jim said behind them. “They were headed south.”
South was away from the interstate. Sam pivoted and strode after Maisa. Not much was south of town.
Except the Coot Lake Inn and Ilya Kasyanov.
Chapter Sixteen
Five minutes later Sam accelerated onto the frontage road that led to the Coot Lake Inn, his tires churning through deep snow. The clouds had opened up again, the predicted second snowfall already starting. Pretty soon the roads were going to be impassible. That meant any backup he might need would be slow to arrive.
Assuming it arrived at all.
He reached over and flipped open the glove compartment, taking out his police radio and keying the mike one-handed.
Nothing.
Sam tried a couple of frequencies before giving up and shoving the radio back into the glove compartment.
He took out his cell phone and tossed it on May’s lap beside Otter. “Call the police station. Tell Doc we might have a situation.”
He switched on the wipers, watching grimly as they merely smeared the snow around the windshield. The snow was thawing and then immediately freezing to the glass, creating an opaque film nearly impossible to see through.
Beside him, May lowered his phone and stared at it.
“May?” He didn’t take his eyes from the road. “What’s going on?”
“You don’t have a signal.” She was already rummaging in the pockets of her black coat. She took out her phone and fiddled with it a moment before looking up. “I don’t, either. Both phones are out.”
Well, shit.
There was a blue lump in the snow on the right side of the highway. A pickup, facing them. Someone had skidded all the way across the highway and into the bank.
As they passed he saw that the front windshield was completely gone.
“That’s Dyadya’s truck!” May swiveled to look back just as he had the same realization.
Sam braked hard, then put the Silverado into reverse. He threw an arm across May’s seat back and stomped on the accelerator, reversing fast until they were parallel to the wreck.
Someone was struggling out of the passenger-side door. The driver’s side was embedded in the snow bank.
There were bullet holes in the grill of the truck.
Sam
glanced up and down the frontage road. Empty. He reached for the Beretta under his front seat. “Stay here.”
But May had already shoved Otter onto the floor and was out the other door.
“Damn it, May.” It made his nerves crackle, her out in the open. Sam held the Beretta nose down by his thigh as he got out.
“You must help us!” Ilya was scrambling from the wreck, his eyes wild, glass shards in his hair.
“Where’s my uncle?” May demanded, fierce and low.
“I am here, Masha, mine.” George appeared at the passenger-side door, bright red blood trailing down the right side of his face.
Sam slogged through the snow to him and took George’s arm with his free hand. The blood appeared to be from a small cut at George’s hairline. “You okay?”
“Yes, yes.”
Sam steadied him as George maneuvered down the bank. “What happened?”
George glanced at the Beretta and then gave him a heavy-lidded look. Sam knew immediately he wasn’t going to hear the whole truth—or maybe even any of it. “We have run into old friends. We had a… disagreement.”
Sam looked up in time to see a black SUV rounding the curve a half mile away. It roared as the driver accelerated.
Not good.
“They have automatic weapons!” Ilya babbled, wading through the snow to Sam’s pickup. “We must go! He’s insane, this is well known.”
“Who’s insane?” Sam demanded as he hustled the two men to his truck. “In the truck, May.”
Neither man replied, although Ilya whimpered.
Down the road the SUV skidded and rammed into the packed snow by the side of the highway. The engine suddenly stilled.
“We need the suitcases,” George said, as Sam pushed him into the back of the Silverado.
“No time,” Sam muttered, eyeing the stalled SUV. He needed to get May out of here.
But George stopped dead in his tracks. “The suitcases.” He jerked his chin at Ilya who, even in his panicked state, turned and hustled back to the old man’s truck.
Sam stared at George. “What’s in those suitcases that’s worth more than your life—and May’s?”
A gleam of amusement lit in the older man’s eyes. “Nothing is worth more than my Masha’s life, Officer West, I assure you. But if one wants to bargain with the Devil, it is best to sit down at his table with his favorite vodka.”
Sam watched as Ilya struggled with the two black suitcases. What was in them? What was the “vodka”?
And who the hell was the Devil?
Down the road, the SUV revved its engine.
Well, fuck.
Sam pushed George into the back of his truck. Ilya came panting up with the suitcases. Sam grabbed the suitcases and tossed them in the Silverado. “Get in.”
His pickup was facing the SUV, which was spinning its wheels. Sam climbed in the truck, sticking the Beretta securely between his legs before putting the Silverado into drive and making a U-turn.
He stomped the accelerator, peeling out.
Or trying to.
The snow was flying nearly horizontally now, hitting the windshield and crusting. Even with the wind it was accumulating. The truck bumped over something, skidded, and for a god-awful moment looked like it would go directly into the ditch. Adrenaline spiked along his veins, sharp and acid. Then the wheels caught and Sam began feeding the accelerator more cautiously. He heard a shot and looked in the rearview mirror.
The black SUV was climbing his ass.
He swerved into the oncoming left lane and tapped the brake, letting the SUV shoot past before accelerating again.
“What’re you doing?” May demanded, hanging on to the grip over her door. Her face was chalk white. On the floorboards near her feet, Otter crouched, panting heavily.
He didn’t bother replying. Just steadily applied the gas, his grip firm on the wheel. Ahead, the SUV’s driver had gotten angry. The driver slammed on the brakes, fishtailing before straightening. Sam pulled up beside him, still in the left lane, and immediately tapped the brake.
Just as the SUV made a violent swerve into them. The Silverado was a fraction too slow. The back bumper of the SUV clipped his right front headlight.
Sam swerved. Corrected. Steadied. Kept on the road.
The SUV wasn’t so fortunate. It went into a spin, skidding 180 degrees around until it was actually facing them.
Still sliding backward down the road.
The driver’s eyes were wide through his windshield, his grip on the steering wheel straight-armed and clenched.
Sam showed his teeth at the asshole and picked up May’s left hand, placing it on the steering wheel. “Take the wheel, sweetheart.”
“What—?”
He took his gun, rolled down the window, and leaned out. The wind bit into his cheeks, snapped against his eyes.
“Sam!”
The Silverado jerked to the right.
Sam grabbed the door. “Keep her steady, May. It’s important.” He inhaled, and re-aimed, squinting against the icy snow.
Gripping the Beretta with both hands he emptied the clip into the front of the black SUV.
Immediately, he ducked back inside, grabbed the wheel from May, and began applying pressure to the brake.
Up ahead the SUV jumped as if goosed and flipped, rolling over in midair before disappearing into the ditch. There was a muffled whump.
Sam slowed and then, with the road clear, picked up speed again. As they drove past there was movement in the SUV.
“Jesus,” May whispered, turning back around, white-faced and wide-eyed. Otter crawled into her lap, leaning against her chest and drooling in anxiety. She petted him absently.
Sam’s fingers trembled ever so slightly on the steering wheel. Adrenaline letdown.
“That,” George said from the backseat, “was very good driving. And shooting.”
Sam glanced in the rearview and saw the old man watching him steadily.
For a moment he held the older man’s eyes. There’d been three SUVs, according to Jim. George—and, by extension, May—wasn’t out of danger yet.
He needed to find a safe house.
And then he meant to find out what the fuck was going on.
Chapter Seventeen
Jabba Beridze crawled on his hands and knees from the wreckage of his SUV. He had not crawled anywhere for anyone for decades. The side of his face was numb.
He stood and looked down the road. The red truck was gone.
He looked back at the SUV. Ivan was pulling Viktor from the front seat. Viktor screamed. His arm was twisted, bone protruding from his sleeve.
“Leave him,” Jabba said to Ivan, but Ivan paid no attention.
There was the sound of engines in the distance. His other two SUVs were nearing. One had become stuck in the snow back at the motel parking lot, blocking the other from leaving.
A fuckup. A royal fuckup.
Jabba sneered as he looked down and pulled a piece of glass from his left palm.
Nicky was struggling from the backseat of the crashed SUV.
“I said leave him.” Jabba drew his gun and shot Viktor between the eyes.
Viktor’s head jerked back and he fell to the snow as Ivan’s hands opened. Ivan looked up at Jabba and backed up a step.
The two remaining SUVs pulled to a stop beside the wreckage. Sasha climbed down from the one in front.
He glanced at Viktor, powdered with snow, and lifted his brows. “Hard to hide a body, Boss.”
“We leave for Budapest when this is over.” Jabba watched as the snow melted into the round hole in Viktor’s forehead. It had begun to tinge pink. Soon, as Viktor’s corpse cooled, the wound would ice over. “What trash we leave behind will be gathered by others.”
Sasha’s face was impassive. “The SUV is totaled. Ilya did this?”
“No. It was an American in a red truck,” Jabba said thoughtfully. “He helped both the accountant and the other one—George Rapava.”
Sasha l
ooked at him. “Rapava? The Rapava who put your uncle in prison?”
“Yes.” Jabba tilted back his head to the falling snow and spread wide his arms, eyes closed. He inhaled, cold air searing his lungs. “It is my lucky day.”
When he opened his eyes, Sasha was silently watching him, waiting for orders.
As it should be.
Jabba nodded, moving toward Sasha’s SUV. “I drive with you, then.”
“Where to?” Sasha asked.
“To the little shit town,” Jabba said as he entered the SUV. “I will set fire to it and burn it from the earth.”
Chapter Eighteen
Maisa clutched Otter to her chest and wondered if she was in shock. The terrier’s little body was trembling all over and he was panting worriedly. She petted him with hands that shook, trying to comfort both him and herself. She knew what Dyadya was—what he’d done in the past, the people he’d associated with, why he’d had to go into hiding—but it had never touched her own life so violently.
She’d never even heard a gun fired in real life before.
She took a deep breath, looking at Sam. He faced straight ahead, watching the road, his blue eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, the side mirrors, and back again. His expression was calm but his lips were thinned, and there were new lines on either side of his mouth. He’d shot at an SUV full of people with a sort of deadly calm that should frighten her, she knew. He hadn’t even been breathing fast. It struck her suddenly that he might’ve done this before.
Shot at people.
Killed people.
Jesus. The reality of Sam was so far away from what she’d initially thought it was almost funny. He wasn’t the all-white good guy she’d pegged him for. He had dark, murky-gray depths that ought to have her inching away from him.
Instead she found herself leaning toward him. Sam knew what to do. He could keep her safe. There was a part of her that wanted that from him—wanted it deeply. Wanted only to curl up close to him and let him protect her.
Not to mention that calm, capable violence was sort of a turn-on.
Maisa swallowed and looked down at poor Otter. She didn’t have only herself to think about. There was Dyadya, too. Sam was not her uncle’s friend.