Target For Terror, page 8
She didn’t respond but clutched the armrest to help keep her head centered on her shoulders. She almost felt bad for the man named Slammer. Almost. The sickening scent of pizza and the rattling beneath her feet put a serious dent in her sympathy.
“Okay, as soon as we get out of this neighborhood, I’ll take you to the doctor.” Sloan’s warm hand on her arm made her open her eyes to glance at him. “If we go to Washington University Hospital, will they cut you a break?”
“I have insurance.” She frowned, trying to figure out what he was asking. “I won’t need to pay.”
“No, I mean about your wound. They’ll probably be able to figure out it’s a gunshot wound, and ED docs need to report them to the police.” Sloan scowled. “I’m afraid if your name is linked to any type of report, especially one going to the local law enforcement, the shooter will find you. I don’t think we can trust anyone, except for Jordan.”
Jordan again. He just wouldn’t give up. “Don’t take me to the hospital.” Between exhaustion and throbbing pain, Natalia honestly didn’t care where they went. As long as she was able to get out of this horrible cargo van, soon.
“You have a head injury.” Sloan’s voice was terse. “You need to be looked at. Get a CT scan or X-rays or something.”
“Not a head injury. Just a concussion.” She was splitting hairs, because a concussion was a head injury. But not bad enough that she was willing to risk the wrong people finding her. Sloan was right, she couldn’t trust anyone.
Even his friend Jordan.
“A concussion?” Sloan’s voice betrayed a note of panic. “I don’t know how to treat a concussion.”
“Like a headache. Except you’ll need to make sure I don’t get worse.” Right now, the pounding in her temple was so bad she couldn’t even imagine anything worse. “But you’ll need to stop for bandages and extra-strength Tylenol to alternate with ibuprofen.”
“I can do that.” Sloan was amazingly easy to sway in his present mood. Too bad she wasn’t feeling well enough to take full advantage.
Natalia cracked open her window, desperate for fresh air, falling silent. The rattling of the van didn’t bother her as much anymore. Soon, Sloan stopped the car.
“I want you to stay here and wait. I won’t be long.”
“Okay.” She closed her eyes, reveling in the silence.
He returned in record time, or so it seemed. Unless she’d lost consciousness? No, she didn’t want to believe that. Still, she squinted at her watch, unsure as to how much time might have passed.
Before heading back on the road, he pulled out a small bottle of water from the bag and shook a couple of extra-strength Tylenol into his hand. He held them out to her.
She took the pills and the water gratefully. When she took a tentative sip, the water churned in her stomach, and she forced herself to take a little more. Based on the amount of blood soaking into the T-shirt, she needed to keep hydrated. Praying she wouldn’t throw up, she rested her head against the back of the seat. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me.” Sloan turned on the van and backed out of the parking space. “I almost got you killed.”
She wanted to argue with him, but the effort was more than she could manage. But what he said wasn’t true. Sloan hadn’t almost gotten her killed. His quick thinking had saved them both.
He’d been right all along; someone was trying to kill her. Without Sloan, she’d probably already be dead.
Sloan was the only person she could trust.
Chapter Eight
July 1 – 3:39 p.m. – Bedford, VA
* * *
Sloan gripped the steering wheel so hard his fingers cramped. With a concentrated effort, he relaxed them one by one. He needed to hand her off to Jordan as soon as possible.
Scanning the countryside, he frowned. Nothing looked very familiar—not the town, the mountains, or any other part of the scenery. Not a single thing.
He tried to think back, to retrace the route he’d taken two years ago, the last time he’d met Jordan at the cabin. He’d taken a left at some sort of Y juncture in the road, toward Summerville. Then after about another ten miles, he’d taken a left at the dirt road marked Private Property.
There! He saw the Y a few seconds too late and had to yank the cargo van over to the left. Natalia moaned, stirred, then opened her eyes.
“Are we at the cabin?” Her husky voice added a layer to the guilt already strapped across his shoulders. If he hadn’t stopped at his condo for cash, she wouldn’t have been injured.
Of course, then he wouldn’t have known about the inside leak either. Steep price to pay for that bit of information. He couldn’t wait to more closely examine the information on Alek Nevsky he’d pulled from the FBI database. If the Solntsevskaya gang of the Russian Mafia was involved, Nevsky would be their best lead. This could be his best chance to avenge Shari’s murder.
“Not yet. Another ten to fifteen minutes.” He’d let Natalia rest once they’d left the city, only waking her up for a brief moment every half hour or so.
“Okay.” Her eyes slid closed.
He tore his gaze from her vulnerable face and turned his attention to the road. He coaxed the van up another hill, ignoring how the rattling grew louder with each mile. The clouds overhead had gotten darker as he headed west, and the resulting gloom suited his mood perfectly. After a few miles, he found the dirt road without difficulty and maneuvered the bulky cargo van down the wooded drive.
There was no one on the road behind him. Hadn’t been for the past ten to twelve miles. Even before that, cars either passed him by or turned off the road. He was certain they hadn’t been followed, although he’d left his phone in his car along with the keys as a gift for Slammer. The jerk.
A good mile off the road, the cabin loomed before him. He pulled the cargo van around the back, right into the thickest part of the foliage so it wasn’t easily seen from the driveway.
“Natalia.” He reached over to lay a hand on her slender arm. “We’re here.”
“Good.” She opened her eyes, blinked once. Twice. “What cabin? I only see trees.”
“The cabin is behind us. Don’t expect anything fancy,” he warned as he swung out of the driver’s seat and went around to the passenger side. He opened her door. One look at her drawn features confirmed she wasn’t walking anywhere. “Put your hands around my neck.”
“Hmm?” Her brow furrowed when she realized what he meant. Her lush mouth pulled into a prim line. “No. I can walk.”
“Put your arms around my neck. The ground here is uneven, littered with fallen branches and rocks.” While he explained, he slid one arm beneath the crook in her knees and the other behind her back, making the decision for her.
“Sloan.” The way she murmured his name sent a flicker of longing unfurling deep in his belly. She’d been shot, yet here he was fantasizing about kissing her.
“Shh. I have you.” He held her as if she were a fragile Waterford crystal vase as he picked his way through the debris, not willing to risk dropping her. On the small screened-in porch, however, he had to set her down so he could fish out the key.
A small animal scurried out of the way when he felt beneath the bottom step for the metal container holding the key. Within moments, he opened the cabin door and ushered Natalia inside.
“Sit over here.” He steered her toward the closest kitchen chair. “I’ll be right back with the supplies.”
She hadn’t moved by the time he’d covered the green van with tree branches and hauled the duffel bag inside. His stomach knotted. Was she worse? He honestly couldn’t tell.
Pulling the bandages out of the drugstore bag, he set the packages on the counter. Moving through the cabin, he found the fuse box and hit the master switch so they’d have water and electricity.
Armed with soap, water, and bandages, he sank down next to her and pulled on the hand holding the shirt to her head. “Let me see.”
She winced as he tugged the shirt out of the way. He swallowed hard when fresh blood oozed from the wound. Up close, it looked better than he’d expected. The gash was shallow but extended a good two inches long and had missed the top of her ear by a fraction of an inch.
He dabbed a clean corner of the T-shirt into the water and used it to wipe away the excess blood. She didn’t make a sound as he ministered to her wound. There was blood caked in her beautiful blonde hair, but he did the best he could with the soap and water at his disposal. Then he coated the gash with the antibiotic ointment.
Bandaging the wound was tricky, considering he couldn’t exactly tape gauze to her hair. He finally wrapped a long strip of thin gauze all the way around her head to keep it in place. When he was finished, she looked like the survivor of a low-budget slasher movie.
“Can you hold on for a few more minutes?” he asked, pushing away from the table. “I need to make up the bed.”
Her skin was so pale he wondered just how much blood she’d lost. He hurried upstairs. Within a few minutes, he’d tossed some sheets on the bed, found an old quilt to throw on top of them, and returned downstairs.
“Water,” she whispered.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders while she drank from the cup he held to her mouth. He’d have to get some soup into her, too, but first things first. “Come on, you’d better lie down. There are two bedrooms upstairs in the loft.”
When he bent to lift her into his arms, she stiffened against him. “Wait, I can walk.”
“Stop fighting me, Natalia.” Ignoring her protests, he held her close and headed for the stairs. “Don’t I get brownie points for playing nurse and taking care of your wound?”
“Ha. Some nurse.” But she relaxed against him as if he’d been carrying her around for years.
He elbowed open the door of the closest bedroom and gently placed her in the center of the queen-size bed. Looking down at her, his heart twisted. This was his fault. He hesitated and glanced at her bloodstained sweater. “Do you need help getting undressed?”
Her eyes flew open, and her hands came up to grab his. “No. I can take care of it.”
He nodded and stepped back, knowing she deserved privacy but loath to leave her alone. What if she fell? Hurt herself worse?
“Natashen’ka.” The endearment slipped before he could stop it, and he bent closer to press a chaste kiss on her cheek. “Rest now. I’ll bring you something to eat soon.”
Eyes wide, she didn’t say another word, about the kiss or anything else.
He fought a lopsided grin. He’d finally rendered her speechless. He turned and walked back downstairs.
* * *
July 1 – 6:00 p.m. – Washington, DC
* * *
Alek closed his eyes and tried to ignore the dank, sour scent clinging to the walls surrounding the bed of his cell. He hoped Lara had called Stefan. And Natalia. The public shooting of Josef Korolev had been an act of desperation. Who could have done such a thing? He couldn’t afford to ignore the tie to his country. Especially since he was being framed for the murder.
How ironic the FBI would think him guilty of murdering his childhood friend. The same FBI that had turned its back on him.
For a moment, self-pity caught him by the throat. First his wife separating from him, now this. He wished he’d never left Kazan all those years ago. Memories of how he’d grown up in Kazan, the son of a poor merchant but carefree and happy. How easy to pretend he was back there, with the sun reflecting off the water in the Bulak Canal, his house crowded between dozens of others along the bank of the river, the busy boats bringing needed goods or carting their wares away.
Kazan was a time of innocence. A good place to grow up, he thought with a pang of nostalgia. He shouldn’t have been so eager to leave. But he’d had no intentions of staying amidst the merchant ranks, so as soon as he was able, he’d escaped the area of poverty.
The price of success had been high, loyalty given more so than received. Yet he couldn’t completely regret the course he’d taken, the choices he’d made. The dark years, as Lara called them, were in the past, or so he’d naively thought. He and Lara had been lucky to escape, to arrive here in the United States, seeking the very precious freedom they’d longed for. Life had been good.
Until now. He opened his eyes, staring at the pocked cement ceiling above his bunk. The past had finally caught up to them, but they weren’t beaten yet. Stefan would get him out of prison, and Lara would warn Natalia of the danger.
He could only pray to the dear Lord above that it wasn’t too late. For Natalia. For Lara.
And for himself.
* * *
July 1 – 6:15 p.m. – Bedford, VA
* * *
Sloan stirred the beef broth, holding on to a vain hope that the hearty stock would help bring some color back into Natalia’s cheeks. He’d checked on her every hour, torn between relief that she was sleeping and bone-rattling fear that her concussion might turn worse as a result of his misreading the signs.
Only another hour or so and Jordan should be here. Good thing, too, because he’d scoured the kitchen for food but, other than dried soup and several cans of beef stew, hadn’t found much to eat.
They needed basic provisions to go along with the other high-tech supplies Jordan was bringing.
Logs crackled and popped in the fireplace, the scent of burning wood filling the cabin. He’d taken the time to clean the place up, to sweep out the mice, and to start a fire in the fireplace. Despite being summer, the mountain air was cool, and he didn’t want Natalia to catch a chill.
Listen to him. Catch a chill? It had been a long time since he’d had to take care of someone. And the last time, his sister had paid the price. He stirred the soup realizing this was why he needed Jordan’s rational brain here and pronto. One measly bullet wound had morphed him into a nursemaid.
He poured the broth into a bowl, added a few stale saltine crackers he’d found deep in a cupboard, and carried the meal upstairs to the loft. When he saw Natalia thrashing in the covers, he quickly set the bowl on the nightstand.
“Natalia?” He leaned close and placed a soothing hand on her head. “Open your eyes, Princess. Can you hear me?”
“Too much blood.” Her whisper was followed by a heartrending moan. “Dead. Ivan’s dead.”
He should have known the nightmares would haunt her. In all honesty, she’d held up better than he’d had a right to hope. “Wake up, Natalia. Wake up. It’s just a bad dream.”
Her beautiful green eyes opened, focused hopefully on his face. “Alive? Ivan’s alive?”
He winced. “No, I’m afraid he’s not. But dreaming about it won’t bring him back.” Sloan wanted to kick himself for raising her hopes. “Here, I brought you some soup and a couple of crackers.”
“I’m not hungry.” Her green eyes slid closed, and she turned her head away. He could see a small bloody stain on the dressing he’d wrapped around her head, but it was only the size of a dime. Nothing to worry about, he hoped.
“Too bad, Princess, because you’re going to eat.” He wasn’t in the mood to play games. Didn’t she realize how his patience was stretched to the max? “Whether you like it or not.”
Her eyes snapped open at his tone. “Nurses don’t force-feed their patients.”
“So sue me. Move over.” He nudged her from the side of the bed far enough so he could sit beside her. Taking the bowl from the nightstand, he glared at her. “What’s it gonna be? The easy way or the hard way?”
“I’ll throw up.” The way she said the words made it sound like a threat.
“Go ahead.” If she thought a little puke was going to put him off, she was crazy. He’d seen far worse. Had done far worse. Setting his jaw, he put the spoon in the bowl, scooped up some broth, then held it out as if she were a baby. “Open up.”
“Durachok. Give it to me, I’ll do it.” Clutching the sheets to her chest, she winced and tried to lever herself upright.
With a sigh, he set the soup down and then slid his arm around her shoulders so he could prop a second pillow behind her back. She looked fragile, but he knew there was a core of steel underneath her soft exterior. He found himself glad she’d gone back to calling him dumbhead in Russian.
“Better?”
“Yes. Thank you.” She tucked the sheets and quilt beneath her arms and held out her hands.
He placed the bowl of soup in her outstretched hands, fighting the insane urge to kiss her again. He needed his head examined. Time to get out of Dodge. He left, heading back downstairs, all the way outside, staring up at the stars flickering overhead.
She was vulnerable. He didn’t have the right to kiss her. His priority was to keep her safe, then to find the scumbags who’d killed his sister.
Taking a deep breath, he peered through the darkness.
Jordan, where are you?
After a few minutes, the silence of the mountains and the rustling of the trees calmed his rioting emotions. Okay, Jordan wasn’t here yet, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t work. He needed to work or he’d go right out of his ever-loving mind.
He had his computer, but there wasn’t an internet connection. Wait a minute, he snapped his fingers. He’d almost forgotten the information he’d printed out on Alek Nevsky.
Thrilled with something constructive to do, he strode to the duffel bag and unzipped it. He pawed through the clothes with a frown. He’d set the papers right on top, where were they?
Turning the duffel upside down, he shook the contents onto the kitchen table. He pulled apart the folded clothes. Toiletries rolled out; a round container of deodorant hit the floor with a thud.
Nothing.
He looked inside the duffel again, poked and prodded to make sure there weren’t any side pockets or false bottoms where the papers might be trapped. Then he tossed the empty bag aside and hiked back out to the cargo van to make sure the papers hadn’t slid out somewhere along the way. Without much light, the search took longer than it should by far.
