No cell phone.
But this car had knobs everywhere. There were knobs on the ceiling, controls for the sunroof, and knobs between the seats on the console. There were knobs on the steering column, on the dash. Douglas’s BMW was the polar opposite of her Mercury Milan; it had everything—Night Vision, twenty-way seat adjustment, a lane-departure warning feature. Somewhere there had to be some kind of communication device, or at least real-person assistance.
She poked and prodded, found the park-distance sensors, the heads-up display. . . . Somehow, she stumbled into the history function for the navigation system. She tried to move on to the next utility, and instead moved one level deeper, and brought up the list of everywhere he’d driven his too-expensive car.
She didn’t mean to pry.
But two words caught her eye.
Blythe, Washington.
The last time he’d driven this car, he’d driven to her own small town in the Cascade Mountains.
Her mouth was dry, her eyes strained as she examined his route. . . . He had started in Seattle, at the Swedish Hospital, had driven almost to her doorstep, and he’d done it on the same night she returned from Seattle with the proof that she was not the Wilders’ daughter.
He had followed her.
He was the one who had watched her that night. He had scouted out the location of the Wilder home.
When she had asked him if he was there, he had lied to her.
Why? Why lie?
The answer was all too evident.
With new understanding, she looked around at the gleaming chrome, the leather seats, the state-of-the-art technology.
And when he had the coordinates, he’d sold the promise of information to the Varinskis. He had assured them he could deliver the Wilders’ location, and they’d paid him an advance on delivery. That was how a twenty-three-year-old orphan afforded a BMW, an estate, and a leather jacket.
He’d betrayed his family, his son . . . and his whore.
Because she was nothing more than that to him.
Taking the keys, the flashlight, and the pistol, she eased out of the car. She walked back into the house, skulking through the darkness, listening for trouble. Rage would not make her lose her caution.
She punched in the security code and walked upstairs to his office.
She had given Douglas information about the family and their vulnerabilities. She had let him know that they must have him on their side to win their battle with the Varinskis. She had trusted him when she shouldn’t, betraying the family that had raised her and given her everything, condemning her own son to death. Most important, without the fourth icon, the pact with the devil couldn’t be broken. Konstantine and the men she considered her brothers, and even her darling Aleksandr, were sentenced to an eternity in hell.
But this locked office door meant Douglas was hiding something. Without thinking twice, she lifted the pistol and shot the lock out of the door.
Let that register on his security system.
She stalked to his desk and was almost disappointed to discover it was open. She was more than ready to shoot more locks off.
She rifled through the drawers, and in the third drawer down on the right-hand side, there it was.
The fourth icon, tangled in the seaweed that had tried to choke her, drown her.
Each of my four sons must find one of the Varinski icons. Only their loves can bring the holy pieces home.
That had been Zorana’s vision.
But that was crap. Firebird wasn’t Douglas Black’s love. Because he had screwed her silly. He had told her he loved her. He had bared his heart and soul to her.
And it had all been lies.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Doug slowly drove the steep, dark, winding road toward the lookout, his powerful spotlight sweeping from side to side as he watched for the trap he knew had been set for him.
Yet in a separate part of his mind, he worried. He worried about leaving Firebird alone in his house. He worried about what Vadim Varinski had planned. He worried about his son, Aleksandr. Never before had he had anyone to worry about; now he discovered that having a family came with a price.
Remembering the cell phone in his pocket, and the number Firebird had programmed in, he changed his thoughts. Having a family came with a price—and a refuge. All his life, he’d had no one at his back. Now, how odd to think that if he were in trouble, someone would come to his aid. Or, at least, Firebird thought someone would come to his aid.
His spotlight picked up a debris field. He slammed on his brakes.
Nice fake-out.
He pointed his spotlight toward the edge of the road. And there it was, a car dangling off the edge of the embankment with its front tires off the pavement.
Maybe not a fake-out, after all. Maybe the Varinskis had been having a little too much fun. If that was the case, Foka would be having a hissy-fit. Or in Foka’s case, that would be a hisssssy-fit.
Doug laughed at his own humor, adjusted his spotlight, and examined the car for the driver or passengers. He couldn’t see anyone.
Where were they?
He pulled his service pistol and palmed his knife, then eased out of the patrol car. The stench of Varinskis struck him like a blow.
There had to be at least five or six of them out there.
Foka really overestimated Doug’s abilities. Or maybe this was a matter of pride. Maybe this time Foka wanted to make sure he killed him.
As Doug stepped away from the car, a massive wolf leaped out of darkness. He turned sideways and sliced with his knife as the beast drove him onto the pavement.
The Varinski’s howl of pain vibrated through him. He caught the snout that went for his throat, twisted the neck beneath his arm, and, as hard as he could, bit down on an ear. To his immense satisfaction, blood filled his mouth. He twisted harder, felt the legs kick, the claws scratch . . . the neck snap.
One down.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the others gather. Three more wolves and two men, one slight and thin, the other a massive, James Bond bad-guy type.
He used the dead body to block his movement, brought his pistol up, and shot. The big guy went down hard, gurgled, and died.
Then, from behind, someone kicked Doug in the ribs.
His next shot went wild. His breath blasted out of his lungs. He coughed. He shot again, emptying his clip, sending one of the wolves into the forest yipping like a puppy.
The guy behind him clubbed Doug, and as his head wobbled on his neck, kicked the pistol out of his hand. Placing his massive foot on Doug’s neck, he turned him facedown on the pavement and held him there.
Six of them. Seven counting the dead wolf. That shit Vadim believed Doug had the icon, and he’d sent seven of his goons to retrieve it.
Doug slanted his eyes up and saw the twin of the guy he’d shot.
Great. Good way to win friends and influence people. Kill his twin.
The thin Varinski spoke quietly to his men. ‘‘Wolvesss are of no use here. I need men.’’
The two remaining wolves looked at each other in doubt.
‘‘Change now,’’ the thin one said. He didn’t raise his voice, but Doug saw the wolves take a step back and the transformation begin. ‘‘That’sss better.’’ He stepped forward, into Doug’s spotlight.
Ugly. Shit, this guy was ugly. Narrow forehead, pointy snout, sharp teeth, wide neck—he looked like a huge, mutated lizard from a bad SF flick. And Doug recognized the voice. This guy had been in charge of the attack on the cliffs.
‘‘Foka,’’ he said.
‘‘How flattering. You know my name.’’ Foka’s tongue flicked out to touch his lips. ‘‘You’ll scream it soon.’’
‘‘What do you want?’’ Doug asked.
‘‘Goga, explain to our American cousin what we want,’’ Foka said.
Goga dug one hand into Doug’s hair, wrapped one around his throat, and lifted him to face level. In a blast of garlic, he shouted, ‘‘
Where’s the fourth icon?’’
‘‘Where’s my hundred million dollars?’’ Doug asked.
‘‘You are not in the position to negotiate,’’ Foka said. ‘‘The fourth icon. Tell us now, and we’ll ssslaughter you right away. Hold out, and you will sssuffer.’’
Doug got his feet under him. He seized the hand that held his throat. Used his other hand to jab Goga’s windpipe. As Goga released him and fell backward, gagging, Douglas kicked up and out.
His foot glanced off Goga’s shoulder.
Goga wrapped his elbow around Doug’s knee and twisted.
Doug felt his knee crack.
Pain. Pain like nothing he’d ever felt before.
The other two Varinskis growled and advanced.
Doug paid them no heed. Instead he did a fast low crawl and punched autodial number four.
Behind him, Goga bellowed with laughter.
Even Foka chuckled as he asked, ‘‘What are you going to do? Call for backup?’’
No, asshole, I’m passing information to my family about you and what you want. I’m sending them to rescue Firebird, and maybe . . . to rescue me. And kill you.
One of the wolf-men kicked the phone out of his hand, and as his fingers broke, he heard a woman answer, ‘‘Hello?’’
Chapter Twenty-nine
‘‘Hello? Hello?’’ Zorana sat up in bed.
‘‘Wrong number?’’ But Konstantine didn’t believe that for a second. Not now. Now with the stench of Varinski growing strong in his nostrils.
‘‘I don’t think so. You have to listen to this.’’ She turned on the light and put the call on speakerphone.
‘‘Sure.’’ What with planning the battle, he hadn’t been sleeping well anyway. He might as well have a conversation with—
‘‘Where’s the fourth icon?’’ a deep voice bellowed, but at a distance. ‘‘Give us the icon!’’
‘‘I sold it to the Wilders.’’ The voice that shouted an answer sounded strange, yet familiar.
So did the sound of breaking bones.
‘‘You had better be lying.’’ The voice was quiet, but the menace carried clearly into their bedroom.
‘‘What do you care?’’ that almost-familiar voice shouted. ‘‘Vadim says you’re going to attack them before the month is out. When you do, get it back.’’
‘‘You ssstupid fool. We attack today, once Vadim arrives. That’sss enough time for them to unite the icons and—’’ That soft, horrible, sibilant voice broke off. ‘‘I must call Vadim. Goga, Dimitri, Grigori, Lyov—make sure our little cousin is not lying to me.’’
Zorana muted the phone. ‘‘What is it? Who is it?’’
‘‘Someone’s getting the crap beat out of him by a bunch of Varinskis, and I’d guess’’—Konstantine looked at his wife, so pale, so brave—‘‘I’d guess it’s our son.’’
Zorana pressed the warning alarm beside the bed.
‘‘What are you doing?’’ Konstantine asked. As if he didn’t know.
‘‘I’m going to send someone to save him.’’
Adrik arrived first, wide-awake and fully dressed. He advanced into the room slowly, listening to the repeated demands for the fourth icon. ‘‘Somebody’s getting the stuffing beaten out of him.’’
‘‘Your brother.’’ At this first sign of her missing son, Zorana pressed a hand to her heart, but her voice was steady.
‘‘I figured.’’ Adrik rubbed his shoulder. ‘‘I wonder if I can get a bead on the GPS in that phone.’’
‘‘I can.’’ Ann stood in the doorway. She wore pajamas and a robe, but her eyes were as alert as Adrik’s. ‘‘Put it on hold. I’ll pick it up on the living room computer.’’
‘‘Great!’’ Adrik headed out.
Jasha stood behind her. ‘‘What can I do to help, kasatka?’’
She turned toward her computer setup in the living room. ‘‘Put on the coffee.’’
Jasha followed her out, complaining, ‘‘ ‘Make my coffee. Type my letters. Chase me around my desk.’ You treat me like your secretary.’’ But before he stepped out, he grimly looked back at his father, and his message was clear.
He had information to pass along, intelligence he’d learned last night on his foray into the Varinski-filled forest.
Konstantine nodded. They would speak later.
‘‘I’ll start breakfast,’’ Tasya said.
‘‘I’ll help.’’ Karen followed Tasya toward the kitchen.
Konstantine had been blessed in his children and their wives.
Rurik arrived, yawning. ‘‘What did I miss?’’
‘‘You, lazy son, you can help me up.’’ Konstantine cursed the weakness that tied him to a wheelchair and slipped like evil through his bloodstream.
But all night, he had been plotting another tactic. . . . He waited until Zorana had gone into the bathroom before asking in a low voice, ‘‘How many detonator caps do we have left?’’
‘‘A few.’’ Rurik helped him walk from the bed to the wheelchair. ‘‘Why?’’
‘‘The Varinskis have been gathering out there for what? A day? Yet no move on the house. Why not? We appear virtually defenseless. Four women, three Varinski men in the prime of their lives, but only three, and me, an invalid in a wheelchair.’’
‘‘And Aleksandr,’’ Rurik said.
‘‘And Aleksandr,’’ Konstantine agreed.
‘‘Papa, shouldn’t we send the little one away?’’ Rurik checked the gauge on the oxygen tank that hung from the back of the chair.
Konstantine patted Rurik’s troubled face. ‘‘My son, there is no safe place. Not even here, but better he should stay with us, with the people he loves, than go to strangers and there to die. For they will hunt him. They will kill him. Varinskis are very thorough.’’
‘‘I know, Papa.’’
‘‘Your brother’’—Konstantine gestured toward the phone—‘‘your long-lost brother just passed us information we must utilize. The Varinskis will attack us today.’’ He placed the oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and took a long breath. He was reserving his strength, for when the time came, he would beat the Varinskis.
He had no choice.
‘‘They’re waiting only for their leader, and perhaps reinforcements.’’
‘‘You don’t think we should wait,’’ Rurik surmised.
‘‘Surprise is always a good element in a battle.’’ Konstantine leaned toward his son and stage-whispered, ‘‘If you can get me a detonator, I promise I can surprise them.’’
He told Rurik his plan, and while his son chuckled, Konstantine preened. Obviously, he hadn’t yet lost the old gift for strategy.
Their second line rang.
Rurik and Konstantine exchanged glances. More bad news?
Zorana stepped out of the bathroom, a towel on her head, her face gleaming and damp. ‘‘Who is that?’’
Rurik looked down at their caller ID. ‘‘The When You Are Wicked Diner?’’ He punched the button to open the line on the speakerphone.
The woman on the phone said, ‘‘It’s Firebird.’’
Konstantine flinched. He hadn’t heard that anguish in his daughter’s voice since he’d last questioned her about Aleksandr’s father.
Zorana hurried toward the phone, ready to take command of the conversation.
Konstantine waved her into silence. ‘‘What is wrong, little one?’’
‘‘Papa.’’ Firebird took a long, wobbly breath. ‘‘Papa. There’s nothing wrong. Nothing that hasn’t been wrong for a long, long time. Aleksandr is well?’’
‘‘Very well,’’ Konstantine said.
‘‘My baby . . .’’ Firebird took another breath. ‘‘I suppose you probably figured some of this out, but I left to find Aleksandr’s father. I did. His name is Douglas Black, and he is also your missing son. I didn’t realize that before, of course, I thought he was a Varinski who had tracked me down and seduced me for information about my family. About the Wilders.’’
br /> Konstantine cracked his knuckles and considered the first lesson he would teach his newfound son— if he lived through the beating the Varinskis were now inflicting on him.
Firebird continued, ‘‘It turns out I was more right then I realized. Douglas . . . Douglas Black sold us out to the Varinskis.’’
‘‘No!’’ Zorana took a step toward the phone.
‘‘Before I knew that, I gave him information. About us. I’m sorry, Papa.’’ Firebird’s voice broke. ‘‘I’m so sorry.’’
Konstantine was sorry, too. Sorry that one of his own would betray his family. Sorry that she had suffered for it.
‘‘Excuses can be made,’’ Rurik murmured.
‘‘There are no excuses for immorality,’’ Konstantine said coldly.
Before he could tell Firebird the truth—that Douglas was getting the snot kicked out of him by his erstwhile allies—she added, ‘‘But listen. This is the important part. I’m coming home.’’
‘‘No,’’ Konstantine said in alarm. ‘‘Stay where you are. I start the battle this morning.’’
‘‘I have to come home, Papa. I’ve got the fourth icon.’’
Konstantine wanted to shout with joy. He wanted to weep with horror.
His daughter, the baby he had dandled on his knee, had in her possession the fourth icon. The fourth icon! The one icon that would unite the others and break the pact with the devil.
‘‘I know it’s supposed to come to the one your son loves, but Douglas doesn’t love anyone, so I suppose it came to the one your son screwed.’’ Firebird spit the word. ‘‘So the prophecy is correct in its way.’’
They had no time for bitterness. Konstantine said, ‘‘Firebird, you are right. There is no choice. You do have to come home.’’ For she was now in more danger than any of them.
Rurik stepped close to the phone. ‘‘Where are you?’’
‘‘In Rocky Cliffs, in the When You Are Wicked Diner.’’ Now that she’d delivered her message, she was sniffling.