Mountain Shelter

by Cassie Miles

  “An hour and a half longer,” her dad muttered. “You know, the procedure is already under way. We probably won’t understand a thing.”

  “No problem,” Dylan said as he introduced Jayne’s father to the talkative groupie. The chatty observer in the dark blue scrubs was delighted to meet the father of the brilliant Dr. Shackleford and equally pleased to have a fresh audience.

  Dylan pulled Flores to one side and asked, “What can you tell me about Martin Viktor Koslov?”

  “Vermin.” His lip curled in a sneer. “If you had not found a fingerprint, I would never believe this was the work of Martin Koslov. To disable the alarm is like him, but I have never known him to allow a victim to escape. Why would Koslov be hired for a kidnapping?”

  “His employer might be someone he’s worked for on a regular basis,” Dylan suggested, “someone from his home country.”

  “He was born in Venezuela, but I hate to claim him as one of my countrymen.” Flores clenched his fist as though he could strangle bad influences. “Koslov comes from the dark underbelly of my culture and represents the worst atrocities.”

  Dylan pushed for a more specific answer. “I’ve heard that Koslov is linked to the Romero cartel.”

  “More than a link,” Flores said in a low voice. “Koslov is rumored to be the bastard son of Diego Romero himself.”

  According to the information Dylan had unearthed, Koslov lost his father when he was very young and was raised by his Russian mother in Caracas until he was eleven. Then she was killed in a street explosion, and he was taken in by another family. “My information about his parents is vague, except for the detail that his mother was Russian.”

  “A stunning woman, she played the violin and sang in a nightclub in Caracas. Diego Romero could not resist this exotic flower. He took her as his mistress, leaving his wife and his other three children behind in their village. When she was killed, Martin Koslov was bounced back and forth between the Russian consulate and an aunt of Diego Romero.”

  Quite an elaborate backstory for an assassin, and Dylan took it with a grain of salt. “Do you think Koslov is working for the cartel?”

  “The old man has been unwell, certainly not strong enough to launch an attack against Peter. What would be gained by such an assault? Romero has nothing to do with the oil business.”

  “Are you sure he’s not branching out?”

  “Oil is the business of my family.” His gaze was as dark and hard as anthracite. “I know nothing of a threat against Peter, surely not a tactic that involved the abduction of his daughter the doctor.”

  If Flores was lying, he was doing a good job of it. When he’d heard that Jane was a brain surgeon, he’d seemed honestly surprised and impressed with her skill. And he definitely wasn’t the type to hold Jayne in a kidnapping.

  Dylan directed him toward the seating where Peter the Great was being lectured by the chatty man in scrubs who seemed to know more about Jayne’s procedure than she did. Peering through the glass, Dylan observed her delicate expertise as she continued the surgery. He wished he could gather her up, wrapped in her sterile gown and mask, and whisk her away to safety.

  * * *

  JAYNE GAVE HER full concentration to the procedure, posing questions to Professor Henry Cameron about lessons he’d taught many years ago and then asking what he’d had for breakfast this morning. A problem arose when Henry tried to translate his memories into language, and she dealt with that aspect, smoothing it over as best she could. The recovery of memory wasn’t an exact science, not yet anyway, and she warned her patients not to expect perfection.

  In the back of her mind, she was aware of her dad showing up to watch her surgery. Would he stick around for the whole thing? She hoped so. His approval was important to her. He’d never been disparaging, but his enthusiasm for her career in neurosurgery was at the same level as when his third wife’s Yorkie won second prize at a kennel club show. Actually, he was more excited about the pooch. She wanted those pats on the head, wanted to be stroked and told that she was a good girl.

  The wounds on Henry’s head were closed when she removed the brace from his jaw and forehead, allowing him to move more freely. His wide grin filled her with hope and joy.

  “Better?” she asked.

  “So much better. Thank you, Jayne.”

  “Your wife asked if I would say something to you when the operation ended.” She cleared her throat and quoted Shakespeare. “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’”

  “Here’s what you tell her,” he said. “‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate.’”

  Tears prickled the backs of her eyelids. Her priorities adjusted themselves. This successful procedure would help Henry and his wife have a better, more meaningful life. That success was what gave Jayne satisfaction. She hadn’t become a neurosurgeon to prove anything to herself or to impress her father. She was a doctor. She was in the business of helping.

  As Henry was wheeled away into ICU, she peeled off the sterile garb and got down to her scrubs. She left the OR, glanced at the observation area and didn’t see her father. Had he left? Already? Dylan was down the hall, talking to Detective Cisneros.

  She didn’t want to lose the joy she felt at the successful operation. Waving to Dylan, she said, “I’m going down the hall to talk to Henry’s wife.”

  “Wait,” he said.

  She kept going. After she delivered her sweet Shakespearean message to Mrs. Cameron, she’d hurry back to the OR and find out where her father had gone. She couldn’t believe he’d left, not after his friend had offered a celebratory dinner.

  Arms swinging, she passed the brightly colored break room where she and Dylan had kissed. Halfway down the hall, she went by the door to the room where she’d earlier talked to Mrs. Cameron. In the waiting room, she saw the backpack, but Henry’s wife wasn’t sitting beside it. There was only one other person in the waiting area, a haggard blonde woman who slouched over in a row of chairs.

  Jayne approached the blonde and asked, “Excuse me, have you seen the lady who was sitting in this corner?”

  “Bathroom,” she mumbled. Her eyelids slammed shut.

  Jayne was aware of someone coming up behind her. Dylan? Before she could turn to face him, she felt a pinch on her thigh as though she’d been given a shot. A masculine arm coiled across her waist. A low voice whispered, “Come with me, Jayne.”

  She recognized the accent.

  It was the guy from last night. Martin Viktor Koslov had found her, caught her. His callused hand clamped over her mouth.

  Frantic, she jerked her forearm back, aiming for his face and hitting nothing but air as he easily avoided her blow. She drove her elbow back sharply and hit his rock-hard rib cage. I have to get away from him, have to run. Hopping from one foot to the other, she tried to counterbalance and wrench herself from his grasp, but he held her arms, pinned her backside against his chest as he yanked her away from the woman whose eyes were still closed. How could that lady just sit there? She must have heard the struggle. Open your eyes, lady, help me.

  Instead, the woman deliberately turned away and hunched her shoulder.

  Help me, help me! Jayne twisted her head so she could scream. His hand stayed over her mouth, muffling her attempt to make noise. Her strength was waning. Whatever he’d given her in that shot was taking effect. She wouldn’t give up. Not without a fight. She opened her jaw and chomped down hard on the fleshy pad of his hand.

  He growled a feral curse, spun her to face him. She took note of his surgical mask and cap, keeping the lower part of his face covered like it was last night. He smacked her hard, a fierce backhand that caused her head to snap back.

  She actually saw stars, pinpoints of light against a black velvet curtain that threatened to fall and blank out her mind.

  Though reeling from the blow, she opened
her mouth to scream. Her lips stuck to her teeth. Her throat was dry. No sound came through her lips. Losing control, I’m losing control. She wanted to fight, but she couldn’t.

  Where was Dylan? He was her bodyguard. He was supposed to prevent this sort of thing. It felt like she’d been struggling for hours, but she knew it was only a few minutes since Koslov had plunged a hypodermic into her thigh, probably something like chloral hydrate or ketamine, knockout drops.

  Her knees weakened. She braced herself against the back of a chair to keep from falling. Which way is up? Which is down? The room was spinning around her. Dizzy, disoriented, clumsy, she stumbled a few paces and sank into the wheelchair he held for her.

  He pulled down the footrests and whispered, “Don’t try to move. Don’t make a sound. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She didn’t think she would have recognized him. Not with the mask. Not in those dark blue scrubs. Half the people in this building were in scrubs. They looked alike, all alike.

  “Jayne?”

  She swung her head toward the sound of her name. It was Mrs. Cameron coming out of the restroom. Far away, she was so far away. Jayne didn’t want to frighten the woman. She tried to smile, tried to tell her that her husband had given the correct response. “‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate.’” Jayne spoke the words, but she knew they came out garbled.

  Before she could explain, Koslov whisked her away. He propelled the wheelchair toward the elevators. She tried to sit up straight, tried to move her legs and tumble from the chair. Her head felt unwieldy and heavy. With a sigh, she let her chin loll forward onto her chest.

  She forced her eyes to open, saw Dylan running toward her. Too late, he’s too late. Her last conscious thought was that she might never get to kiss him again.

  And that would be a damn shame.

  Chapter Nine

  Even before she awakened, Jayne knew she wasn’t at home in her comfy bed with the adjustable firmness and Egyptian-cotton linens. There was a strange aroma. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled a long, deep breath of freshness and nature. She sneezed and groaned. The bedsprings creaked as she burrowed deeper under the heavy pile of blankets.

  Some people liked earthy smells, which she’d never been able to comprehend. The olfactory region in her brain interpreted the great outdoors as stinky, causing her to literally turn up her nose. Her favorite fragrance was sanitary nothingness. No smell at all, or maybe a hint of citrus.

  Bemused, she imagined the map of the brain with an orange blossom sheltering the olfactory area. Part of the limbic system, sense of smell was connected to the amygdala and emotion, which was why particular smells helped recall events in the past. She inhaled, remembering the sharp pine scent of her father’s aftershave. Unexpectedly, tears oozed through her closed eyelids.

  She gave herself a mental shake. Wake up, Jayne! Her mind was fuzzy around the edges. She had vague memories of many things, some of which didn’t make sense and others that couldn’t possibly be true. She was a respected neurosurgeon who never indulged in wheelchair chases through the hospital corridors. Why was she imagining such a mad dash?

  There had been explosions...fireworks or gunfire or something else? And Dylan, she definitely recalled being held in Dylan’s arms, snuggled against his warmth, soothed by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

  He had told her that they were going somewhere safe. As if she could just up and leave whenever she felt like it? Deserting her patients, dismissing consultations, altogether dropping the ball? She wouldn’t do that. She was, above all, responsible.

  Pursing her lips, she tried to say “responsible.” She pushed out each individual syllable. Then she said the full word: responsible.

  Her jaw ached. When she patted her cheek lightly, she felt a wide area of tenderness on her face. There would be a bruise. Someone had hit her. Koslov!

  Adrenaline flushed through her veins. She was wide-awake. Though she wasn’t alert or aware of what had led to this point, she was conscious. Sitting up on the bed with the polished brass frame, she looked around with new eyes. Morning sunlight spilled around the edges of the curtains and across the warm, knotty pine paneling on the bedroom walls. She had the sense that she was in a cabin in a forest. Yes, she was sure that she’d been driven into the mountains when it was dark.

  Climbing from bed, she noticed that she was wearing her own baby-blue flannel pajamas with penguins skiing across them. She didn’t remember changing clothes. Had Dylan undressed her? Probably not—a man would have chosen one of her skimpy gowns instead of long-sleeved flannel, which was so practical during the chill of a September night.

  She pulled open the dark burgundy curtains and stared past a thick stand of pines toward a two-story cedar house and a big red barn. A cowboy rode toward her window. It was Dylan.

  The moment she recognized him, she smiled, causing a twinge in her cheek. Dylan was wearing a dark brown flat-brimmed hat, jeans and a denim shirt rolled up at the sleeves. His long hair was tucked behind his ears. He didn’t have his glasses.

  He sat tall in the saddle...of a camel.

  Jayne widened her eyes and blinked. Not a hallucination. For some reason, Dylan was perched atop a Bactrian camel with two humps and a lot of fur. She couldn’t recall if the coat on a camel was referred to as fur or as wool. Her father owned an overcoat of camel hair, but she’d never thought the fabric was the hair of a camel, literally.

  And why was she worrying about cowboys and camels? She had more than enough problems of her own without getting involved in Dylan’s weirdness. Barefoot, she stalked from the bedroom through the cozy front room of the cabin, almost tripping over a very large gray cat, and out the front door, where she stood on the porch with her arms folded below her breasts.

  Dylan tapped the camel with a riding crop. After a haughty look down its long nose, the animal batted extra long eyelashes. When the camel opened its mouth, the sound was a cross between an infant’s cry and squealing brakes at a ten-car pileup. Charming!

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  He made an introductory gesture. “This is Loretta.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He reached back to pat the camel’s rump. “Don’t pay any attention to her, Loretta. Jayne’s a grouch, but you’re lovely.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Have I ever told you how I hate when people have conversations with their pets?”

  Loretta let out another screech.

  “Now you’ve upset her.” Dylan poked along the animal’s side, giving a signal of some sort. “Get back, Loretta.”

  In response to his gentle prods, the beast folded its knees, first in the front and then in the back. Dylan swung his leg over the front hump, dismounted and approached the porch. In his cowboy boots, he was even taller than usual. His hat shaded his silver-eyed gaze.

  Though Jayne had never been a big fan of cowboys, with their long legs and lean torsos, Dylan looked good in that gear. He was studly enough to spark a dozen fantasies.

  She was tempted to throw herself into his arms and encourage him to erase her concerns with his kisses. But she’d never been so easy to please. Jayne didn’t know what was going on...and probably wasn’t going to be happy about it. She held out her palm in a gesture that meant halt, and he obeyed.

  He stood at the bottom of the four wide stairs leading to the porch. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  Not wanting to get sidetracked by symptoms, she didn’t mention her aching jaw or her headache or the overall stiffness in her muscles and joints. Her body would heal. It was more important to find out what had happened.

  “My last clear memory,” she said, “is sitting in a wheelchair and watching an elevator door close. You were running toward me.”

  “I didn’t make it in time,” he said. “Do you know who was pushing the wheelchair?”<
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  “Koslov.” Instead of shuddering, the muscles in her shoulders tensed and her fingers drew into fists. Her fear was turning to anger. “He came up behind me and shot a hypodermic into my thigh. He kept me from screaming by covering my mouth with his hand. Then I bit him.”

  “You bit him?”

  “That’s right.” She braced herself against the handrail at the edge of the porch. She closed her eyes to stimulate her auditory and olfactory memories. “He growled. His flesh smelled filthy. He tasted like salt.” Her eyes opened and she saw the upper portion of his face. His eyes were dark and angry. “That’s when he slapped me.”

  “Bastard,” Dylan muttered as he reached toward her.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I need to cling to these shreds of memory.” She concentrated. “He said he didn’t want to hurt me. But he shot me full of drugs. And he slapped me.”

  “For somebody like Koslov, those are love taps.” He climbed one step higher on the stair. “He hasn’t killed you. Twice, he’s chosen to let you escape.”

  “What happened when the elevator door closed?”

  “He must have gotten off quickly with you, but he punched every button going upstairs and down. That was twelve stories, and the elevator stopped on each floor. Detective Cisneros went directly to the helipad on the roof.”

  She didn’t have any recollection of being carried away by a chopper, and it seemed like something so dramatic would make an impression, even if she was almost unconscious. “Was I in an aircraft?”

  “Very likely, that was Koslov’s original plan, but Cisneros was able to shut down air traffic over downtown. There was an unauthorized helo in the area of Roosevelt Hospital, but they zipped away.”

  “You came after me,” she said.

  “I ran the odds on several possible scenarios in my head.” In spite of the cowboy outfit, his true nerd-like nature shone through. “Koslov needed to get you to a vehicle to escape. Because I had memorized the blueprints for the hospital and medical building, I knew the most likely escapes were the parking area and the main entrance, where a person in a wheelchair wouldn’t be noticed. My brother, Sean, was nearby and I contacted him to watch the front.”