Darkness

by Karen Robards

  His words became indistinguishable as his voice faded.

  Gina was afraid to twitch so much as a finger, but her lungs ached from lack of air.

  Close at hand, there was a soft scraping sound—cloth on wood? What was it? She didn’t know, couldn’t tell.

  Do not move. Oh, God, I have to breathe.

  She heard—she was almost sure she heard—footsteps walking away from the closet.

  He’s gone, she thought, and a shiver of relief slid over her. But—she might be wrong. Or maybe what she’d heard was the third man, the one who spoke only Russian, walking away.

  Her lungs burned now. She was getting light-headed, woozy. She had to breathe.

  As slowly and silently as possible she let out the breath she’d been holding and inhaled.

  Nothing happened. No bullet slammed into the back of her head. Nobody grabbed her. There was no shouting.

  Still she stayed as she was, face pressed to the sleeping bag, unmoving, quietly, carefully breathing, until the silence, the lack of physical sensation that she thought would indicate that she was being watched, had gone on long enough that she couldn’t stand it any longer. Daring to chance it, tilting her head the slightest, smallest degree, she looked up.

  Her worst fear was that Ivanov would be standing over her, waiting for her to make a move.

  He wasn’t. There was no one in the closet with her. The door was open farther than before, but the doorway was clear. Through it, she could see a good section of the common room. No one was there, at least not within her view. The overwhelming feeling she got was that the common room was empty.

  There was no way she could be sure.

  Sitting up, Gina took a deep but nearly silent breath.

  Her discarded apple still lay unnoticed on the floor.

  As she looked at it a deep shudder racked her. Her heart galloped out of control. Her stomach roiled to the point where she felt like she needed to vomit.

  I could have died. I still can die.

  Mary and Jorge lay just out of her view. Mary and Jorge’s bodies lay just out of her view. The horror of their deaths—their murders—was almost impossible for her to wrap her mind around. She felt this weird sense of disconnect, as if none of what was happening could be real.

  It is real. Mary and Jorge are dead.

  For a moment everything around her went all blurry. Blinking ferociously, Gina willed the tears back.

  The others, what of them? Ivanov had said they had found nine out of the twelve.

  She would make number ten. That meant two of her colleagues were presumably out on the island somewhere.

  Arvid and Ray, maybe? Had they gone looking for her?

  There was no way to know.

  But what she had taken from Ivanov’s words was that nine of her colleagues were dead.

  Murdered.

  By the men who were at that moment searching the compound for her.

  If they found her, she had not the slightest doubt that they would kill her, too.

  Goose bumps raced over her skin at the thought. She felt dizzy all over again.

  This is no time to fall apart. Focus.

  As she saw it, she had two choices: stay where she was, or try to make a run for it.

  Ivanov had looked in the closet, she was sure. It was unlikely that he would look in it again.

  But he might. Or someone else might.

  On the other hand, if she left the closet she could run right into them. She had no idea where they were. Ivanov, Heavy Tread, third guy—they could be anywhere. In this building. Just outside. Somewhere they could see her if she emerged from her hiding place.

  For all she knew, there might be more than just the three of them.

  To make a run for it, she would have to go back the way she had come: through the common room, the kitchen, the mudroom, across the meadow, up the mountain. Any other route would take her through the complex, and that was too dangerous even to contemplate.

  She could take the phone, call for help. Call whom? The Coast Guard? The sponsors? 911?

  A question to be answered later, she decided. The point was, she could call somebody and know that help was on the way.

  Heavy Tread had spoken of the fuel tanks being too close to the buildings in the context of burning the bodies—what if he meant to cause an explosion, or in some other way set the buildings on fire now?

  The mere thought that she could be trapped in a fire made Gina go woozy. Gritting her teeth, clenching her fists, she fought to banish the disturbing images.

  You can’t lose it now.

  The men could come back into the common room at any time.

  Her chance to run would be lost.

  So—go?

  Go.

  Moving as silently as she could, Gina picked her way to the closet door. For a moment she crouched there, listening, surveying as much of the room as she could see.

  THE ROOM was empty.

  Darting out of the closet, she snatched up the telltale apple and turned to grab the phone.

  It was gone.

  A lightning survey of the shelves confirmed it: the phone was missing. They’d taken it.

  No time to waste worrying about it.

  Go, go, go.

  With every sense she possessed on red alert, being as quiet as she could possibly be, she dashed for the kitchen, then paused on the threshold to listen for any sound that might indicate someone was in there. Nothing.

  Didn’t mean somebody wasn’t standing there silently.

  Heart pounding so hard she could hardly hear over it, she peeked in, saw no one, and flew across the room, thrusting the apple down on top of the trash in the trash can on the way, not wanting to just drop it in case it made a telltale sound. At the entrance to the mudroom she paused again.

  She listened, heard nothing. Looked, saw nothing.

  Bolted for the door.

  The mudroom was relatively small. Two big washing machines against the short wall at the kitchen end, two industrial-size dryers against the short wall at the opposite end with the outside door opening between them. Shelves with laundry supplies and the table with the laundry baskets taking up one long wall. The cubbies along the other. The door to the outside was solid. No window, no way to see through it.

  Anybody could be out there, Gina thought as she reached it. Heart pounding, she hesitated, trying to listen, to hear anything that might be on the other side of it even as her hand wrapped around the knob. Nothing, not even the generator, not even the wind or sea. The walls and door were apparently thick enough to block external sounds. The rest of her senses were acutely attuned to the building behind her. For all she knew, someone might still be inside.

  A slight creak from what she thought was the kitchen electrified her. Was someone there?

  She was so frightened that she could feel her knees shaking.

  The sound wasn’t repeated. But—maybe whoever was in there was being very quiet as they listened, too? Listened to her.

  There was no help for it: she would have to pull the door open, scan the yard, and then run like a rabbit across the flat meadow until she reached the hills.

  Thank God for the fog: it would provide concealment.

  She hoped there was still fog.

  Praying no one was outside, she was just tightening her grip on the knob when it turned under her hand and the door was thrust forcefully inward.

  With a cry Gina went stumbling backward. Off balance, trying to keep herself from falling, she stared in wide-eyed horror at the opening door.

  Her heart almost stopped as Ivanov stepped into the room.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gina heard a distant roar through the rush of cold air that burst into the room with Ivanov. Someone had started up the tractor, she realized, identifying the sound using the part of her mind that wasn’t transfixed by fear. The tractor was what the team had termed the big trucklike vehicle with the tank treads that was used for heavy hauling or other chores around camp
.

  Ivanov stopped abruptly just inside the doorway as he spotted her.

  “Hel-lo,” he said with a note of recognition as she barely saved herself from falling by grabbing on to the edge of a washing machine. There was satisfaction in his tone and in his face as his eyes ran over her. Gina barely noticed. Her attention was entirely focused on his gun.

  Closing the door behind him, Ivanov raised the compact black pistol, aiming it at her almost casually.

  Gina’s throat closed up. She couldn’t have said a word if she’d wanted to. Hideous visions of what bullets had done to Mary and Jorge sent icy spicules of fear racing through her bloodstream.

  “You were hiding, yes?” he asked in a conversational tone.

  Her heart and her pulse and her adrenal system all blasted into full freak-out mode at the same time.

  Gina turned and ran.

  “Stop!” He leaped into pursuit. Flying across the kitchen like her life depended on it, which it did, Gina heard him yell something in Russian, heard the pounding of his boots on the linoleum and the harsh pant of his breathing as he came after her.

  Swallowing the scream that ripped into her throat—the last thing she wanted to do was summon more killers—she threw a terrified glance over her shoulder to find him no more than a couple of strides behind. If he lunged, could he reach her? Yes. Run. Run. She knew she wasn’t going to make it, wasn’t going to be able to escape him. There was nowhere to go.

  “Stop or I will kill you,” he barked. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the gun coming up—

  Her heart leaped. Her shoulder blades tightened in instinctive defense: He’s going to shoot me in the back.

  Her hood was down. Its fur-lined thickness must have made it extend a few inches behind her back, because with his free hand he was able to grab it. He yanked brutally, jerking her back toward him, sending her feet flying out from under her.

  The jarring pain that shot through her as she crashed down on her back on the floor was nothing compared to the consuming horror of looking up through the haze of jumbled images brought on by the shock of the fall to find that one particular image—Ivanov—stood threateningly over her.

  Even as he came into complete and total focus, panic galvanized her. Her heart beat so frantically that it felt as if it were going to burst.

  There was absolutely nothing she could do.

  She knew she was facing death, and every cell in her body went freezing cold even as her mind rebelled.

  Getting an elbow beneath her, Gina forced her head and shoulders up off the floor. She met his gaze: his eyes were blue, and merciless. The eyes of a killer.

  “IT WAS you,” he said, looking her over with interest. He seemed in no hurry. She remembered that he’d apparently talked to Mary before killing her. Clearly he wanted information from Gina: otherwise, she would already be dead.

  He continued, “Who saw the plane—”

  Gina jumped as a dark shape exploded from behind the island, behind Ivanov. Roaring something in Russian, Ivanov whipped around to face the threat. A big man in a black coat—that was Gina’s initial, blurred impression of the attacker—leaped on him before he could even complete the turn. For a moment the two grappled—she heard a couple of solid thuds and grunts as if blows were being landed—and then Ivanov froze.

  By that time he was facing her. Over the other man’s shoulder, Gina watched Ivanov’s eyes widen, watched his face contort. His gun clattered to the floor, skidded toward her.

  Get the gun.

  It was the only thought in her mind.

  Diving for the gun as the men continued to tussle, she grabbed it and came up into a crouch, clutching it. She hated guns, but she knew how to use one.

  And she wouldn’t hesitate to demonstrate that knowledge, if the situation called for it.

  Ivanov was staggering back, away from the gun that Gina now pointed in his direction, away from the other man. He was gasping, blinking rapidly, looking down at himself. Both of his hands came up to wrap around the handle of a large knife that protruded from his chest. His puffy green coat started to darken around the knife as Gina watched in horror. She knew it was from blood. More blood started to trickle from the corner of his mouth.

  Gina shuddered.

  Ivanov’s attacker glanced back at her, his eyes narrowing as he got a load of her straightening to her full height with the gun gripped in both hands. She was aiming squarely at Ivanov, but—the second man was within her target range, too, and as his face registered in her brain, she let out an involuntary gasp.

  Cal. It was Cal. Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments, and the instant connection between them sent a jolt of awareness through her.

  “Thank God,” she said on a shaky exhaled breath, and realized that somewhere deep inside she’d recognized him from almost the beginning. It was the coat that had thrown her off.

  “Give me the gun.” Cal stretched his hand out behind him for it as if he absolutely expected her to comply, and refocused his attention on Ivanov, who stumbled back over the threshold to the mudroom and collapsed.

  Gina barely hesitated: she put the gun in his hand, which said volumes about the level of trust she apparently had in him. Until that moment, she hadn’t even realized that she trusted him at all. Where he’d come from, how he’d known she was in trouble, and why he hadn’t stuck with their plan were all questions that chased one another through her brain. Bottom line: she didn’t care. He could answer them later. For now, he was here, and that was enough.

  Handling the gun like a man who knew what to do with it, Cal followed Ivanov to the mudroom and stooped over the man’s supine body. Trailing him, surprised she could even walk given how rubbery her legs felt, Gina leaned against the doorway and watched as he pressed two fingers below Ivanov’s left ear to feel for his pulse.

  “Is he dead?” Her voice had a definite squeak to it. She was still breathing hard, still in fight-or-flight mode. The knife in Ivanov’s chest—it was one of the butcher knives from the kitchen. She’d used the set herself when it was her turn on the rotation to cook dinner for the group. She didn’t know how to make much, but her pot roast was incomparable, and the knives sliced through the tough root vegetables like butter . . . She felt herself starting to hyperventilate and deliberately slowed her breathing down. Ivanov’s eyes were still open, but they were glazing over as she watched. His lips were parted and blood and saliva continued to spill from a corner of his mouth. His skin had taken on a distinctly gray tinge.

  “Yep.” Cal said it matter-of-factly. Gina realized that she’d just watched him kill a man. Not that she objected, under the circumstances. Ivanov would have killed either or both of them without turning a hair. “You okay?” He straightened, glancing back at her and then casting a quick, probing look around the small room.

  “Yes.” Forget how glad she was to see Cal. Forget the pounding of her heart and the lingering aches and pains from her fall and her shaky insides from her hideous encounter with Ivanov. The horror of what lay in the common room crowded into her mind to the exclusion of all else. Her next words came out in a jumbled rush. “In the next room, Mary and Jorge—two of my friends—are dead. I think nine of them are dead. Ivanov—this one’s name is Ivanov—and the others shot them. Murdered them. There are two others—two more men with Ivanov. That I know of.”

  “I saw them.” As Cal spoke, he pocketed the gun and bent over Ivanov again. “There are a lot more than that. They’re all over the island. We’re going to be dead ourselves if we don’t get a move on. Open the dryer door, will you?”

  More? A lot more? The thought sent Gina’s heart rate soaring again. But this wasn’t the moment for questions, and she brushed past him to open the door of the dryer. It was large, an industrial-size front loader. A few items of clothing lay in the bottom of it. Ignoring them, she looked back at him. He had Ivanov in his arms and was carrying him toward her. His intention was clear: he meant to stuff the dead man in the dryer.

&nbs
p; “It’ll buy us some time,” he said, presumably in response to the look on her face. “Once they find the body, they’ll know somebody was here and they’ll be coming after us with everything they’ve got.”

  Gina’s blood ran cold at the thought. Closing her mind to the horror of Ivanov’s lolling head and dangling limbs, to say nothing of his sightless, still-open eyes and the blood sliding across his cheek, her question was purely practical. “Will he fit?”

  “I’ll make him fit.” Cal grunted as he shoved Ivanov’s head and shoulders inside the dryer.

  “The others could come back at any minute.” Fresh panic knotted her stomach at the thought. Remembering the gun made her feel slightly better, but only slightly. A shootout with an unknown number of armed murderers probably wasn’t going to end well. Quick as it occurred to her to do so, she ran over and locked the door, trying to be as quiet about it as possible. The click was barely audible, but even that small sound made her wince. It was an ancient deadbolt, clearly not often used, since Attu was usually deserted. Probably the lock wouldn’t keep anybody out for long, but at least it would prevent someone from taking them by surprise. She was still unnerved by Ivanov’s unexpected entrance.

  “See if you can find me some boots that’ll fit. Size thirteen.” Cal was stuffing the rest of Ivanov’s body inside the dryer as he spoke. Ivanov’s knees were wedged against his nose in a way that wouldn’t have been possible in life.

  Gina jerked her gaze away. Right now, the best thing she could do was concentrate on the things that were doable, like getting him clothes. A glance at Cal’s feet confirmed that he was still wearing his improvised shoes from that morning, along with what looked like his now-dry but salt-bloomed and unsuitable-for-the-weather suit pants and the big black parka that had confused her at first glance.

  Cal said, “This guy the only one who saw you?”

  “Yes.” Running her eyes along the cubbies, Gina saw that three were missing their outdoor gear: hers, Arvid’s, and Keith Hertzinger’s. Did that mean that the others—Ray? A quiver of grief ran through her as his tanned, genial face rose in her mind’s eye—were all dead? Shoving the thought from her mind, she rushed to Bob Gordon’s cubby. Bob was the biggest guy in the group, at maybe six-one and two-hundred-some-odd pounds. Hopefully he had big feet.