“I almost hate it when they come so cheap,” Nikolai said. “It’s like they’re too stupid to know what to ask for, which means I’m working with an idiot.” He paused. “Done.”
The younger man spoke into the phone, and the older one turned his head to the side and she saw him in profile. Petra went cold. The same man who had thrown her over the railing. The one from Ian’s photo. Nikolai Mateev.
The men talked more about the logistics of their trip, not paying any attention to Petra. It suited her just fine. Every minute counted. Using the heels of her hands and her knees, she scooted backward. Once. Twice.
She dared to lift her head and look over her shoulder, though not for long. Yet she’d seen enough to know that the room was endless, almost the size of a football field, with high windows and no sign of a door. Twenty feet behind her were metal drums meant to hold sixty gallons of liquid, lined up in rows or stacked one atop the next. The towers reached thirty feet into the air and left Petra with the impression of being lost in an industrial forest.
Lifting herself in a crouch, she half scooted, half crawled to the nearest drum and dropped out of sight. Her heart pounded and her breath came short and ragged. She sat still and silent until her pulse slowed. Then she inhaled and listened to the men talking, their voices now nothing more than rumbles of distant thunder.
Petra surveyed her surroundings. The next drum was more than ten feet to her left. In front of her was a wall of metal containers that almost reached the ceiling, blocking her view of anything else—namely a way out. She looked at the windows. Sunshine struggled in through grime-coated glass, allowing diffused light to linger at the top of the room. If she could find the windows, she could find the walls. It also meant that Petra could eventually find the door—and freedom.
She peered around the drum, scanning the room quickly for an illuminated exit sign. There was none, not that she thought it would be that easy. All the same, she had hoped. Her plan, such that it was, was simple. Get as far away from Nikolai and Rick as possible. Find a door. Escape.
She looked at the next drum over. She inhaled. One. Two. Exhale. Go.
Keeping low, she ran.
“Hey!” one of the men shouted.
Petra instinctively dropped down, lying flat on the floor. Her heart ceased to beat. She dared not move, look toward the man who had called out or even breathe.
“Where’d she go?” he asked. It was one of the younger Russians; she could tell by his accent. “The woman’s gone.”
“Gone?” asked Nikolai Mateev. “Well, go and find her. And then bring her to me.”
* * *
Ian Wallace pulled his SUV to the shoulder of the frontage road. The car idled as waves of heat shimmered off the hood. A haze of smog and dust hung in the air, turning the world to faded sepia. He was northeast of Denver, the Rocky Mountains at his back. The Great Plains stretched out before him.
He looked through a pair of binoculars at a complex of abandoned warehouses. It was the size of a small town. Set up in rows, the metal buildings were coated with khaki-colored dust. The road through the center of the complex, long neglected, bucked and bowed with broken asphalt. A few scraggly trees grew near a sagging chain-link fence and a tumbleweed bounced along in the breeze. Already, nature was reclaiming this desolate stretch of land.
He handed the binocs to Martinez, who peered through them and spoke as he surveyed the property. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in years.”
Yet they both knew that wasn’t true. The GPS in Petra’s phone had led them right here.
“Will you look at that,” said Martinez. He handed the binoculars back to Ian. “Just beside the gate. See the yellow sign, right below the No Trespassing one?”
Ian scanned the fencing. He found what Martinez wanted him to see—and he immediately knew why. “Property of Hatch Enterprises. I assume that’s Arnie Hatch, owner of the Colorado Mustangs.”
“You’d assume right,” Martinez said.
Ian didn’t care about corrupt businessmen—not when Petra’s life was on the line. Obviously, Arnie Hatch was a problem to be dealt with, but later and by other people. He returned his thoughts to Petra, and how best to rescue her.
“What bothers me most is the approach,” Ian said. “The whole complex is open. If there are guards, they’ll see us the minute we turn off the road. If they have a sharpshooter, we’ll be dead before getting to the gate.”
“So where does that leave us, General?”
Ian chuckled. “I’m English, you know. It should be Field Marshal.”
It was Martinez’s turn to chuckle. “You’re in America now, my friend. That makes you a general.”
General. Field marshal. They were both supreme commanders, which meant it was their job to lead the troops and decide on battle plans. And there was no question in Ian’s mind that he was at war. “There are two strategies that will work here. First is stealth and the second is overwhelming power. We have neither.”
Ian’s phone sat on the console between the seats. He picked it up and flipped it over and over in his hands. He should have made the call before now. But he hadn’t... “It leaves us with a single option,” he continued. “A frontal assault. It could be suicide, so you don’t have to come.”
“I’m going to be there when Joe’s murderer is arrested. In fact, I’m going to slap on the cuffs and read that piece of garbage his rights.”
“This is serious,” Ian said. “We don’t know who is in that warehouse or what kind of weapons they have. You and I have a couple of handguns, and I can’t ask you to risk your life. You stay here and call in backup.”
“And miss all the fun?” Martinez pulled his sidearm from a holster at his hip. He retracted the slide and chambered a round. “Besides, who wants to live forever?”
Ian nodded and opened his contact list. He selected a name and made a call. It automatically went through the in-car phone system. A single ring came through the SUV’s speakers before being answered.
“I didn’t think I’d hear from you,” Roman said, not bothering with any pleasantries.
Ian ignored the hostile tone and the brusque words. “You’re on speaker and I have Detective Sergeant Luis Martinez with me.”
“And the reason you’re calling is?”
“It’s about Petra and Nicolai Mateev.”
Roman was silent for a moment. “You have my attention, brother.”
Ian gave a quick rundown of the facts as he knew them, ending with his best guess as to why all this was happening. “I think Petra arrived at Joe Owens’s as he was being attacked by Albright, the doctor. Albright and Petra are friends and he knew about her migraines and that she could lose consciousness. He framed her for the crime—and maybe even killed Joe, who was supposed to recover. And now he has to get rid of Petra.”
“It makes sense,” said Roman, “But where does Mateev fit into all of this?”
“My best guess? It was Mateev’s raw drugs, and then money was laundered through Arnie Hatch and his companies.”
As he spoke, Ian knew it wasn’t simply a guess. He was right. And now the rich and powerful were trying to silence anyone who knew their dirty secrets. He added, “I need you to get in touch with Jones. Tell him what we told you.”
“Call him yourself,” Roman said. “He’ll want to hear from you directly.”
“I’m going after her, Roman. I can’t let her die without doing everything in my power to save her.”
“I would tell you to wait. We can have a SWAT team and helicopters to you within the hour. Hell, we can even get a tank. But I know you won’t wait.”
“No,” said Ian. “I won’t.”
“I’ve always got your back,” said Roman.
Ian paused. There was so much he wanted to say. But there it was again, the ticking clock urging him on, every second taking him further
away from his objective—saving Petra. But at least if he died now, Roman would know—and know why.
“Same to you,” he said, and ended the call.
Ian put the auto in gear and pulled back onto the road. He dropped his foot on the accelerator. In less than a minute, the hood was pointed at the closed gate of the industrial park. The tires chewed up the dirt road and spat it behind them in a cloud of dust. Ian crouched low in the seat, tense and ready for incoming bullets.
There was nothing, not even a single shot fired.
He pushed his foot harder on the accelerator. The speedometer climbed. Seventy miles per hour. Eighty. Ninety. He hit the fence as the gauge reached a hundred. The gate flew open, then snapped back after the SUV shot through.
It hadn’t been locked.
Ian took his foot off the gas and let the car idle.
“That was easy,” said Martinez.
He agreed. “It was. I don’t like it. They could be drawing us into a trap.”
“Or maybe Mateev isn’t here at all.”
“Both of those options are awful. But we’ve come too far to turn back now.” Ian pulled his tablet computer from between the seats and found the beacon for Petra’s location. “It’s the second warehouse on the left.”
He drove to the front door and turned off the ignition. The silence was total. Ian felt a target on his forehead and at the same time, the complete absence of another soul for miles—save for Martinez.
They exited the SUV. It felt as if they’d stepped into an oven. An eagle flew overhead, its wings outstretched as it dipped and rose on the thermals. They hadn’t discussed a tactical approach, but Martinez had dropped down behind the quarter panel, his gun aimed at the door, ready to provide backup.
Ian, gun arm outstretched, ran to the building. He pressed his back to the wall. Despite his clothes, the corrugated metal scorched his skin. If there were people in the building, Ian’s arrival was hardly a surprise. Still, he wouldn’t do Petra any good if he got shot.
Maintaining his vigilance, he pushed the door open. His world shrank, becoming one hand on the door and the other on his weapon. He dropped to his knee and pivoted. Pebbles tore the fabric of his jeans and the skin beneath. A wedge of light fell into the darkened room, but even from where he knelt, Ian saw it was empty—save for a red car.
He recognized it at once as the sedan Albright had driven to the football staduim. Caring nothing for caution, Ian rose to his feet and sprinted to the passenger window.
She wasn’t there. He tried the door handle. It opened.
After holstering his gun, Ian dived across the seats for the automatic trunk release. His hand slipped from the seat to the floor.
There, he felt it. He knew it was hers the moment his fingers brushed the smooth metal.
With shaking hands, he picked it up and stood.
Martinez was at his back. With his firearm still out, he scanned the room for threats. “What is it?” he asked.
Ian held it up. “We found the phone, but not Petra.”
* * *
Keeping low, Petra crept toward the next metal drum. The hard floor bit into her knees and scraped her palms, but she ignored the pain, focusing only on escaping.
“You,” said Mateev. “Check the monitors and see if she made it to the front door. You two take flashlights and find her.”
“Me?” Petra recognized Rick Albright’s voice.
“Yes, you,” said Mateev in answer to the question. “You’re the one who decided to frame her for Joe’s murder, so you’re the one who has the most to lose.”
She cursed silently. Rick had used their friendship against her. And now he was hunting her—like he would a wild animal. A fire began in her middle, spreading upward, changing her fear to anger.
Twin beams of light started dancing across the floor. She got to her feet and sprinted the last few yards. The soles of her shoes slapped against the concrete. A beam of light blinded her just as she dived behind a tower of drums.
“There she is,” Rick shouted. “Over there.”
Light shone from around the sides of the drum, illuminating the floor. The drums hadn’t been stacked as closely as Petra had originally thought. They were set in a haphazard maze that wound to who knew where.
Footfalls pounded on the floor as three men approached. She didn’t have time to think of a plan, only move. On her feet again, she dashed behind another tower, darting and running without any destination in mind.
Time no longer held meaning and Petra didn’t know how far she’d run, nor how long, when she finally paused behind a drum. Crouching low, she looked and listened. The beams from the flashlights were gone, as were the sounds of her pursuers. Yet they hadn’t given up—of that she was certain.
With her eyes more accustomed to the dark, Petra found three towers set together to form a darkened alcove. She slipped inside, finally safe, and waited.
Her heart pounded out the seconds. One. Two. Three. In less than a minute, a shadowy figure moved past.
“Petra,” Rick whispered. “I know you’re around here somewhere. I’m not going to take you to Mateev, but you have to come out, so we can talk.”
Did he really know that she was nearby? If he did, then Petra had found the worst place to hide—in a cell of her own making.
“Petra.” Rick’s shadow stretched across the floor.
He had doubled back and paced in front of where she now hid. He had seen her come this way; she was now sure of it. At the same time, he didn’t know exactly where she was hiding. Now she really was trapped. She stepped farther into the shadows.
“Petra,” he said again. “I’m sorry for all of this, really. I didn’t mean for anything to happen—not to you, not to Joe. I’ve gotten myself in too deep with these guys and they’re dangerous. But if we work together, maybe we can both escape.” Rick stopped pacing and exhaled. He stood in an alleyway between the rows of metal containers. His shoulders were stooped, and he shook his head.
Should she trust him? She wanted to. At one time, he had been her friend. And now? She wanted to share the burden of escape with someone else. But then she thought of Joe.
Rick had been his friend, too. He’d been his physician. Joe had trusted him. And now Joe was dead.
As if Rick could read her mind, he began to speak again. “I was working on a painkiller—that’s how it started. But the drugs I used actually did more than help with pain, they made the athletes stronger and faster. Joe tried them, and they worked—he was unstoppable in the Super Bowl, you remember.”
Remember. The one word brought it all back. Petra was in Joe’s hallway, her head pounding and her vision blurry. There was a footstep behind her, she began to turn and sharp pain split her skull. She heard the thwack of something hitting her head. She felt the reverberation in her teeth. Toppling forward, she hit the ground.
Then there was nothing, until her wrist hurt. Her arm was stretched out and she opened her eyes and looked up. It was Rick, sweating and bloodied, dragging her down the hall. Relief washed over her as the last of her memories returned. Yet it was a hollow victory. Her life was still in jeopardy.
Rick sighed, like a man with regrets. Too bad that Petra had no sympathy.
“Like with all medication, there are side effects,” he said, continuing his confession. “They made Joe angry and he couldn’t concentrate. He wanted to stop taking them and let the world know what the meds did. But he’d already ruined his life. He didn’t need to ruin mine. We fought.” Rick’s voice broke. “It became physical and I was taking a pretty good beating. I think he would’ve killed me if I hadn’t stopped him. What I did was self-defense, but I never meant to hurt him. I never meant to involve you.”
The whole scenario became clear to Petra. She understood that while Rick’s car wreck was real, it had also been his orchestration to give him a reason for his i
njuries. Most likely, he’d waited until he saw someone texting and driving, then purposefully hit them. What was the other driver to say about the crash?
“What about last night?” she asked. Her voice echoed in the cavernous space and Rick spun in a quick circle.
“What about it?”
“You tried to kill me in my own apartment.”
He slowly turned toward her hiding place. He looked into the darkness, his eyes narrowed. He knew where she was. She tensed, bracing for the attack. It didn’t come.
“I didn’t go there to kill you,” he said. “I’d taken a set of glasses from Joe’s. One was mine, the other his. I wanted to plant his glass at your apartment. The physical evidence would be insurance for me in case you remembered anything.”
The throbbing in her head amplified, pounding harder with each beat of her heart. But she couldn’t give in. She had to escape. After crouching down, like a runner in the starting blocks, Petra launched herself at Rick. She wrapped her arms around his knees, tackling him the way she’d seen players do on the gridiron.
They both tumbled to the side, hitting a metal drum with a clang that echoed in the cavernous warehouse. She let go of Rick as he toppled to the ground. Looking up, she found the closest window and began to run.
A crack, like the snapping of a whip, came from behind and a spark hit the drum next to her head. A slug ricocheted off the metal before lodging into the floor. She snapped her head around in time to see Rick. With the gun aimed at her head, he pulled the trigger a second time.
Chapter 15
“This way,” one of the Russians called. “The gunfire’s over there.”
Petra didn’t bother to see who found her first. She kept her eyes on the windows—her only point of reference—and ran, weaving in and out among the drums and cans. Then she was there, at the wall. She looked left and right, silently cursing. There was no door—not here at least. Keeping her hand on the wall, Petra began to run again. Ahead, a seam of sunlight shone on the floor. A door.
Rocky Mountain Valor Page 17
