Darkness(48)

Gina turned and ran.

“Stop!” He leaped into pursuit. Flying across the kitchen like her life depended on it, which it did, Gina heard him yell something in Russian, heard the pounding of his boots on the linoleum and the harsh pant of his breathing as he came after her.

Swallowing the scream that ripped into her throat—the last thing she wanted to do was summon more killers—she threw a terrified glance over her shoulder to find him no more than a couple of strides behind. If he lunged, could he reach her? Yes. Run. Run. She knew she wasn’t going to make it, wasn’t going to be able to escape him. There was nowhere to go.

“Stop or I will kill you,” he barked. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the gun coming up—

Her heart leaped. Her shoulder blades tightened in instinctive defense: He’s going to shoot me in the back.

Her hood was down. Its fur-lined thickness must have made it extend a few inches behind her back, because with his free hand he was able to grab it. He yanked brutally, jerking her back toward him, sending her feet flying out from under her.

The jarring pain that shot through her as she crashed down on her back on the floor was nothing compared to the consuming horror of looking up through the haze of jumbled images brought on by the shock of the fall to find that one particular image—Ivanov—stood threateningly over her.

Even as he came into complete and total focus, panic galvanized her. Her heart beat so frantically that it felt as if it were going to burst.

There was absolutely nothing she could do.

She knew she was facing death, and every cell in her body went freezing cold even as her mind rebelled.

Getting an elbow beneath her, Gina forced her head and shoulders up off the floor. She met his gaze: his eyes were blue, and merciless. The eyes of a killer.



“IT WAS you,” he said, looking her over with interest. He seemed in no hurry. She remembered that he’d apparently talked to Mary before killing her. Clearly he wanted information from Gina: otherwise, she would already be dead.

He continued, “Who saw the plane—”

Gina jumped as a dark shape exploded from behind the island, behind Ivanov. Roaring something in Russian, Ivanov whipped around to face the threat. A big man in a black coat—that was Gina’s initial, blurred impression of the attacker—leaped on him before he could even complete the turn. For a moment the two grappled—she heard a couple of solid thuds and grunts as if blows were being landed—and then Ivanov froze.

By that time he was facing her. Over the other man’s shoulder, Gina watched Ivanov’s eyes widen, watched his face contort. His gun clattered to the floor, skidded toward her.

Get the gun.

It was the only thought in her mind.

Diving for the gun as the men continued to tussle, she grabbed it and came up into a crouch, clutching it. She hated guns, but she knew how to use one.

And she wouldn’t hesitate to demonstrate that knowledge, if the situation called for it.

Ivanov was staggering back, away from the gun that Gina now pointed in his direction, away from the other man. He was gasping, blinking rapidly, looking down at himself. Both of his hands came up to wrap around the handle of a large knife that protruded from his chest. His puffy green coat started to darken around the knife as Gina watched in horror. She knew it was from blood. More blood started to trickle from the corner of his mouth.

Gina shuddered.

Ivanov’s attacker glanced back at her, his eyes narrowing as he got a load of her straightening to her full height with the gun gripped in both hands. She was aiming squarely at Ivanov, but—the second man was within her target range, too, and as his face registered in her brain, she let out an involuntary gasp.

Cal. It was Cal. Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments, and the instant connection between them sent a jolt of awareness through her.

“Thank God,” she said on a shaky exhaled breath, and realized that somewhere deep inside she’d recognized him from almost the beginning. It was the coat that had thrown her off.

“Give me the gun.” Cal stretched his hand out behind him for it as if he absolutely expected her to comply, and refocused his attention on Ivanov, who stumbled back over the threshold to the mudroom and collapsed.

Gina barely hesitated: she put the gun in his hand, which said volumes about the level of trust she apparently had in him. Until that moment, she hadn’t even realized that she trusted him at all. Where he’d come from, how he’d known she was in trouble, and why he hadn’t stuck with their plan were all questions that chased one another through her brain. Bottom line: she didn’t care. He could answer them later. For now, he was here, and that was enough.

Handling the gun like a man who knew what to do with it, Cal followed Ivanov to the mudroom and stooped over the man’s supine body. Trailing him, surprised she could even walk given how rubbery her legs felt, Gina leaned against the doorway and watched as he pressed two fingers below Ivanov’s left ear to feel for his pulse.

“Is he dead?” Her voice had a definite squeak to it. She was still breathing hard, still in fight-or-flight mode. The knife in Ivanov’s chest—it was one of the butcher knives from the kitchen. She’d used the set herself when it was her turn on the rotation to cook dinner for the group. She didn’t know how to make much, but her pot roast was incomparable, and the knives sliced through the tough root vegetables like butter . . . She felt herself starting to hyperventilate and deliberately slowed her breathing down. Ivanov’s eyes were still open, but they were glazing over as she watched. His lips were parted and blood and saliva continued to spill from a corner of his mouth. His skin had taken on a distinctly gray tinge.