Spare TP and the toilet cleaner, nothing else. She slammed the cabinet door shut. Damn it, Sam was a cop—he had to have a first-aid kit around here somewhere. No, no. She didn’t want to think about Sam right now.
She went back into the kitchen to find Dyadya feeding the leftover eggs from breakfast to Otter. She set her hands on her hips. “Well?”
“Ah, as to that, I have a small confession.” Dyadya looked almost embarrassed. “I took the diamond suitcase and left you with one of my own.”
“With a bomb in it.”
Dyadya actually winced. “No.”
She stared. “No?”
“I lied. There is no bomb in the suitcase you have.” He shrugged sheepishly. “I do not have the materials to make a bomb, you see.”
Maisa threw her hands in the air and stomped to Sam’s kitchen cabinets. “Why in the world would you put a note on the suitcase saying there was a bomb inside?”
“Because, Masha mine,” he sighed behind her, “this Jabba Beridze that Ilya flees from, he is a very powerful man, a very insane man, a very evil man. I did not know the diamonds Ilya carried were his, but I suspected they were trouble, so I tried to lure trouble away from my home. I took the diamonds and met Ilya to find out what disaster he had brought to me, but I wanted to leave you with a weapon.”
She turned from a cabinet full of canned soup and looked at him.
He glanced up and gave her a sad smile. “Even if that weapon was a false one.”
Maisa shook her head and shut the upper cabinet. She leaned down to check the cabinets under the counter. “So you’ve met him before? Beridze?”
“He is the nephew of Gigo Meskhi.”
She stared at the first-aid kit she’d finally found on the bottom cabinet next to the sink. “Oh, Dyadya.”
“Is not good,” he agreed.
Maisa grabbed the white plastic box and came over to the kitchen island where Dyadya sat at a stool. “Does he know about you?”
Her uncle gave her an old-fashioned look. “He knows, certainly, who I am and that I put his dear uncle in prison. It would be best if we do not meet.”
That was an understatement. “God damn my father,” Maisa muttered.
Dyadya moved restlessly. “Masha mine, you should not curse your father. There are things you do not know—”
She shook her head hard. “I don’t want to talk about him right now.”
Maisa opened Sam’s first-aid kit and found a couple of rubbing alcohol wipe packets. She tore one open and began to wash the blood from Dyadya’s face.
“I do not want Jabba Beridze near you,” Dyadya said in his raspy smoker’s voice. He had gotten out his pack of Marlboros and was turning it over in his hands.
Maisa frowned as she worked. “Better not open those here. Sam won’t like the smoke in his house.”
Dyadya winced as she finally got to the small cut near his temple. “Americans are so very self-righteous about cigarettes, are they not?”
“He’s not.” She tossed aside the wipe and tore open another.
The cellophane on the Marlboros crinkled in Dyadya’s fingers. “I like Samuel West. He is, you say, a real man, yes?”
He always pretended that his English was worse when he was trying to get on her good side. “That’s not how I would say it, but some would.”
The cut wasn’t so bad—it’d already stopped bleeding. She searched through the first-aid kit for a large Band-Aid.
Dyadya ignored her tart reply. “He is a straight shooter, but he does not let others borrow his money or use him. He drinks, but does not fall down drunk. He would make a woman a good husband.”
Maisa found a square Band-Aid and tore open the wrapping.
“But not for you,” Dyadya finished his lovely little homily.
She stuck the Band-Aid on his cut and started putting the first-aid kit back together. “I’m not thinking about marrying Sam West.”
She gave him a last glare and went to the door. Sam had left the two black suitcases there. She picked them up and lugged them toward the kitchen coat closet.
“Good,” Dyadya called.
She ignored him, shoving the suitcases inside the closet, behind a huge bag of dog food, and shut the door.
She heard a click and then smelled the faint whiff of smoke.
“You put out that cigarette or I’ll throw it out the door, Dyadya.” She marched into Sam’s spare room and dragged out the pseudo bomb suitcase. She shoved that in the kitchen closet as well and then looked at her uncle, hands on hips. She felt an odd urge to cry.
“I would never, my Masha,” he said gently.
“Sam’s a cop. We’re robbers. I know. You don’t have to keep telling me.”
Dyadya tilted his head, musing. “Not exactly robbers—”
“Then what?” She felt as if ants were jittering beneath her skin, trying to dance their way out. “What are we if not robbers, huh? We’re not the average suburban American family, that’s for sure. What are we, Dyadya?”
He looked at her, his hands still now. “I am mafiya, my Masha, I have never hidden this from you. But you, you can be American. You were born here, were raised here. You have the American education and you have a job—a career. A good career. The so-called American dream, you can have it.”
But not and have you in my life, she thought. That American dream didn’t include her uncle and who he was.
“An American dream like Mama tried to have?” Maisa scoffed. Mama had tried that with Jonathan Burnsey when she’d first come to America. She’d tried to have both a normal American life and her brother—with all his history. And when Jonathan had realized that Irina wasn’t going to desert her criminal brother—even if it hurt Jonathan’s career—he’d made the decision for her. “Jonathan pretty much ruined that for her, don’t you think?”
Jonathan’d left them.
Dyadya looked troubled. “You judge your father too harshly, my Masha. You should know—”
“I don’t want to talk about Jonathan,” she interrupted.
Her uncle fell silent.
Like mother like daughter. Maisa simply couldn’t have both an average life—a normal life—and her uncle.
And she would never desert Dyadya.
Maisa smiled and reached for the first-aid kit, turning to put it back in the cabinet. “Don’t be silly. I’ve never wanted a house in the suburbs.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ilya burst into tears. He raised his hands to his face and pressed stubby fingers into his eyes, as if he could somehow stop the sound of the crazy guy outside by blinding himself.
Sam moved to the back window and, standing to the side, checked the parking lot as he loaded the shotgun.
“I’ve got two SUVs in front, shooters on both leaning against the hoods,” Doc said. “What do you see?”
“Nothing.” Sam bent a bit to the side, scanning the parking lot. “Only thing’s out there is my pickup.”
“Il-ya!” came that voice again.
“It is Beridze,” Ilya whimpered. He was shuddering all over now, as if in full-fledged shock.
“Shall we show your friends I am in earnest?” Suddenly a barrage of gunfire clattered out front.
Sam flinched, but kept his eyes on the back.
Doc swore. “He’s shot out the front window of Tracy’s Antique Shop.”
“She’ll hate that,” Becky muttered. “Just had that window put in last summer.”
“No one’s in town,” Doc said. “They’ve all gone home to sit out the storm.”
Sam glanced at him. “What’re you thinking?”
“We’ve got guns, we’ve got ammo. If they storm the door, we’ll take them down,” Doc said.
Becky silently got up and took down a shotgun and began loading it.
“How many do you see?” Sam asked. His gut was tightening, remembering another place.
“Five, no six.”
Sam was already shaking his head. “We’re outgunned. They’ll wa
it until we’ve used up our ammunition then come in.”
Doc’s jaw worked. “What’re you saying?”
“We need to leave.”
Doc had been in Vietnam, knew how to talk down drunks with guns and face meth heads high on stupidity. He’d been doing it for over thirty years. “I don’t like it. This’s my goddamned station and my goddamned town.”
“Of course it’s your town,” Sam said. “It’s mine, too. But staying here’s not going to help the town. It’ll only get us killed.”
“You don’t know that,” Doc grunted.
“Yeah,” Sam said quietly, holding Doc’s stubborn stare. “I do.”
Doc scowled for a second, then looked away. “What do you have in mind?”
“Switch with me a second.”
Doc came to the back window as Sam went to look out the front. Two SUVs had been skewed across the street, shooters leaning over the hoods, while a single man stood in the center of the street. He glanced up as if he’d felt Sam’s eyes on him.
Jabba Beridze was kind of ordinary looking for a notorious mobster. Slightly shorter than average height, he wore a black ski jacket with no hat, and even though the wind blew viciously against the side of his face he didn’t seem affected. In fact, though there was a delicate pink tint to his cheeks, and what looked like a bruise at his temple, overall he was as pale as death. As if no blood flowed in his veins.
“Still no one back there?” Sam asked Doc, keeping his eye on the Russian mobster.
“No.”
“Okay.” Sam took out the keys to his pickup. “You’ll take Ilya and Becky out the back, get in my truck, drive to my house. May and George are there.” He tossed the keys to Doc.
Doc caught them one-handed. “Now wait just a moment. What’re you going to be doing while we’re running?”
“Making sure you get out alive,” Sam said.
Sam turned from the window, staring first at Ilya then at Becky. Ilya was still curled in the chair. Becky was looking determined despite her pale face. They would die if Sam didn’t get them and Doc out of here.
“Becky, put your coat on.” Sam went to Doc’s desk and pulled open the second drawer down on the right side. “Do you have a lighter?”
“Sam, what—?”
“I need a lighter,” Sam said, taking out Tick’s confiscated firecrackers.
Becky stared at him a beat, then she pulled open a drawer on her own desk and handed him the lighter she kept there for the scented candles she sometimes brought in.
Sam took it from her. “Okay. Doc, you’re going out the back. You first, then Ilya, then Becky. Don’t stop for anything until you’re in the truck. Got it?”
Becky nodded grimly.
“Yeah, I got it, Sam,” Doc growled. “What, exactly, are you doing in the meantime?”
“Going out the front.”
“Sam, God damn it—”
“We don’t have time, Doc.”
Ilya began moaning.
“Come on.” Becky got a hand under Ilya’s arm to help him up.
Tick’s confiscated firecrackers were in three big rolls. Sam quickly laid them out, two under the windows overlooking Main, and one under the back windows. He lit all three fuses, picked up the shotgun, and ran to the stairs.
He heard the first bang halfway down.
Doc was right behind him. Sam didn’t have time to double-check, but he knew the older man would follow his orders.
The firecrackers were exploding all at once now, a series of loud, constant pops. Mingled in with the pops were gunshots and the crash of shattering glass.
Sam ran across the lobby and pumped the shotgun. He cracked the front door, shotgun at his shoulder and fired without bothering to aim.
Behind him, he could hear the back door slamming open.
Beridze was nowhere to be seen. He must’ve already taken cover. Sam pumped the shotgun and took out one of the men behind the SUV to his right.
He pumped the shotgun and swung toward the second man.
Behind him, there was the sound of gunfire and Becky screamed.
No.
Sam fired and wheeled to the back, pumping as he ran.
A shotgun blast.
He’d miscalculated. Again. God damn it, no.
In the back parking lot Becky’s shotgun was smoking. She stood over Doc on the ground as Ilya cowered to the side.
A gunman was running toward them.
Sam shot him in the chest. “Get in my truck.”
Becky swung on him, wild-eyed. “Doc’s shot!”
“I’ve got him.” Sam bent and looped Doc’s arm over his shoulders. The police chief groaned. Blood was creeping down Doc’s right pants leg, but he appeared to be alive, if in shock. Thank God. “Get Ilya.”
Becky blinked and then grabbed Ilya.
Doc still had the truck keys clutched in his fist. Sam pried them loose. He tore open the Silverado’s back door and piled Doc inside. Slamming the door, he swiveled, pulled open the front door, swung into the driver’s seat, and shoved the keys in the ignition.
Gunfire rattled against the tail of the truck, and then Becky was pushing Ilya into the back of the Silverado. “Go!”
Sam revved the engine and set down the plow.
One of the SUVs tore around the corner, skidded, and bounced off the corner of the municipal building, taking a few concrete blocks with it.
Sam rammed the back bumper of the SUV. He bore down on the accelerator and the plow blade scraped with a sickening shriek across the SUV, shoving it aside. The Silverado jumped as it sprang free from the SUV. The big pickup bumped over a concrete barrier, hidden beneath the snow, and for a heart-stopping moment the back wheels spun.
Then they caught, and the Silverado roared down the alley and out of town.
He needed to get Doc to safety, needed to see how bad the gunshot wound was. Needed to return to May and keep her safe.
But first he had to be sure no one was following them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Where is he?” Maisa pushed up one of the front window blinds to look out on Sam’s front yard. It’d been three hours since he’d left, and it was already getting dark—in midwinter the light began fading midafternoon. There really wasn’t much to see outside.
Still. She couldn’t stop herself from looking.
Beside her, Otter whimpered.
Maisa glanced down at him absently. Maybe he had to be fed—although he had eaten quite a bit of leftover breakfast.
“He will return,” Dyadya said.
She looked at him. He sat in one of the mission chairs facing the window overlooking the lake. He had another cigarette between his lips, though so far he’d abstained from lighting it. Maisa couldn’t tell from his voice whether he truly believed that Sam would return safely or if he was just trying to placate her. He looked so calm, so relaxed, while she hadn’t been able to sit for the last hour or so.
Maisa huffed out a breath and went to the kitchen closet. “How do you know Ilya Kasyanov?”
Dyadya waved a hand. “When I was Gigo Meskhi’s man, many years ago in Moscow, Ilya was a young boy, just learning to bake the books.”
Maisa frowned over that one for a second before her brow cleared. “Cook the books.”
“Da. That.” She saw the back of Dyadya’s head nod. “He was a vain man but very intelligent—though, perhaps, not as intelligent as he thought himself.”
Maisa snorted and dragged out the big bag of dog food. There was enough in there to feed Otter for at least a year. The terrier had trotted after her to watch and he barked when he saw what she had.
She smiled at the little dog. “Just wait a minute.”
Otter didn’t even look at her. His eyes were fixed on the happy yellow lab on the dog food bag. He whined and pawed at the bag.
There was a dog food bowl and water dish in the corner of the kitchen, and she dragged the bag of dog food over to them. “So he followed Meskhi to the U.S.?”
Dyadya shrugged. “Yes, though by then he was one of Meskhi’s main accountants.”
“Then why wasn’t he imprisoned when Meskhi was?”
“Because he was crafty,” Dyadya replied drily. “He’d moved on to working with Beridze by the time Meskhi was at trial. A smart move, but perhaps a dangerous one. Meskhi is a murderer, but he is not crazy like his nephew.”
Maisa shivered at her uncle’s words. Crazy. The word was overused to mean someone mad or out of control, but from what she’d seen and heard, Beridze wasn’t just that. He was truly crazy: a psychopath.
Otter was practically dancing in front of his dish. She blew out a breath and concentrated on feeding him. There was a scoop already in the bag and she used it to fill Otter’s dog food bowl. Although… She looked doubtfully at the dog noisily gulping the food. It seemed like quite a lot for such a small dog.
Otter looked up suddenly, his little body tense.
Then he exploded, barking wildly, his claws scrabbling on the floor as he raced to the front door.
Maisa grabbed for something, anything, and ended up gripping a pewter pitcher from the counter.
The front door opened and Otter launched himself at it.
Sam came in, holding Doc Meijer against his side. There was blood on Doc’s leg, on Sam’s side. Blood on the floor.
Maisa dropped the pitcher. It clattered against the kitchen tiles.
Sam’s face was like granite: hard and still and cold.
“What’s happened?” Dyadya asked sharply.
Sam nudged Otter aside. He was looking straight at her, ignoring everything else in the room.
She didn’t know how she crossed the room, but she was in front of him suddenly, searching his expression, almost afraid to touch him or Doc. Sam’s electric blue eyes were the only sign of life in his face.
“Doc’s been shot,” Becky said from behind Sam, she held two shotguns in her hands. “He’s losing blood. We need to get it stopped.”
“Of course.” Maisa ran back to the kitchen to fetch the first-aid box. But it held mostly Band-Aids. Those wouldn’t stop a bullet wound from bleeding.
“May, go upstairs and get some of my T-shirts,” Sam said, his voice calm and steady in the midst of Maisa’s frantic thoughts. “Second drawer down in my dresser.”