Rocky Mountain Valor

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  Ian didn’t take time to congratulate himself or thank his lucky stars for finding Petra alive and well. Instead, he assessed the situation—and really, it was all crap. Nikolai Mateev was the only one with a firearm. Ian first had to reach Petra and then get her away. If both those things happened—without either of them getting shot—they were still in the middle of a burning building.

  And then it all became painfully simple. His plan of attack had a single focus: save Petra, no matter the cost.

  Ian stepped from his hiding place, hands lifted. “Nikolai,” he called out.

  The Russian lifted his eyes and squinted into the fire. “Amusing, is it not?” said Mateev. “That after all these years we finally meet, face-to-face.”

  Ian found no humor in the situation. “We can get to know each other better later,” he said. “Let Petra go. She can hardly be important to you.”

  “That’s where you are mistaken.” Nikolai stared at Ian, and their eyes locked—neither one willing to look away.

  In the briefest instant, all those years faded and Ian was once again on the damp platform of the London Tube. Mateev’s hand was on the homeless man’s shoulder. They had stared at each other in that moment, too. Then Nikolai had pushed the man onto the tracks and Ian had a choice to make.

  For more than a decade and a half, he had studied Mateev, and was now as familiar with him as he was his own shadow. Was that his gambit now? To use Petra as the latest gaming piece for another escape?

  And then Ian was back inside the warehouse, nothing more than an oven already roasting them alive. He didn’t have time to play games and he cut to the chase. “Petra? Are you okay?”

  Her eyes were moist and shiny as she nodded. Ian wanted nothing more than to hold her and tell her that it would all turn out fine. But what if that was a lie? “What do you want, Mateev?”

  “I want to go to Russia and I want the doctor, Albright, to come with me.”

  Mateev’s first demand made sense. Hell, Ian wasn’t even surprised. But the doctor? “Albright?”

  “If he still lives, he comes with me,” said the Russian.

  “Albright, that piece of crap—he made it out. But I have to ask, why do you want him?”

  “He provides me with treatments. He is useful to me. You will get me out of this fire and let me go free. I have a jet waiting at a local airport and it will be allowed to take off. Once my party has landed safely in Moscow, I will have Petra delivered to the United States embassy. Those are my terms and there will be no negotiation. If you don’t agree, I’ll shoot the woman and then myself. I will not be taken to jail.”

  Ian wanted to ask if Mateev had cancer and if the treatments given by Albright had something to do with that illness. He stopped himself. The why of the situation mattered little.

  “You have a deal,” said Ian.

  “No,” Petra gasped. “Ian, you can’t.”

  He stepped forward. Nikolai got to his feet with more speed than Ian would have guessed. The old Russian grabbed Petra by the arm, pulling her to him and pressing the gun to her side.

  Ian didn’t bother to question whether Mateev was sincere. He was a sick man with nothing to lose. “You have my word,” Ian said. “You will get back to Russia, unharmed.”

  “And the doctor?”

  Albright. Ian wanted to roar. “Him, too.”

  “That’s what I thought. Now, get us out of here.”

  Ian pivoted where he stood, trying to find the path he had taken, but it was gone. A wall of fire marched forward. Saint and sinner, it didn’t matter—foot by foot, hell was coming to claim them all.

  * * *

  Mateev had Petra by the arm. The gun bit into her ribs, bruising her flesh. She didn’t care. How could Ian let Nikolai Mateev just walk away? But she knew better than to ask. It was for her—Ian was doing all of it to save her life. She silently cursed her stupidity for trusting Rick Albright.

  “Don’t let him go, Ian,” she said, pulling away.

  Mateev’s grip tightened. “Stop struggling,” the old man hissed.

  But why should she listen? He wasn’t going to shoot her. She was his only way out of the warehouse and back to Russia. If she could get away from him, he would have nothing.

  It gave her an idea—an absolutely insane idea that just might work.

  She jabbed her elbow hard into Mateev’s middle. He wheezed, his hold loosening. Bringing Mateev’s shoulder back and his elbow at an angle, she twisted and ran.

  Petra bolted forward—toward the flames. They rose in the air, orange and black, mesmerizing and deadly. The heat enveloped her. Each breath burned her nose and dried her lungs.

  Nikolai was right behind her, chasing her, the gun in his hand. “Ostanovites ili ya budu strelyat,” he shouted.

  She didn’t need to know Russian to understand what he meant: get back here, or you’ll get shot.

  Petra had no intention of stopping, any more than he planned to shoot. But she was heartened to hear that he still had his gun. All she needed was the right moment...

  Petra pushed on each drum as she passed, with Nikolai close behind. They were all filled and heavy. And then she found it, a drum of oil that was set apart from the rest, that rocked when she pushed on the rim. She raced to the far side and shouldered the container over. It hit the floor with a crash and oil spilled out in a wave.

  Nikolai was too close to stop. The oil splashed upon him, soaking his clothes. He lost his footing and slipped, holding on to the floor to gain purchase and move forward. Nikolai Mateev stood upright. Oil dripped from his hands and the gun he still held. It stained his knees and turned his face black and greasy.

  “You’re a stupid cow,” the old man snarled. “You want to kill me? Well, now we can both die.” He lifted his gun and took aim.

  * * *

  Nikolai had the woman in his sights. Petra Sloane had proved to be a bothersome creature and he felt no remorse that she would perish at his hand. His finger moved to the trigger. He applied the slightest pressure.

  A blur came in from Nikolai’s periphery, knocking him sideways as the gun fired, the recoil jerking the weapon from his hand. As he went over, he saw the woman dodge behind an oil drum.

  Before he could take aim a second time, Nikolai was flat on his back. Ian Wallace straddled him, his weight crushing Nikolai’s chest. It forced the air from his lungs and prevented him from drawing a breath.

  Yet even as he lay prone beneath his nemesis, he felt the effects of Albright’s treatment finally kicking in, the strength beginning to course into his body. He lifted his hips and hooked his legs over Wallace’s shoulders, pulling the other man back, flattening him to the ground. He drove his fist into Ian’s face. Blood erupted from the Brit’s mouth and Nikolai’s knuckles throbbed from the impact.

  It felt good to hurt. It felt better to cause pain.

  Years of indignation at being hunted and chased filled Nikolai with power. He drew back his arm again, focusing all his strength on Ian’s nose. With as much ferocity as he could muster, he swung his fist once more.

  Ian shifted to the right in the last instant. Nikolai missed the Brit’s face by a millimeter, his fist slamming into the floor. Bone connected with concrete. Pain shot through his knuckles and radiated all the way to his shoulder. His stomach threatened to revolt.

  Then Ian was on his feet.

  The gun was there; Nikolai saw it, just to his left. He scrambled for the weapon, sliding on the oily floor. His fingers found the grip and he rolled to his back and fired. The Brit recoiled and tensed at the noise and the flash, his expression shocked as he realized that he had not been hit.

  Slowly, Ian looked over his shoulder. Even from where Nikolai was sprawled on the floor, he could see the wound’s black-red bloom open and spread across Petra Sloane’s shoulder. Her eyes were wide, a silent scream on her lips. She colla
psed on the floor and Nikolai smiled.

  And then he was in agony. His hand exploded with pain as a blue flame crept from the barrel of the gun to the slide, to the grip, to his wrist. It consumed his exposed hand. He dropped the fiery gun and brushed the flames away. They refused to be extinguished.

  Fire spread up his arms, across his chest and around his back. It spread beyond his neck to his face, his eyes, his scalp. And it spread. And spread, until there was no place left for the fire to go and nothing left to burn.

  * * *

  An invisible fist punched Petra and knocked her to the floor. White heat bored a hole through her shoulder. She tried to push off the floor, but her arm refused to hold her and she fell back.

  Ian was at her side. His fingers dug painfully into her shoulder. “Just lie still,” he said, “and breathe.”

  “That old bastard shot me,” she said, gasping for air. Petra tried to sit up. “I’m bleeding.”

  “I know, love,” he said. “If we don’t keep pressure on this wound you’ll bleed out. Just lie still.”

  A scream came from above. But it wasn’t a sound made by a human. It was industrial, metallic—as the roof bent and bowed. She grabbed Ian’s wrist and pulled his hand from her shoulder. “Go,” she said. “This place is going to collapse any second. You can’t save me and I don’t want you to die trying.”

  “If you think I’m leaving you here, you’re crazy.”

  Tears collected in her lashes. “Ian, I love you. I always have and I always will. Let me go and save yourself.”

  “Petra.” His voice was hoarse. “Don’t talk like that.” He reached for her hand and placed it on her shoulder. He squeezed her knuckles hard. “Hold this wound as tight as you can. Do you hear me?”

  She did, but his voice sounded as if it came from far away. She held her shoulder, and her hand filled with hot blood. Her muscles grew fatigued and her grip loosened. Her eyelids felt heavy.

  “Petra!” Hearing her name roused her. Ian was still at her side, although, inexplicably, he was shirtless. “I’ve made a bandage out of my shirt.” He slid the bandage under her hand. He said, “Don’t move, but stay awake, Petra. You’ve been shot and are in shock. If you pass out, you might not wake up. Do you hear me?”

  She tried to speak. The words wouldn’t come.

  Ian touched her face. “Petra. Stay awake.”

  She could comprehend only one word. Awake.

  “Good,” he said. And then Ian was gone.

  She forced her eyes to remain open, despite the fact that they wanted to close of her own accord. Yet Ian’s dire warning about falling asleep and not waking again stayed with her. She needed to focus on something, anything, yet nothing came to mind. “Awake,” she said out loud. “Awake. Awake. Awake...”

  She was too tired to speak and her words trailed off. Maybe if she closed her eyes for only a moment, it wouldn’t be so bad.

  * * *

  The roof overhead groaned as the structure weakened. Ian had to get them out of the warehouse, and fast. Worse than the ceiling threatening to collapse, Petra had lost too much blood and needed immediate medical treatment.

  And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The fire still raged and was creeping closer with every passing second. The lightbulb above his head flickered once and then exploded, scattering bits of glass on the floor.

  With nothing more than the high windows above for light now, the flames looked brighter, closer, larger. The windows... Ian looked up. More than thirty feet from the warehouse floor, the windows were their only hope of escaping.

  Ian devised a crude plan, improvising with what was on hand. He pushed the hospital bed next to the wall. Next, he retrieved the table that had held the monitors. Leaning it against the wall, he folded the legs in place so they faced out, like rungs of a rickety ladder. Finally, he gathered up fifteen yards of wiring that had been used for the closed-circuit TVs and fashioned a harness.

  He knelt next to Petra. Her skin was pale, and even in the orange-and-red firelight, Ian could tell that her lips were turning blue. Her eyes were opened to slits. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. He wasn’t even sure if she could hear him as he shared his crazy-ass plan. “I’m going to carry you and climb to the top of that table. From there, I’ll break through the window and then we can rappel down. Got that?”

  She didn’t answer. Scooping up Petra, Ian couldn’t, and wouldn’t, think about what would come later.

  With Petra in his arms and the cable looped over his shoulder, Ian used the table as a makeshift ladder. At the top, he inspected the window. The glass was single paned, but thick. He’d hoped for a latch or a slide that opened it. There was neither.

  What he did have was an industrial plug on the end of the cable. If enough force was applied, it could be used to break the glass. Yet hammering through the pane was only the beginning of his problems. Ian would need to keep his balance, while holding a seriously injured person.

  His options were limited. Grasping the plug, Ian struck the glass with it.

  Nothing happened. He hit it again, then again. Jostled by the action, Petra cried out in pain. At least she was still conscious, but how much more could she tolerate before passing out?

  Bracing his legs to balance atop the table, Ian threw a side punch that began in his back and gained power with every inch it traveled from shoulder to arm to wrist to hand. The glass splintered but didn’t shatter.

  Ian cursed. After drawing back again, he swung the plug hard on the window. Cracks spread in all directions and a hole broke in the glass.

  “Ian,” Petra said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Look out. Above you.”

  He turned as a coil of flame, blue and orange, raced across the ceiling, drawn to the fresh air. He cradled Petra to his chest and jumped down, hitting the bed before bouncing to the floor. A haze of smoke and ash surrounded them as the whole ceiling became awash in flames.

  A screeching sound, like auto brakes gone bad, filled the warehouse. A single shard of glass rocketed to the bed, the sharp end impaling the mattress. Another piece fell and then another. But at least the window was open.

  The fire receded as quickly as it came. He had only a minute to get them out before the flames would return, only this time they wouldn’t burn out so quickly. He scrambled up onto the bed, then climbed the legs of the table. At the top, he worked the harness over Petra’s hips and waist, pulling the cords taut. He tied one end to an exposed beam of steel in the window’s casing. Wrapping the ends around his hands, he pressed his feet to the wall and walked up and over the windowsill.

  The whole building undulated. Ian clamped Petra to his chest. “Hold on,” he said. “We have just one shot at this.”

  With one hand grasping the cords, the other gripping Petra tight, Ian pressed his feet to the steel siding and began to walk down. The wall bowed inward from the pressure. Sparks rose from the roof. Ian loosened his grip on the cords and let them slide. The plastic coating burned his palm, but he didn’t care.

  With five feet left, he dropped to the dirt. The ground shook. Holding Petra to his chest, Ian ran, though the cord, a black serpent, tried to tether them to the inferno.

  He wrestled her from the harness as the metal roof screamed and a pillar of fire rose in the air. Ian dived to the earth, covering Petra’s body with his. The roof fell inward and the walls collapsed, the entire building nothing but burned and twisted metal.

  The screech of sirens pierced the silent prairie. The road, a tattered black ribbon, was suddenly filled with speeding vehicles and lights and noise. Once again Ian was on his feet, with Petra limp in his arms.

  “It’s okay,” he said as he ran. “It’s okay. You’re going to be all right.”

  He met the first ambulance as it arrived on the scene. “She’s been shot through the shoulder,” he said to the EMT. A stretcher was produced and Pe
tra was laid on it.

  Her eyelids fluttered open and then closed. Her lips moved. Ian leaned in close to hear her.

  “You made it out of the warehouse,” she whispered.

  “We made it,” he corrected.

  She lifted her hand, so cold, to his cheek. He leaned into her palm, her touch the only thing that mattered.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said an EMT. “I have to start a saline drip on this patient, so we can stabilize her for transportation. I need her arm.”

  “I’m going to be right here,” said Ian loudly, although he wasn’t sure that Petra heard him.

  Her eyelids fluttered, and Ian reluctantly let go of Petra’s hand. The only thing that could keep him away was saving her life. He stepped to the side, a careful eye on Petra and the EMT’s ministrations.

  Roman DeMarco came up at a run. He skidded to a stop. “Ian,” he said. “Damn, I’m happy to see you. I thought... When the roof collapsed, I thought that you were gone for good. I should’ve known it’d take more than an inferno to put you in a grave.”

  Behind them, the fire continued to burn off the last of the oil, the warehouse nothing more than warping metal and a blackened shell. It truly looked like the gateway to hell. “I have no idea how we survived,” he muttered.

  He looked back at Petra. She was pale, even under all the soot. He bunched his fists, full of rage that he hadn’t kept her safe, that in his obsession to find Mateev he’d missed the real person who’d attacked Joe. Rick Albright.

  “Ian,” said Roman, interrupting his thoughts. “Take this.” Roman had stripped out of his flannel shirt, leaving him only in a T-shirt. “You need this more than I do.”

  “Thanks,” said Ian, as he shrugged into the garment. “I used my shirt as a bandage for Petra.”

  “So, are you going to tell me what happened, or do I have to wait for the debriefing?”

  Before Ian could answer, a black SUV with darkened windows pulled up next to the police car. The passenger door opened, and Special Agent Marcus Jones stepped out. Sun glinted off his bald head and reflected in his aviator sunglasses. He smoothed down his tie and looked directly at Ian.