Precious Cargo

by Brenna Zinn

  Mila was right. He was going to smell like hell when he finally got out. The available air where he lay was almost un-breathable. His nose, mouth and lungs protested each time he drew in a breath. Could he get black lung from a short ride with moldy linens?

  Mila followed the plan, pushing the cart to the elevator and getting out at the ground floor. When the elevator doors opened, he could hear voices. Though he couldn’t make out what was being said, it was clear two men were talking where he assumed the front desk would be. From the sound of the conversation, one man was asking questions and the other was on the defensive.

  Duke peeked through one of the holes he’d cut in the front of the cart while Mila headed to the door leading to the parking lot. She opened the door and pulled the cart over the threshold. The cart, Duke and all the towels bounced.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  His view was better than he’d expected. He could make out the black SUV parked front-forward into a stall a few slots down the sidewalk. Unfortunately, because of the layout of the building and the parking lot, they would have to go in front of the SUV or behind it to get where they needed to go.

  Duke quickly assessed the scene. Two men were with the SUV. A driver, who had to be at least two hundred and ninety pounds of pure muscle, sat behind the wheel, checking his phone with his thick fingers. A cigarette dangled from his bottom lip. The driver-side window was rolled halfway down, and smoke billowed out.

  The other man had gotten out of the SUV. He leaned his butt against the front grill of the vehicle, one foot resting on the bumper. He too looked big, but more along the fat side rather than muscle. He also held a cigarette in his mouth. Evidently Ukrainians could give a shit less about lung cancer.

  The poor lighting made it difficult to make out much more. If either man carried weapons, he couldn’t see them.

  Both men turned their attention to Mila and the cart as she rolled along. She didn’t stop or alter the pace of her steps. She pushed the cart to the edge of the sidewalk and over the lip to the parking lot asphalt and kept moving. Duke was prepared for the resulting jolt. While the cart bounced, he shifted, moving his head to a hole he’d created on the side.

  The man in the driver’s seat resumed looking at his phone. The man at the front of the SUV straightened.

  “You. Girl. Stop.”

  Mila didn’t respond. She kept moving, maintaining the tempo of her strides.

  “I said stop,” the fat man said, his voice louder.

  The driver looked over the edge of his phone.

  She stopped.

  Duke clasped his gun, finger at the trigger.

  “Are you talking to me?”

  An accent altered her voice. She sounded as though she came from rural eastern Ukraine.

  Clever girl.

  “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

  The man stepped closer. The driver continued looking over his phone.

  “Going to the dumpster. These towels are covered in mold. The maid on the fourth floor quit before she had them laundered and now they’re ruined. My boss told me to take them to the trash. There’s a dumpster on the side of the hotel.”

  The man took a few more steps, his leather shoes silent on the pavement. When he stood only a few feet from Mila, he stopped, blocking Duke’s view of the man behind the steering wheel. He could only make out the lower half of the fat man’s body. Because of the man’s weight and the tightness of his pants, his stomach bulged over his belt, as did the gun at his waist.

  Hopefully Mila saw the sidearm as well.

  Duke pressed the end of his pistol’s barrel to the side of the cart and aimed straight at the fat man. If the guy made one wrong move, he’d shoot through the canvas. The big guy would be dead before he hit the ground.

  “Ugh. Those things smell terrible,” the man said.

  “That’s why I’m throwing them away. We can’t put them out for guests to use. There’s not enough bleach in the city to get out the stench and the stains.”

  The man leaned forward. “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Natasha. I go by Tasha.”

  She hadn’t hesitated with her answer. The woman was, without a doubt, ballsy and brave.

  Several beats passed. Duke could hear the man sucking in air as he took a drag from his cigarette and let it out.

  “Your name is Tasha, hum? You don’t look like a Tasha,” the man said, dropping the half-smoked cigarette on the ground.

  The tips of Duke’s fingers tingled. He could feel adrenaline seeping into his blood, his heart beating faster.

  “I’m sorry. But I have to get back to work.”

  The cart jerked abruptly as she resumed walking, along with Duke’s positioning. His eye was no longer at the hole in the canvas. His line of sight was gone.

  At such close range any movement he made within the cart might be noticed by either man.

  Fuck!

  “I didn’t say you could leave.”

  The cart jolted to a stop.

  “Get your hand off of me!”

  Something bumped the cart.

  Shoes shuffled on the asphalt. More bumping.

  Frustration added to the adrenaline in his veins. There was no way of knowing exactly where Mila stood. He didn’t have a clear shot.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

  “Or what? You going to tell your daddy, Mila Bartosh? Oh yes. I recognize you. Where’s the man your father hired? Is he in that cart?”

  That was all Duke needed to hear.

  He popped up on his knees, keeping his center of gravity low in preparation for the cart’s forward pitch caused by his sudden movement. Hand steady, he aimed at where he’d heard their voices and saw Mila struggling with the man. He held one of her wrists in his meaty grip. In his other hand he held a gun to Mila’s head.

  The driver’s side door of the SUV opened and a key-in-the-ignition warning chimed.

  The man holding Mila jerked slightly at the sound. Mila stomped on his shoe and bent forward. The man’s rotund upper body was clear. Duke took aim and fired.

  Blood sprayed from the man’s neck. His face held a look of utter disbelief. He lost his hold on Mila and she fell to the ground. He lifted his hand, gun still tight in his fingers.

  Duke fired five rounds in rapid succession. Two hit the fat man’s chest. The other three hit the side of the small car separating them from the man from the black SUV, just below the car’s gas cap. Gasoline poured rapidly out the three holes.

  A shot rang from the gun of the SUV’s driver who now stood behind the car separating them from the black SUV.

  Duke’s shirtsleeve pulled before he could duck. The side of Duke’s arm burned as though being touched by a fiery-hot poker.

  The scene in the parking lot suddenly felt like chaos. The smell of gas filled the air. The SUV’s chime continued to blare out its warning. The driver yelled to his partner.

  Still on the ground, Mila reached out and picked up the half-smoked cigarette dropped by the fat man. She took a quick puff. The tip glowed bright red. She rolled and tossed the burning cigarette beneath the small car, where a large puddle of gas had formed and spread.

  The fumes instantly ignited. Everything in or around the puddle burst into flame, including the shoes and low-hanging trousers of the SUV’s driver.

  The driver screamed.

  He ran from behind the car then stomped his feet, attempting to put out the blaze. The fire flicked and danced around his calves.

  Ignoring the pain in his arm, Duke pointed his pistol at the man and squeezed the trigger. Then pulled the trigger again. Double tap.

  The man crumbled into a burning heap.

  Duke pulled himself from the cart and raced to Mila, helping her stand despite the pain in his arm.

  “Into the SUV. The keys are still in the ignition. We’ll ditch it as soon as we get the hell out of here.”

  Mila didn’t budge. She looked past Duke then raised her hands.

  “Drop
your weapon, Gunnison, and turn around. I never shoot a man in the back.”

  The voice, both confident and cocky, was unfamiliar, but Duke had no doubt who spoke. The man had used his name. The only people in the entire country of Ukraine who knew his name were Mila, Yure, Laramie, Major Mazure and a handful of Mazure’s men.

  Mazure must have used the phone and led Ivanov to where they were.

  Yure’s intuition was right. Major Mazure was dirty and in bed with the mafia.

  “What’s going to stop you from shooting me when I turn around, Ivanov?” Duke shouted over his shoulder.

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “That’s not much of an incentive.”

  “Then how’s this. You can die knowing that Mila Bartosh will be in safe hands. She’ll be delivered with care to people I know in Russia. If her father completes his negotiations in ways my friends find acceptable, she will be released, unharmed.”

  Mila’s gaze flicked to Duke. Fear filled her brown eyes.

  “Now drop your gun, nice and slow, or I change my back-shooting policy.”

  Duke considered all his options. They were few. And what he had could end with him taking a bullet, or worse, a bullet finding Mila. He couldn’t take that chance.

  A stray thought from earlier that day replayed in his head.

  He’d sacrificed his happiness for hers. He’d put the person he cared about above everything else.

  That’s what love was all about, wasn’t it?

  Yes.

  Duke finally nodded. “Alright, Ivanov. I’m putting my gun down.”

  He removed his fingers from the pistol, holding its weight carefully with his thumb and his palm as he extended his hand from his side. Slowly, he bent and placed the weapon on the pavement. As he stood, his back still to Ivanov, he mouthed the words I love you to Mila.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes blurry with tears. “So very sorry.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The sharp squeal of tires sounded from the driveway leading to the parking lot, followed by the tat-tat-tat-tat-tat of a light machine gun.

  Duke leapt on Mila, taking them both to the ground. He turned and saw a white truck charging full speed at Ivanov, a man firing a machine gun standing behind the cab. Then Duke focused on Ivanov.

  The mob boss, hated by so many, looked just as he remembered from the pics he’d seen. Tall, fit, muscular. Hair cut so short his scalp could be seen. But now Ivanov had four bright spots of red in his torso that were beginning to run in crimson rivulets down his shirt. Exit wounds always bled more than entry wounds.

  Ivanov dropped his gun. His knees buckled. He’d started a slow fall to the pavement when the white truck slammed into him, sending his body flying. He landed with a sickening thud a mere ten feet from where Duke lay over Mila, his face mercifully turned away.

  The truck came to a screeching halt. A man with thick white hair and a bushy white and gray beard and mustache stepped out, holding a rifle. Though the man had to be deep in his fifties or early sixties, his body was remarkably solid, his strides long and confident.

  The man strode to Duke’s gun and kicked it aside. Then he walked to where Ivanov lay. Using his boot, he turned over Ivanov’s body. He bent and checked for a pulse. When he stood, he looked around, taking in the scene, then Duke and Mila. He raised the rifle, the end of its barrel aimed at Duke’s head.

  “I assume you are not with this man.”

  “No,” Duke somehow said. His heart hammered in his chest. His arm burned like the devil. He cut his gaze to his gun. The weapon was too far to consider lunging for. The hairspray in his boot and the gun in Mila’s pocket were also just beyond an easy reach. He was defenseless.

  But beneath him, Mila still breathed. Her choppy inhales and exhales were beautiful music to his ears.

  The bearded man shifted the end of his gun toward Mila.

  “You are Mila Bartosh, no?”

  Duke felt Mila suddenly still. He looked down. Mila’s questioning gaze bore into his.

  “Who wants to know?” Duke asked, turning his head back to the man.

  “I am Dmytro Kozak. Yure Bartosh sent me.”

  Yure?

  The hell?

  “Yes,” Mila said on a pant. “Yure is my father. He sent you?”

  A slight smile tugged on the old man’s lips.

  “Not so much sent, per se. He informed me how I might locate Alik Ivanov. He believed Ivanov was looking for you. Find one, he said, and I’ll find the other.” He gestured his head toward the hotel. “I’ve been tracking your personal phone for the last fifteen minutes. I had hoped to get to Ivanov before he got to you.”

  Kozak lowered his gun and reached out a hand to Duke, helping him up, and then Mila. “Are you hurt?”

  Mila quickly examined herself. “I’m fine.” She glanced to Duke and her eyes grew large. “Oh my God. Duke, you’ve been shot.” She raised his arm and spread the torn, bloody material of his shirt. A deep gash cut through the skin, but there was no penetration. The bullet had only grazed him.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve had much worse, I promise you.”

  “I need to clean this wound and dress it before it becomes infected.”

  He gently removed her hand. “No. Right now we need to leave.”

  “Yes,” the old man agreed. “Before anyone else comes. My men will take care of things here.”

  “At least let me put something on it to help stop the bleeding.” Mila removed the maid’s coat. Ripping the thin material in the back, she fashioned a long strip that she tied around his arm.

  “Now can we go?” he asked as she knotted the makeshift bandage. Although Yure might have sent Kozak to remove Ivanov as a threat, Duke certainly didn’t know this man, or any of the men in the truck, particularly the one in the back with the machine gun. The faster he and Mila made tracks, the better.

  “Okay. Let’s go.” Mila placed her hands around Kozak’s arm. “Thank you.”

  A sparkle flickered in the old man’s eyes. “Tell your father my debt to him is paid in full.”

  She smiled. “I will.”

  Favors and debts. Two ways friends were tested and things got done, even in Ukraine.

  Without a backward glance, they ran the length of the parking lot to the rusted pile of junk Dupree called a car. Duke pulled the key from his pocket, unlocked the passenger door and settled Mila in. When he got situated in the driver’s seat, he placed the key in the ignition and turned.

  The engine made a slight whirring noise.

  Duke tried again.

  The whirring noise sounded again. This time a fraction stronger.

  “Come on, baby.” He caressed the dashboard. “We’ve got to get the fuck out of here. Now is not the time for dicking around.”

  He cranked the engine a third time.

  A loud bang popped from the car’s tailpipe. Mila let out a small shriek. Another hit of adrenaline shot into Duke’s blood. Instinctively, he reached for his gun, but it wasn’t there. The weapon lay across the parking lot where he’d dropped it. His mind nagged to retrieve it, but the man in the back of the truck with the machine gun looked as through he was itching for something else to shoot.

  Everything is okay, buddy. Let’s roll.

  He put the car in gear and sped out of the lot, promising himself to never lay eyes on the shitty hotel ever again.

  “You okay?” Duke turned his head, checking her expression with her answer.

  She only nodded, but her face held a weak smile.

  “You did great back there. Top notch. Lighting the gas vapors with the cigarette was brilliant.”

  “You said use every available resource. I did.”

  Reaching over, Duke found her knee and squeezed.

  “So you did, darlin’. So you did.”

  They drove until they found a restaurant still open. Though the waitress wrinkled her nose each time she stopped by their table, the food they were served was hot and filling. By the time they were
finished, Mila looked as though she was fighting to keep her eyes open. So was he. Between fighting bad guys and jet lag, he was baked.

  “Hotel?” he asked.

  “Hotel,” she agreed.

  After a hot shower, they fell into bed, too tired to think about anything but setting the alarm on the clock radio on the bedside table. Duke pressed the length of his body against Mila’s and closed his eyes. For the first time in two years, he fell asleep and stayed asleep. No bad dreams filled with remorse over the love he’d left in Crimea.

  Four hours later, they rose and left for the airport. Just as Dupree had instructed, Duke parked the car in the parking lot, stashed the keys in the glove compartment, and locked the car doors. He had to agree with the former CIA agent’s philosophy about the rusted bucket of bolts. If someone bothered to break into it and steal it, good riddance.

  They walked arm in arm under the yellow glow of lamplight the short distance to the front of the airport, the dawn still over an hour away. Although still tired and his arm smarted like hell, a strong feeling of satisfaction settled over Duke. Aside from reuniting with Mila, he hadn’t known what to expect from this side job offered by The Omega Team. His first day had been quite a doozy. He’d been slapped, shot at, made love to by the woman of his dreams, met two retired CIA agents, rode in a nasty maid’s cart and was shot at again. Topping the day, he’d started down the road toward fixing his relationship with Mila. His future was finally starting to look bright.

  Damn if it wasn’t one of the best days he’d had in a long while.

  They spotted Laramie and Yure near the security line. The old man ran to Mila and wrapped her in his arms.

  “You are safe. Thank God.”

  “And so are you.” Mila kissed his cheek.

  Laramie handed Duke a ticket. “You have your passport?”

  Duke patted his back pocket. “When I travel, I never leave without it.” He gave the paper a quick glance. “Berlin?”

  “It’s the first flight out.” Laramie removed his passport from the inside of his jacket. “We leave in ten minutes. From there, we’ll book a flight to Budapest.”

  They cleared security and went directly to their gate. The airline staff was already boarding the plane. Minutes later, they sat in plush first-class seats. The plane taxied down the runway then lifted off. They had managed to leave Lutsk all in one piece. The first leg on their journey was underway.