Wiser Than Serpents

by Susan May Warren

  Her hand curled around it just as her attacker grabbed her throat.

  She hit him with everything inside her, all her fury and frustration. An explosion of payback that probably saved her a couple thousand dollars in counseling. Blam! Right on his temple and the man went down.

  On her.

  She screamed, pushing him off her, kicking free and climbing out from under him.

  Ina had vanished into the bedroom, but Gracie could hear screaming. She scrambled toward the sound.

  Or—

  Sokolov sat on top of Vicktor, and whatever had happened ended with Vicktor on the bottom. Sokolov held the sharp end of the ax an inch away from Vicktor’s throat while he leaned into him. Blood coursed out of the wound on Vicktor’s head.

  Vicktor spoke some not very nice words in Russia, real low.

  And Sokolov spit at him.

  Then he elbowed Vicktor, hard in the face. Vicktor didn’t even flinch, eyes on the ax.

  Gracie looked at the rock in her hand, and fired it off.

  She’d played high school softball for just this reason.

  It hit Sokolov in the head, knocked him off just enough for Vicktor to push him away. And that was all Vicktor needed. Just like that he had Sokolov in a submission hold, his hand bent back, Vicktor’s knee in Sokolov’s spine, gripping his neck.

  “Call the police, Gracie!”

  The cell phone, the cell phone. Ina had been reaching for it—yes, there under the table. Gracie dove, picked it up.

  A gunshot sounded from the bedroom.

  Gracie dropped the phone. “Ina!”

  “Nine-one-one, Gracie!”

  But she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Because she saw, in her mind’s eye, Ina, lying on the floor, in a pool of blood, lots of blood, just like her friends in Russia, and she began to shake.

  Sokolov swore, kicking at Vicktor.

  Vicktor shoved his face into the floor. “Gracie! Call for help, right now. Pick up the phone.”

  But she just stared at him, unable to move.

  He must have seen her fear, because his face softened, as did his voice. “It’ll be okay.”

  And right then, she wondered what was so horrible about needing him? Because more often than she liked, her past rose up to haunt her, and she needed his voice in her ear, to break her free from the past. To remind her that she had, and would, live.

  “You’re okay, Gracie. I promise, it’ll be okay. Pick up the phone.”

  She grabbed the phone. Punched in 9-1-1.

  Froze. “If the cops come, you’ll be arrested. They’ll deport you—you’ll never be able to come back.”

  “Call them.” Vicktor looked up at her, eyes dark, fierce.

  As he spoke, Ina came out of the bedroom, blood down the front of her, dazed, stumbling. “I shot him.” She started to shake, dropped the gun on the floor. Then crumpled beside it. “I shot Jorge.”

  Gracie pushed Send.

  Mission accomplished, she’d found her sister. Only, Yanna should probably work on her goal-setting techniques because although she’d found—or hopefully found—her sister, she’d neglected the second half of the plan, which was, and escape alive.

  Oh, yeah. That part. Alive and without getting David killed in the process. Although, when she’d started out on this jaunt into her worst nightmares, she really hadn’t realized how much company she might have.

  Like Trish. Who had gone down hard onto her cement roof terrace, even though Yanna had taken the hit for her, and when Yanna had left, she’d been in a ball, writhing, protecting the life inside her.

  If Yanna ever felt like believing big, and then, perhaps, praying big, it was now. Because she could use someone like God on her side. If He felt like listening or caring. And not only about Trish, for now Yanna had joined a group of women in various stages of hunger and pain and fear. They’d all been shoved into a basement warehouse room, under some thumping noisy club—Yanna guessed casino—and were probably bound for some far-off country to live the rest of their life in bondage.

  And lucky her, she just might be among the statistics.

  “Elena?” Yanna stood there staring at the four tiers of bunks lining the walls, women jammed shoulder to shoulder on them, like something she might see in a prison camp, complete with the smell of sweat and fear. Then the world turned dark as the door closed behind her, metal scraping on metal. It made every nerve in her body gasp. Her eyes struggled to adjust and make out the shapes through the pinpoints of light that broke through the grime of the shoe-box-size window.

  “Elena?” She heard the fear in her voice. She had never been so afraid in her life and didn’t know how to handle this kind of terror. Confirming that really, she’d never been cut out to be a secret agent.

  “Yanna? Yanna!” Movement, somewhere at the end of the room, and then steps, running steps, broken sobs.

  Then someone grabbed her, and she knew, despite the sharp bones and the smell of neglect…Elena.

  “Oh, Elena.” Yanna wrapped her arms around her skinny—now skinnier—sister and pulled her tight, shaking, not sure who might be sobbing harder. “I thought I’d lost you. I thought…”

  “I thought I’d never see you again. I…they…” Elena held tighter, and Yanna didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know what Elena had been through. Maybe she’d ask later, when they were safe and back home. Her imagination was enough to cut off her breathing. She’d never let Elena out of her sight again.

  “It’s okay, Elena. You’re going to be okay. We’re all going to be okay.”

  Not that she actually believed that. Oh, she wanted to believe it, but she had heard what Kwan’s men said as they’d left Cho’s—trade her for David?

  They meant, lure David in. And kill him.

  She held Elena tighter, so tight that she knew it had to be for herself now.

  “I was so scared. I’m such an idiot. Why did I believe that…that Bob, or whoever, wanted to marry me.”

  “You couldn’t know,” Yanna said, running a hand over her sister’s greasy hair.

  “I should have listened to you. Should have stayed in Russia, been like you—independent and strong. I’m so…” Her voice shook. “I’m so stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid.” Yanna backed away, holding her sister’s face in her hands, tipping her forehead down to touch their faces together. “You believed in something. And that’s not stupid. That’s brave. The bad part is that you put your belief in the wrong thing.”

  It’s not a weakness to believe in someone. To depend on them. Especially if that person is out for your eternal good.

  Trish’s words came back to her, and Yanna closed her eyes, pulled Elena to herself. I want to believe. She said the words to herself, to…whoever might be listening. Help me believe.

  Help me believe.

  “It’s not so great to be like me, Elena. I wish…well, there is so much I wish for you. And for me. But right now, I gotta figure out a way to get us out of here.”

  Before, please…God—before David answered Kwan’s page. Because without a doubt, Yanna knew he would want to.

  And Kwan was banking on David’s honor. On his loyalty. He’d seen the way David had gotten her off Kwan’s boat, and even out of his house. Yeah, Kwan knew exactly how to get David’s attention.

  She closed her eyes. But why, exactly, would David trade his life for hers?

  He wouldn’t—no, couldn’t. Because even though they cared about each other, they were just friends. Really good friends, yes, but in the end, David had a mission.

  And that mission wasn’t to save his Russian friend from human traffickers. He’d abandoned his agenda for the past few days trying to help her, but at heart David was a patriot. And if that meant sacrificing friends…

  Breaking promises.

  Yanna tightened her jaw. She had to do this alone and, despite Trish’s words, depend on no one but herself.

  She put Elena away from her. Then she reached up and pulled her earring
from her lobe. “Anyone here still holding a watch? And maybe, some gum?”

  “I want to marry you.”

  Vicktor turned at Gracie’s voice and watched her as she came into the room, drying her hands on a towel after she’d done her best to wash the blood off Ina. Yes, Jorge was dead, thanks to a wild shot that had hit him dead center in the chest. How Ina had gotten the gun still wasn’t clear, but Vicktor had an idea it had to do with the fact they’d found him dead not on the floor, but on the bed, the covers mussed.

  Good for Ina.

  If she hadn’t done it, Vicktor might have, and wouldn’t that be a nice addendum to his list of charges?

  He had used duct tape from Gracie’s car supply kit to tape Kosta Sokolov into submission. And while he’d done it, he’d paid particular note to his ring, the one with the snake and the red ruby eyes. Something about it was ringing bells, although he couldn’t put a mark on it. Vicktor even taped Sokolov’s mouth shut, because he couldn’t take one more second of the man’s Russian. Or his English, for that matter. Sokolov had too fluently grasped the less savory nuances of both languages.

  Vicktor finished wrapping the tape around Sokolov’s shoulders, securing him to the chair, and turned to face Gracie.

  And her statement.

  “I want to marry you.” She threw the towel onto the table and looked up at him, her beautiful eyes no longer carrying a haunted, broken look, but now fierce, so fierce that it shook him.

  “Yeah, me, too.” He reached out to take her hand, because he wanted that almost more than anything. However at the top on his priority list was—hold Gracie. And second on the list—hold Gracie. Maybe number three was hold Gracie, too, but by that time, yes, maybe they had better be married.

  But she moved away from him and folded her arms over her chest. “I want to marry you, now. Right now.” She’d lost weight since he saw her last, and her jeans hung baggy on her. Her T-shirt had smudges of blood—his blood, probably.

  He raised an eyebrow. “In that?”

  “Funny. No. Or yes, I don’t care. But I want to hop in the car and head west. We’re only about a half day’s drive from Vegas, and we’ll get married. Today. Before they can find you and arrest you and…” Her chin quivered. “Take you away from me.”

  In the distance, sirens whined.

  But in his heart, he heard only a sigh of relief. “No one is going to take me away from you, Gracie. I’m here, to stay. That’s what you have to get here—I’m not going anywhere unless you boot me out of your life.”

  And for a second, he let his fears hang there in the open, because he had to know.

  “I’m not going to boot you out of my life,” she said softly.

  Relief rushed through him, so much that for a second he thought he might be woozy again. He stepped toward her, but she backed away. The sirens grew louder.

  “No, you don’t understand. I really want to marry you. I don’t want to wait. I hate this living on two sides of the globe, and I want to be your wife.”

  His wife. He hadn’t realized how incredible that word might sound, and for a second, he was right there with her, in the car, breaking speed limits to get married. But as who? Vladimir Zaitsev? That thought brought him back to reality. Not only would America give him the heave-ho, but probably, since she would be an accessory to some sort of crime, i.e. marrying a fugitive, Russia would never let her in, either.

  And then they’d live…where?

  “Gracie, I want to marry you right. In a church, with our friends, and before God. I don’t want Elvis singing at our wedding. I want you in a white dress because we both deserve that, and I want to know when I walk back down the aisle, I’m not going to be arrested and go through the next ten years waiting to see you.”

  Her eyes filled.

  “Most of all, I’m not marrying you until you’re ready. Really ready. And I know we haven’t seen each other for a while, but tomorrow, when I’m back on a plane to Russia, and you’re back in your apartment, you’ll be able to think. Clearly. And that’s when I want your answer. No—” he held up a hand “—I want it in a month.”

  Gracie bit her lip, but this time, when he stepped close, she let him, and he put his arms around her.

  “Why do you love me?” she asked, lifting her face to his.

  Oh, that was an easy question. The hard part was where to start. “Because you’re beautiful. And smart. And you care about people. And you’re brave. And most of all because you let me be the guy I am and don’t get mad when I fly across the ocean just to check up on you.”

  She grinned, smoothed her hands down his chest. “I need a lot of checking up on.”

  “Yes, Gracie, you do.” And then, because the police lights flashed across their window, and because he just might not have another chance for a long, long time, he kissed her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “C an I just tell you that this is an abysmally bad idea, and although I really dropped the ball in letting Yanna run off without backup, I learned my lesson and you are not going to do this alone.” Roman had said this as he sat in the van outside the harbor.

  “You could say that, but I wouldn’t listen,” David had replied.

  Only, maybe he should have listened, because right now, as Kwan’s men frisked him, blindfolded him, then put him into cuffs that looked very much like the ones Yanna had worn—Kwan must order them by the carton—David could really use Roman on his right hand.

  Or left. Or behind him. Just skulking around would be okay, too.

  Anywhere that would put Roman in the vicinity of Yanna, and hopefully Elena, close enough to grab them while David obeyed Kwan’s texted message to go down to Kwan’s dock, and offer himself up as a living sacrifice.

  Sadly, he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Yanna when he’d shown up, unarmed. But he went through with the exchange anyway because he’d be afraid. Really, bone-deep afraid that Kwan wouldn’t wait around to negotiate, and would simply dump Yanna’s body into the surf.

  David didn’t care what Kwan did to him, as long as Yanna was safe. He had promised to get her home, and with his last breath, he planned on keeping that promise.

  He would have appreciated some providential help in keeping that promise, however—i.e., being shoved into the trunk of the limousine—the GPS-tagged limousine. But there was no such help, because by the way his knees hit his chin, Kwan’s goons had crammed him into a much smaller space, probably one of those compacts he had a hard time riding in even when he was in the passenger area of the car.

  Riding in the trunk had also skewed his bearings, which had probably been precisely what Kwan intended.

  David had to wonder if maybe Kwan had planned this all along. He didn’t really have to track David down—just take something that mattered, the only thing that mattered to David. And he’d come running, waving his hands above his head. Me, me, pick me.

  Please, Yanna, be alive. David hadn’t the vaguest backup plan, but then again, he’d been going full speed ahead, don’t-look-back ever since he had found Yanna on the boat, and well, backup plans usually entailed a primary plan.

  Which was…?

  Stay alive sounded good. Except, he didn’t expect that, not really. The thought filled him with literal pain, the kind that made him groan.

  God, I so wanted to… He’d wanted to do a lot. Like tell Yanna he loved her—no, more than tell her. Marry her. Be a part of her life.

  See her finally, fully healed from her past, from her betrayals.

  However, at this point, he might settle for just seeing her alive. With Elena.

  He’d name that Plan A.

  David tried to listen for identifying noises, something other than street traffic. Like the tinny sound of Taiwanese music, maybe coming from a market, or shrine, maybe the sound of ships, although he knew they’d taken him far from the harbor. Or voices, someone speaking in the car, something that might tell him where they’d taken Yanna.

  The car stopped and, in a moment, the trunk
opened. Fresh air whooshed in, and hands yanked him out over the back.

  He heard voices now, laughter, and felt the cool night air over him. Then, rock music, loud and raucous.

  Rough hands pushed him forward and he nearly fell down a flight of stairs. He got his footing near the bottom, but Seeing-Eye Dropout behind him shoved him through the door, into a basement, or perhaps a corridor. He heard feet scuffling against cement, smelled mold and dampness.

  Breathe. At least he’d get another face-to-face with Kwan. At least he could go down kicking.

  A knock at a door. It opened and a shove to his spine pushed him inside.

  Someone grabbed his hair and kicked him in the back of his legs, and he didn’t need another hint. He went down on his knees into something damp.

  And then—and he had the slightest warning in the intake of breath, just enough to brace himself—something hit him across the face. Pain exploded in his head. He tasted blood, tinny and acrid in his mouth.

  He righted himself, shaking his head, as if to break the grip of pain, but really to dislodge the blindfold.

  It worked. He saw wan light, designer shoes, a puddle of something dark and brown beneath him. Please let it not be blood.

  “I thought we had a deal.”

  Silence. He braced himself for another hit, but it didn’t come.

  And then, to his surprise, hands untied the blindfold.

  David blinked into the shadows. Looked up. Kwan smiled at him. “Welcome back, Mr. Ripley. Somehow I knew you’d agree to my terms.”

  They were in a room, a basement room evident by the light feebly pushing the last of the day through the tiny window. There was no furniture in the room save a lumpy futon on the floor, soiled and smelling foul.

  David gave his best I’m-going-to-kill-you-with-my-bare-hands look, and said, “Let her go.”

  Kwan looked up at the men beside him, and David half expected a kick, maybe to his midsection. In fact he tightened his stomach, waiting for it.

  But Kwan knelt down before him. He reached out and touched David, his hand under his chin.