Rocky Mountain Valor

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  He sank deeper into the shadows. Prudence told him he should leave and contact his bodyguards. They were only going to get pizza and could be here in less than five minutes and then Nikolai would disappear. But then what would that mean? Had he truly become ancient and infirmed, chased away by a girl?

  He watched her from the shadows, a predator with its prey. The woman checked her phone and gave a disgruntled sigh. Even from the ground, he could see the firm set of her jaw and the furrow between her eyebrows. He was adept at reading people and without question, this woman was waiting, and unhappy. It also meant she was far from vigilant.

  A plan came quickly. It was simple and brutal, and best of all, required no one but himself.

  Walking quietly up the stairs, he paused on the landing. His breathing was labored and the pain in his bones had returned. Yet his pulse was strong and power flowed through his veins. He braced his legs and charged. The woman looked up and gasped at the sight of him. Eyes wide, her jaw hung open. Nikolai Mateev shoved the woman and she tumbled over the railing.

  Chapter 9

  Ian heard Petra’s scream, and his blood turned cold. He leaped from the floor and sprinted out the door.

  The walkway was empty. Petra was gone—vanished. The echo of her shriek had already faded.

  He turned in a quick circle, his eyes taking in everything at once. He saw them—a set of hands, clutching the bottom rung of the railing. Petra. Her knuckles were white.

  He dived forward and grasped her wrists. “I’ve got you,” he said. “But don’t let go.”

  Petra stared up at him. Her face was chalky and her skin was damp with perspiration. His hands slid. He clasped tighter, his fingers biting into her arm. She squirmed and her feet thrashed. One shoe slipped from her foot, silently somersaulting through the air before landing with a thump in the courtyard below.

  “Ian,” she gasped. Her own hands slid, until just her fingers were hooked over the metal rung. “I can’t hold on much longer.”

  A sharp crack broke the afternoon quiet. It registered as a gunshot and Ian flattened completely.

  Just as quickly, he realized that the noise hadn’t come from a firearm, but someplace just as deadly. One of three bolts that held the section of railing in place had cracked. The entire structure bowed outward. Petra screamed, but didn’t let go.

  If one of the other bolts broke, the whole section would topple, sending Petra to the courtyard twenty feet below. Then again, maybe that was the best way to save her life.

  “Look at me,” Ian said to her. She lifted her wide eyes to his. “I have an idea. It’s a longshot, but the only shot I have.”

  Her face went gray. “Okay,” she said. “I trust you.”

  “I’m going to let go of your arms,” he said.

  Petra began to shake her head. “No, Ian. Don’t. This railing’s weak. It could fall at any minute.”

  He ignored the fear in her voice and the dread in her expression. “That’s what I’m counting on. I’m going to kick the other bolts loose.”

  “You’re going to what?”

  “You have to hold on to the railing and I’ll lower it down. At the end, you’ll have to drop, but it’ll only be a few feet.”

  “What if you can’t hold on to the railing?”

  That was the real question, wasn’t it? Ian refused to fail. The alternative would be devastating to Petra—to him. “I won’t let you get hurt,” he vowed.

  Petra bit her bottom lip. Their eyes met. “There’s no other way, is there?”

  Ian shook his head. “Hold on,” he warned, “and don’t let go until I tell you.”

  “Got it,” she said.

  Ian paused, his hands on her wrists. He wanted to tell her more, say something. But what? The moment was too important to waste on words.

  “Don’t let go,” he said again.

  He stood and aimed his toe at the middle bolt. He kicked. His foot connected with solid metal. He kicked again and again. The railing undulated.

  “Ian,” Petra said, fear in her voice, “I can’t hold on.”

  The bolt cracked and the whole railing flipped outward. Petra bounced, jostled like a rag doll. But her grip held. Ian grabbed the fastened end of the railing and shoved, once, twice, feeling his muscles burn with the effort. The final bolt broke. The whole segment teetered and Ian braced his legs. The weight of the railing, plus Petra’s slim body, pulled him forward.

  His arms ached. Sweat streamed into his eyes, blinding him. He took one step, until the tips of his shoes were even with the edge of the walkway, and glanced down. Petra dangled from the segment of railing, still several feet from the ground.

  “I can’t lower you any more,” he said. “You’ll have to jump.”

  Petra looked over her shoulder and then back at him. She closed her eyes and let go.

  * * *

  Petra hit the ground, feet, knees, face. For a moment, she was back in Joe Owens’s hallway. Her head was pounding. There was shuffling from behind and then pain exploded at the back of her skull. She tried to grasp the memory, but it slipped away, like sand through her fingers.

  The metal railing clattered to the ground behind her. She stood, and pain shot through her ankle. She hobbled forward and looked up. Ian remained on the third floor. The sun shone down, surrounding him in a halo. He really was her guardian angel.

  “Are you okay?” he called.

  “I’m standing,” she said, “which means a lot.”

  “Stay where you are. I’m coming to you.”

  Ian was at her side in an instant. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. Petra leaned into the embrace, allowing him to keep her upright.

  “You’re safe,” he said. He stroked back her hair. “How did you end up out there? Did you fall? Faint?”

  Petra shook her head. “It all happened so quickly, but there was a man. He came out of nowhere, rushed at me and pushed me over the railing. Thank God I was able to grab it as I fell.” She melted into Ian’s chest. His strength and warmth made her feel safe and alive.

  He went rigid. “A man? What man?”

  “It’s not someone I know, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Did he say anything? Could you tell if he had an accent?”

  Petra backed away. “What are you thinking? That I was attacked by some Russian drug lord?”

  “I don’t know what to think. But we should get out of here, in case the guy comes back. Can you walk?” Ian retrieved her lost shoe. “Should I take you to the hospital?”

  Petra slipped the ballet flat on, then winced as she put pressure on her foot. But it wasn’t a stabbing pain that made her think she’d broken anything vital. “Honestly, I’m fine. Sore, but fine.”

  Ian wrapped his arm around her once more, taking much of her weight. He led her through the courtyard and back to the road. “Did you see the man’s face? Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Maybe,” said Petra. “He was an older guy. Caucasian. White hair. He was big and obviously strong. Sound like someone you know?”

  “Could be. Let’s get you into the car.” Ian helped Petra across the street and held her steady as she climbed into the SUV. He rounded to the other side and got into the driver’s seat. After pulling the door closed, he asked, “Would you be willing to look at a picture?”

  Petra didn’t have the energy to fight. “Sure,” she said.

  Ian took a tablet computer from the glove compartment and tapped on the screen. He handed the device to Petra. She stared at a black-and-white image of three men standing next to a large sedan. Collars on trench coats were pulled high. One man held a cigarette. A haze of smoke surrounded his head.

  “Is the man who attacked you in this picture? Keep in mind, this photo was taken more than ten years ago, so he might’ve aged since.”
<
br />   Petra handed the computer back to Ian. “I don’t recognize any of them.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She closed her eyes, bringing back the split second when the man had attacked. Her heart raced and her stomach reeled with the weightlessness. The man’s face had been red and covered with a sheen of sweat. His eyes were narrowed. His mouth was twisted in a sneer.

  She opened her eyes and looked at the photo again. The man with the cigarette had his lip lifted in a sneer. She pointed to the picture. “It might be him.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Ian.

  “Not really,” said Petra, with a shake of her head. She looked at the picture again. All three men had similar builds, similar looks. “It could be any of them, or none of them. I’m sorry I’m not more helpful. We should still call the police. There’s a madman on the loose and we don’t want him to hurt anyone else.”

  “No,” said Ian.

  Petra’s hand trembled with pent-up frustration. “No? No? Why not?”

  “For starters, we knew where he was, not where he is. If it is Nikolai, he won’t come back to this apartment, if for no other reason than his safe house has been made. He’s not that stupid.”

  “Then call the police so they can look for him.”

  “Sure, but for what? An old guy with white hair and a bad attitude?”

  She tried to think of something to say. But why? Ian would counter any argument she made—he always did. “I can’t believe you won’t call.”

  “I don’t need the police, because I’m going to handle Nikolai Mateev my way.”

  Her breath stilled, as if her body understood his meaning a split second before her brain. “This is why you shut down RMJ, this is the secret you won’t share with me. You don’t want anyone else involved because you’re going after him yourself. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Ian leaned his arm on the door handle. Thumbnail pressed to his lip, he looked out the window. He didn’t deny her accusation. He didn’t respond to her question. And that was an answer all on its own.

  “Who is he?”

  “Nikolai Mateev. I’ve told you that already.”

  “You can’t be that cold-blooded, Ian.” He still gazed out the window. Petra tried to guess what had captured his attention. She saw nothing beyond his reflection, faint and distorted.

  “I should’ve killed Mateev years ago.”

  “Damn it, Ian, you aren’t so unfeeling as to murder someone, if that’s what you plan to do. How can you not care about what’s right and wrong?”

  “I quit having feelings a long time ago. And there’s nothing I won’t do to stop Mateev—lie, cheat, kill.”

  Then she understood something else, as well. “You aren’t really helping me, either, are you? Joe knew your dead Russian, who knew Mateev. And you think that by finding Joe’s attacker, you’ll find Nikolai.”

  “It’s not that I’m not helping you,” said Ian. “But we can have different needs that meet the same goal.”

  Different needs. That had been their problem all along. How had she not seen it then? Like a good mystery, the clues had all been there; she’d just refused to look.

  No longer. From here on out, Petra knew what she was dealing with—a man who was ruled by his obsessions. Despite the pain in her chest, she laughed out loud. The sound was hollow.

  “So now this is all amusing?”

  Wiping her eyes, she said, “It’s not funny at all. Sad, more like it. Ever since I showed up at your house, I’ve had this fantasy that...I don’t know, things might work out between us. That somehow I wasn’t responsible for Joe being in the hospital, and in the end, you and I would be happy and together.”

  “And that’s sad?”

  “It is if it’ll never happen. And it won’t, Ian. Even if you found Nikolai Mateev and killed him today, it’d never happen. You know why?”

  “No,” he grumbled, “but I assume that you’re going to tell me.”

  “Because you will always be consumed with something, but it will never be me. I’m not the thing that will keep you awake at night or working until dawn.”

  Turning his gaze to the window, he said, “That’s not fair. Everything I did, I did for you—for us.”

  She wanted to laugh again, or maybe just cry. “Do you really believe that, Ian? Or was it all an excuse—just like helping me with Joe got you close to Mateev?”

  He turned to her, and his look had the power of a hurricane. He could storm all he wanted. This time, she refused to back down. “I can’t help you murder an innocent man.”

  “Nikolai Mateev is a lot of things. Innocent isn’t one of them.”

  “See?” she said. “That’s it exactly. I can’t compete with your fixations. Nothing can.”

  “What do you want me to say? I told you the truth. I am helping you, but I’m also helping myself. There’s no rule that says I can’t get something I need, too.” He looked back to the window and gave a snort of a laugh. “Or is there? Is there some unwritten rule you have where I should focus only on you?”

  As if she’d gotten sucker punched, her middle contracted and she felt as if she might retch. And yet she had been struck—with the force of his words. “We aren’t going anywhere else. Take me home, Ian.”

  “What about the media? I thought they were camped out at your complex.”

  “I just need to get away,” she said. The words felt heavy on her tongue.

  “That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it, Petra?” He started the engine and pulled onto the street. “Whenever anything gets too hard, you run away.”

  “Knowing that I’ll never be important enough for you, and then leaving, isn’t running away. It’s being smart.”

  “That’s the thing with me, though, Petra. I don’t quit. I don’t leave because things get tough. I might not have been home for dinner every night, but I always came home. I never left—not even after you were gone.”

  * * *

  Thank goodness the TV reporters had tired of waiting for Petra and had left the complex. The air in her apartment was stale and pressed down on her flesh. She shut the door and dropped her purse on the coffee table. The bag fell to the side and her eye was drawn to Ian’s phone. Damn. She’d have to see him one more time to return his cell and get her car.

  Or better yet, she’d take an Uber to his house, then mail the damn phone, along with a note that he should donate her clothes to a worthy organization.

  With that decision made, she dropped to the sofa and let her body meld into the cushions. Her life was far from perfect. Accused of attempted murder, no job, no money—and now, no Ian. But she’d walked away from harsh circumstances before and survived. She assumed that she could do it again.

  It’s just that she’d gotten used to having Ian at her side again, which was clearly a huge mistake.

  Petra inhaled deeply, hoping that a few yoga breaths would settle her nerves...but something unfamiliar sent a bolt of fear through her. She sat up, her spine rigid, her heart racing. The smell...what was it? It was like spoiled milk. Had something gone bad in just two days? And why was it so frightening? Or maybe residual emotions from all she had gone through would put her on edge from now on.

  Petra wandered to the kitchen and opened the fridge. A swath of yellow light illuminated a wedge of the floor. The nearly empty shelves held salad fixings and a bag of deli meat. Nothing out of the ordinary. And yet...

  She looked over her shoulder into the living room. The last rays of sun were retreating across the space as the day ended. She looked up at the TV mounted to the wall. The room was reflected in the screen, but she swore that she saw...something. A shadow...a man.

  No. Just her imagination.

  She turned on a lamp, the artificial light spilling across the floor. Then she moved to the blinds and pulled them closed, safely hiding her away. Tension
she didn’t recall holding slipped from her shoulders and she exhaled.

  “Maybe if I ate,” she said out loud, if for no other reason than she needed to hear the sound of a human voice. She grabbed a bundle of kale from the fridge and began to rinse it at the sink. The sound of a footfall came from behind.

  Petra whirled around. There was no one.

  She turned back to the counter and grabbed a knife from the block. She glanced once more over her shoulder before stripping the leaves from the stalks. The juices stained her hands and the scent of freshly cut greens filled the kitchen, overpowering the lingering stink of rot.

  The lights went out.

  She froze.

  A fist connected with her spine. Petra lurched forward. Pain shot through her body. She could not breathe, could not move, could not think.

  A hand grabbed the back of her hair, slamming her face into the counter. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth as her lips began to throb. By instinct alone, she pushed off the counter with all her weight, knocking her attacker off balance.

  Her head snapped back. Her attacker’s hand was still tangled in her hair. The force sent them both to the kitchen floor. They landed on their backs, with her atop him. Like she had so many times on the basketball court, Petra drove her elbow into his stomach. He wheezed with the impact and the grip on her hair released.

  She scrambled to her feet, lunging for the door. A hand wrapped around her foot and yanked up. Petra tumbled forward, hitting the floor hard. She flipped onto her back and kicked out as a form grew from the darkness, connecting with the man’s middle. With a muttered curse, he stumbled back.

  On hands and knees, she crawled forward. The door was so near, if she just reached out she could touch the handle.

  Another blow struck her on the side of the head. Petra’s ears buzzed. Tears filled her eyes. She fell to the side, her shoulder hitting the coffee table. The lamp tumbled to the ground.