Rocky Mountain Valor

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  Then he was upon her. Pinning her to the ground, burying her face in the carpeting—smothering her, forcing her hot breath back into her lungs. His hands moved to her throat, his fingers dug into her neck and her breathing stopped. She bucked and writhed, anything to get him off her, to force him to let go. His grip tightened and her vision started to fade. Her arms grew heavy and limp. She dropped her hands away and her fingertips brushed something solid and metal.

  For a moment, she didn’t care. Then she realized what she touched. The lamp. A crude weapon, but something she could use to strike her attacker nonetheless. She reached for the base and wrenched her arm back. She heard the satisfying crack of metal on bone as the light connected with her assailant.

  He pulled his hands away with a howl of pain, and sweet, clean air rushed into Petra’s lungs. She tried to crawl forward, but he still sat on her back, pinning her to the floor. With both hands, her attacker pushed her into the carpet again. She swung the lamp back, striking him again and again. He gripped the base, pulling it from her grasp. But his weight shifted, and she squirmed free.

  On her feet, she rushed not for the door, but the kitchen. Her ears buzzed. Her throat burned. Her vision was filled with a thousand bursting stars. Yet there was only one way she’d make it out of her condo alive. Petra grabbed the knife she’d used for the kale. The man, just a shadow in the darkness, rushed toward her.

  Without thought, she lunged, gripping the hilt of her knife in both hands.

  Chapter 10

  Ian stared at the entrance to Petra’s condominium complex. The wrought iron gate wound around at the top, the filigree reminding him of the fences near St. James’s Park. Maybe going back to England was the answer. In truth, without Mateev, or RMJ, or Petra, there was nothing in the States for him.

  She deserved better than him, a man whose sense of justice was so keen that he’d willingly sacrifice everything—even her—to serve the greater good.

  Like a snake eating its tail, it brought him back to his original question. How were Joe Owens and Nikolai Mateev connected? Beyond Yuri, the dead Russian, there was nothing to directly link the two. But if Nikolai wasn’t involved in Joe’s attack, then who was? Tighter and tighter the coils wound, and Ian felt the squeezing in his chest.

  Well, he’d do no good sitting here. After putting the gearshift into Reverse, Ian backed out of the parking space. He turned the wheel and maneuvered onto the street. He glanced out the window one last time.

  She was there. Petra. Her hair streamed behind her. Even in the dark, he could tell that her face was bloodied. Blood covered her clothes. Ian’s heart stopped for a single beat, seized with terror that he might actually lose Petra. Then his blood began to flow again, hot and full of fury that he’d once again failed to protect her. He threw the vehicle into Park and sprinted to her side.

  “What happened?” he said, pulling her into his arms. She was shaking and he held her tighter.

  “There was someone in my apartment. He attacked me, but I got away.”

  Ian’s spine stiffened. “Did he hurt you? You’re bleeding.”

  She touched her lip. “A little battered and bruised, but I’m okay.”

  Okay? She was far from okay. “You’re covered in blood...”

  “I stabbed the guy with a kitchen knife and just ran.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  She shuddered in his arms. “I don’t think so.”

  “But he might still be in your apartment.”

  “I guess,” she said shakily. “I didn’t stay around to see what he planned to do next.”

  “Did you see his face? Can you identify the attacker?”

  “It was dark,” she said. “He tried to choke me...” Petra’s voice trailed off and he tried to think of something soothing to say. Nothing came to mind. He wasn’t good with sharing his emotions.

  “Get in the car,” he said, “and lock the doors.”

  “If you think that I’m going to sit out here and wait for you while you check my apartment, you are crazy.”

  Ian didn’t have time to argue. He wanted to get into her apartment. And if a neighbor heard or saw something? The police could be here in minutes and he didn’t want deal with the cops. “Let’s go,” he said.

  He’d never been to Petra’s new condo, so she led him to her unit and stopped at the door. He pushed it open.

  The only light in the dark room came from outside, illuminating a small section of carpeting. He found a light switch on the wall and turned it on. An overhead light illuminated the whole scene.

  A trail of blood led from the kitchen to the door, where the knife lay in a puddle of red-black blood. A broken lamp lay in the middle of the room.

  “He was stabbed near the kitchen,” said Ian, putting together the story the evidence told him. “And dropped the lamp. Then he staggered to the door, where he pulled the knife free before leaving through the front door.”

  “Which means he’s gone,” said Petra.

  “Most likely. Did he say anything? Was it the same man from the apartment building? The one who threw you over the railing?”

  “It wasn’t him, for sure,” she said with a shake of her head. “This guy was definitely younger. I could tell by his movements. Whoever it was must’ve been hiding in the bedroom or the bathroom, waiting for me. Do you think it was the same person who attacked Joe?”

  Ian did, and she read the answer on his expression.

  She folded her arms over her chest and looked around the room. “I’m not sure I can stay here tonight,” she said, “or ever again.”

  “You can sleep at my place. But you should change before you leave and maybe even pack a bag for a few days.”

  “A few days?”

  “Until we figure out who broke in to your home and attacked Joe, I’m not letting you leave my sight.”

  * * *

  Ian had stood guard while Petra changed out of her soiled clothes and donned a khaki T-shirt dress and denim jacket. She filled a bag with more clothes and shoes and then they left for Ian’s, since that was the only place he felt safe taking her.

  It was almost ten o’clock by the time they pulled in to his circular driveway. While he prepared a quick dinner of pasta and salad, Petra sat in the living room and flipped from newscast to newscast. They were all the same. The attack on Joe Owens and Petra’s alleged involvement was the top story.

  She had a right to know what the media was saying about her—and yet, Ian couldn’t help but think that there was a great deal of truth in the old adage that ignorance was bliss.

  He filled two wineglasses and walked to the living room. Light from the TV bathed her in a silver light, and his pulse quickened at the sight of her.

  She looked up as he approached. “Here,” he said. “This will help calm your nerves.”

  Petra took the wine and sipped. “If anything else happens today, I’ll need something stronger than this.”

  He laughed at her dark humor. “I wish the news was better, Petra, that they’d be reporting on how we caught the real culprit already.”

  “What if they have, Ian. What if it’s me?”

  He shook his head. “I refuse to believe that you’re guilty.”

  “Well, that makes one.”

  “Sarcasm isn’t going to solve this case,” said Ian.

  “What will, Ian? We’ve run down every reasonable lead to the attack. Face it, none of the other suspects had the opportunity or motive I did.” She quietly cursed. “I’m going to spend my life in jail.”

  “There’s the Yuri Kuzntov angle. Your client was buying drugs from some pretty dangerous men. And then there’s the fact that someone attacked you in your own apartment.”

  “Which was more likely a deranged fan than a Russian gangster. The coverage has been nonstop. Half of Denver must want me dead.”

&
nbsp; “This conversation is getting us nowhere. Come on,” he said, holding out his hand. “Let’s get some food. You’ll feel better after you get something to eat.”

  She ignored his hand and stood. Wine sloshed over the rim of her glass. She bent to lick the liquid from her wrist. Just a flash of pink against her tanned skin. It was too much, and Ian’s mind was filled with scenes of their lovemaking. He had to focus if he was going to help Petra, help himself, and he turned for the kitchen.

  Ian had set the island in the kitchen with the basics. Plates. Utensils. Food. More wine.

  While they both needed to eat, there was more that Ian wanted to discuss. He owed Petra an explanation. He owed her the truth.

  “When I was a kid in England, I didn’t have any goals for my life, didn’t even plan to go to university. But a neighbor of mine, Travis Wetherby, had gone to Cambridge. Travis came home now and again to visit his mum, who lived down the way. Wetherby encouraged my studies and told me if I got the marks to get in, he’d pay my way at university.”

  “That was very generous of him,” said Petra.

  Ian nodded and took a drink of his wine. He let the liquid slide to his stomach and begin to warm him from within. “It was all the encouragement I needed and turned myself around. My marks improved, and I was accepted at Cambridge. Wetherby was true to his word and paid my way. About a month before graduation, Wetherby introduced me to his boss.”

  “And they were MI5,” said Petra, guessing the next part of his story. “You never told me how you got into the agency. I always assumed it was confidential.”

  “It is,” said Ian with a shrug. “But I owe everything I am to Wetherby. Without him, I’d be in Manchester and turning old before my time.”

  Ian took several bites of pasta, giving himself time to think. He wasn’t sure what he planned to share with Petra and what he needed to keep locked up in his memories.

  “You were telling me about how you got your job with MI5,” said Petra.

  “It’s not just about getting the job,” he said.

  She pinned him with her dark brown eyes, eyes where Ian could lose himself—if he weren’t careful. “What’s it about, then?”

  “Sacrifice and honor and keeping promises... I need you to understand.” Ian leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I need you to know why I have to kill Nikolai Mateev.”

  She sat back, her arms folded in that protective gesture she used all too often. Ian felt a seed of irritation grow as she protested, “You don’t have to kill anyone—”

  “Fifteen years ago,” he began, cutting her off. “A lifetime, really, I was on my first assignment. I was in London—in Piccadilly Circus, in fact.”

  Ian tried to stay present, but that foggy London night returned to him and the damp air once again clung to his skin. The stones underfoot were slick with the recent rain; light reflected and wavered in the puddles.

  “I saw him as I ran,” he said. “At first he was just a figure in the distance, but I knew.” Ian stopped and looked at his hands. “He was slumped against a corner and I turned him over. When I did, his coat slipped open and I saw his shirt. It was shredded from too many stab wounds and saturated with blood. It was him, Petra. It was Travis Wetherby.”

  “Oh, Ian,” she said. She reached across the table and took his hand. He hardly felt the touch, his mind was so far into the past.

  “What happened,” he’d asked. His pulse raced and a stitch pulled at his side.

  Travis had said, “I’ve been stabbed and that bloody Russian bastard got away. He has it in a leather case.”

  It. A dirty bomb.

  Ian lifted his gaze to the empty square. Yet he had to get his supervisor help. The man was his friend, not just his recruiter. He withdrew his cell phone and hit the power button. The small wheel that indicated a search for a signal turned and turned. He cursed.

  He felt Travis’s cold hand on his. “Don’t bother with me, lad. You have to stop the bloody bastard. He went to the Tube.”

  “I gave Travis my phone so he could at least call and get help for himself, but I did what he said. I left to go after the Russian and the bomb.

  “I didn’t want to leave him on the street, Petra. Travis Wetherby had given my life a purpose, but he would’ve been disappointed if I didn’t do my duty.” Ian took a swallow of his wine. The candlelight flickered before him, yet he saw the overhead fluorescent lights of the Tube station. The tracks slithered from one yawning tunnel to the next. The scents of motor oil and rubbish mingled in the air. Two homeless men, wrapped in dirty and rumpled trench coats, slept on a bench that was twenty yards farther up the platform.

  “I knew that in a little more than sixty minutes the station would begin to fill with early morning commuters. And in less than three hours, more than one hundred thousand souls would pass that exact spot. Yet there was only one soul that concerned me—Nikolai Mateev, and he was gone.

  “Like Travis taught me, I took in the whole scene, looking for that slight irregularity. The lights. The platform. The homeless men. And then I saw it. The trench coat lining on one man wasn’t right. It was a bright red-and-black check.”

  “Burberry,” Petra offered.

  Ian gave a small laugh. “It was. The overhead light reflected off his very well polished shoes, too. And those were resting on a leather briefcase. I took a step toward them, just as the air started to hum with an oncoming train.

  “Nikolai Mateev sprang to his feet, dragging the real homeless man up with him. He rushed toward the edge of the platform and pushed. With a single shriek, the poor fellow flew onto the tracks. The train rocketed closer to the platform and the homeless man scrambled to his feet. Mateev began to run toward the opposite exit.”

  Ian hesitated. “The question I asked myself then, as I do now, was should I save one person now or thousands later? I chose thousands. I ran after Mateev and tackled him round the middle. We tumbled to the ground and the case skidded from his grasp. There was a tussle, and in the end, Mateev let go. I reached for him—my fingers brushed the fabric of his belt.

  “I remember the platform vibrating as the train came closer. Screams echoed off the walls—from the homeless man or the locomotive, I couldn’t decide. In the end, I couldn’t let one person die when I had the power to save him. I ran to the homeless man and reached for his hand, dragged him toward me. We landed on the concrete, a nuclear bomb between us.”

  “Then you’re a hero, Ian. You saved one person and thousands.”

  He shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. I kept a bomb from exploding somewhere in London, but Nikolai Mateev has killed hundreds of thousands of people with his drugs alone. I let a monster go free. I cannot allow that failure to remain on my conscience.”

  “What happened to Travis?” Petra asked. It wasn’t what he expected; he thought she’d tell him that all life was sacred. Then again, Travis was as much a part of this story as Ian or Mateev.

  “A dozen uniformed bobbies descended the stairs as I was helping the homeless man to his feet. When I told them what had happened and that we needed to search the city for Mateev, they were astounded. One of them bet I’d get the MBE from the Queen, even.

  “I remember thinking—a knight? Sir Ian Wallace? What a laugh. And I said something like, ‘Wait until old Travis hears that one.’ And then I thought to ask, ‘How’s my partner?

  “The bobby told me that Travis had called in the whole thing. But when his gaze drifted to the floor, I knew. He didn’t need to say more. Travis Wetherby was gone, and a part of me died that night.”

  Even now, Ian’s throat itched and his eyes burned. He worked his jaw back and forth, until the pain left his chest. “Sure, we had the bomb—but Nikolai Mateev had gotten away. Travis gave his life for nothing.

  “I left the Tube station and it had started to rain. I remember standing there, my face to the sky, mourn
ing a man who had paid the ultimate price.”

  “Why now?” asked Petra. “Why go after Mateev now, and in Denver, no less?”

  “The name Mateev surfaced last Christmas when Nikolai’s daughter-in-law was accused of kidnapping her own son and bringing him from New York to Colorado. I knew then that fate had given me a second chance to keep the most important promise I ever made—to avenge Travis Wetherby’s death.”

  * * *

  Nikolai sat on the bed in his newest safe house. This was, by far, the worst place he’d stayed. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow pool on the floor. To him, it looked like a puddle of urine on the concrete. The scent of motor oil was heavy in the air and coated his lips.

  He’d been moved to a cavernous dark warehouse. Beyond the pool of piss-colored light, oil drums were stacked one atop the other, soaring to the ceiling. In the half-light they looked like the cooling towers of Chernobyl.

  He still remembered the ground shaking underfoot and the blast of hot air as the explosion reached him twenty kilometers away. The doctors in Kiev had told him there was nothing in the nuclear blast to concern him. And good foolish communist that he was, Nikolai had believed them.

  Then his wife had a baby, a sickly girl with only one lung and a cleft palate. The child died within days and the doctors in Moscow told him it was bad luck and had nothing to do with his time in the Ukraine.

  But by then Nikolai knew better. He had a son living in America who was proof that he could father a healthy child.

  That’s when he became an anarchist. A dealer in drugs and flesh. A terrorist. For Nikolai, it was never about the money—although crime was the family trade and he came to enjoy the finer things in life. It was about forcing societal upheaval. Or it had been, until the diagnosis. And now, it was simply about survival.

  At the bedside stood a long table filled with illuminated monitors. The property’s perimeter was shown from a dozen different angles. At least he’d be warned if someone arrived, although in truth there was no way to stop an assault on the compound.