No woman came rushing forward to get into the vehicle, so Elana must not be here yet or she couldn’t see him. Leaving the engine running, he activated his cell phone through the Bluetooth connection in the car’s computer system and entered the number Ren had given him for Elana’s cell on the touchscreen in the dash.
“Yes?” She sounded out of breath as if she were running—or really scared.
“This is Vanko Petriv. I’m at the Maryland entrance to the museum. Where are you?”
“Oh thank God. I’m on the Red Line, heading toward the Gallery Place/Chinatown stop. There were men…on the platform…at Metro Center. I had to stay on the Red Line to throw them off.”
“Did any try to get on the train?” Vanko would’ve done so if he were on her trail.
“Uh, yes…I think one of them got on the train, but he isn’t in my car.”
“Do you think you can stay ahead of the man after you get off?”
“Maybe.” Her breath hitched audibly. She was afraid, but he could tell she was holding it together. “The trains are crowded. I might be able to lose anyone following. Um…I have to cross two major streets before I can get onto the Mall and cross to where you’re at.”
Vanko looked at the GPS map on the Hummer’s computer and found the Metro stop she’d mentioned. Yes, there was far too much open space. Her pursuers could pick her off as she crossed streets or from anywhere on the wide open mall.
“I’ll head toward you and pick you up at the corner of Penn and 7th.” Even before he’d finished speaking, he’d left the pick-up lane and bullied his way into Independence Avenue traffic and then hung the first right. “I’m coming up 7th Avenue from the Air and Space Museum. Keep the line open.”
“Thanks.” She inhaled sharply and the background noise indicated crowd movement. “I’m heading aboveground now. If there’s anyone behind me, I can’t see him. It should take me less than five minutes to get to the corner to cross Penn, depending on the lights.”
“I’ll be there. What are you wearing?” Vanko maneuvered the heavy vehicle through the bumper-to-bumper Saturday traffic and cursed steadily in Russian under his breath at the slowness and general ineptness of the drivers.
Elana laughed. It was a genuine laugh, not high and tight with hysteria, but low and sexy and filled with humor. “Very colorful language, Vanko Petriv.”
She understood his colloquial and very vulgar Russian? And had he heard a slight Russian accent when she pronounced his name? But her real last name, according to what Tweeter had told him while he was in the air, was Fabrizzio, an Italian name. He really should’ve read the full dossier Tweeter had downloaded to Vanko’s secure drop box on the SSI server. Instead, he’d spent most of the short flight between New York and D.C. thinking about his sister’s vision and cryptic remarks concerning Elana. Was this woman really the one for him?
Only time would tell.
“I’m wearing a beige raincoat and carrying a black laptop shoulder bag,” Elana replied. “I’m just over five and a half feet tall, have dark brown hair in a French braid. And I’m wearing heels since I was working when all this happened. And trust me, these shoes weren’t made for the kind of running and walking I’ve been doing.”
Vanko couldn’t help but chuckle. Much like Keely, Elana was full of courage and humor under fire. He already liked her. “You’ll be riding soon, yes? We’ll give your feet a rest, I promise.”
“Sounds goo—”
The sound of shots and then a multitude of background screams came over the cell connection loud and clear. Large caliber rounds from the sound of them.
A gasp, a sharp cry, and then a low moan came from Elana.
Fingers of ice gripped Vanko’s heart. His sister’s words…Elana is yours…if you wish it to be so rolled around in his head.
“Elana!”
No answer, but the sound of rapid breaths and sobs told him she was alive and saving her energy to run for her life. Vanko cursed. He gunned the powerful Hummer and passed slower moving vehicles, his vehicle half-on, half-off the sidewalk.
“Elana! Answer me, zaychik. Where are you?”
Horns blared at him and people on the sidewalk screamed as they dove out of his way.
“On…on Penn, heading your way.”
Hearing her voice dissipated some of his tension.
Then she swore in as fluent of gutter Russian as his. “They’re…oh my God! They killed a man who tried to help me. There’s two of them. Automatic weapons. They’re gaining on me.” Elana’s breathing was harsher, weaker.
Then more shots sounded. The cacophony of screams in the background provided a perfect score for a horror film. He swore he could hear Elana’s heart pounding, but knew it was the sound of her feet pounding the pavement.
Finally Vanko reached the corner. He took a quick, sharp left onto Penn and drove against traffic. Even more horns blared and drivers flipped him the bird, but they gave way to the much larger Hummer. He spotted a dark-haired, leggy woman carrying her shoes in one hand, with her phone in the other, running toward the street. Her shoulder bag, worn across her chest, bounced off her side. Two men in dark clothing with hats pulled low over their faces chased her and shot at anyone who got in their way. Downed bodies littered the area behind Elana and her pursuers.
“Dermo.” He feared he might not get to her in time. His anger fueled his determination to make sure he did. “I see you. Get ready to hop in the Hummer.” He cut across four lanes of oncoming traffic; the passenger side would be easy access since he was driving against the flow.
“I see you.” Her words were strained, raspy. “You crazy man.” Her chuckle was half-laugh, half-fear-filled sob.
He pulled alongside her and stopped. She opened the door, heaved her body up and inside. With a grunt of exertion, she pulled the door shut.
Bullets thudded against the door and windows.
“Hold on!” Vanko took off in a squeal of tires and burning rubber. The bullet-proofing held, thank bozhe. Not that God had a thing to do with it.
A quick glance showed Elana had managed to fasten her seatbelt and then hunched over her lap below the level of the windows. Not only courageous and gallant…but also quick-thinking. He approved.
More bullets bounced off the vehicle as they sped away. As a bullet sent a spider web of cracks on the passenger-side window, Elana let out a sharp cry followed by a sob quickly cut off. Vanko wanted to kill the men who’d chased her like an animal. But stopping and eliminating the bastards would expose her to more danger—and that he wouldn’t allow.
…Elana is yours… His sister was never wrong.
“It’s okay, zaychik moy. The bullets won’t get through. The Hummer is armor-plated and the bullet-proof glass is the same quality they use on the Presidential limousine.”
“Uh, okay…if you say so.” Her voice was filled with a healthy skepticism, and she remained below the dash and the window level. Her instincts probably told her more metal was better than bullet-proof glass—and she wouldn’t have been wrong to think that.
Vanko added intelligence to her list of positive traits.
Still driving against traffic, he was having a harder time forcing vehicles to move out of his way. All lanes of traffic had basically come to a stop because of the chaos behind him. Checking his mirrors, he spotted the two men chasing after the Hummer on foot—and with his current snail’s pace, soon to become a complete stop, they could eventually catch up. Even with armor-plating and bullet-proof glass, the Hummer had vulnerabilities, and he didn’t want to bet Elana’s life that the two men didn’t know what they were.
“Fuck this shit.” Vanko gunned the engine, laid his hand on the horn, and drove onto the sidewalk to get around the jam. Most of the pedestrians had already run for cover at the sound of shots, so he practically had the walk to himself. Those that were left got out of his way.
Except for the two shooters who’d gotten in front of him while he’d maneuvered the Hummer toward the sidewalk.
Hope it broke the fucker’s hip.
Vanko also got a good look at them. Even with their hats pulled low, he’d remember them—their size, shape, how they moved. If he came across them again, he’d know them.
“Jesus…you’re…certifiable!” Elana spoke between rasping breaths.
Vanko chuckled. He shot a glance at Elana who now sat upright. She was pale, breathing heavily, and her eyes were closed. She also muttered prayers in two languages and clutched her computer bag against her middle as if it were a life preserver. He shook his head and grinned when he translated one of her prayers as “and please protect the crazy man so he doesn’t kills us both with his driving.”
“I assure you I am in complete control of this vehicle.” At her sniff, he chuckled. His gaze was fixed on his route which was still the sidewalk as he looked for an opening to merge back into traffic. “You, okay?”
“Let me get back to you on that—once my heart gets out of my throat, and I don’t feel like throwing up.”
Vanko choked back the laugh threatening to erupt. He was fairly sure she wouldn’t appreciate his humor over the situation. He angled his head toward her and caught her staring at him with a mixture of horror and awe. His sister might have visions, but he was sensitive to emotions, a very useful tool in reading his teammates and the enemy.
Her eyes were silver gray, rimmed in black like a Siberian wolf’s, and framed by thick, dark, lush lashes. The look of horror and awe quickly faded, and now she looked at him as if he were a puzzle to solve. “Why are you driving on the sidewalk?”
Vanko shrugged, his gaze constantly switching from the windshield to his mirrors. “It’s not as crowded as the street.”
Elana choked on what sounded like a giggle; her eyes twinkled. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for taking her mind off her troubles, even if only for second.
The traffic had become lighter the further they’d traveled from the scene. Tired of driving on the sidewalk and against the one-way traffic. He found an opening and pulled a one-eighty, merged into the proper flow of traffic, and then headed back on Penn toward the scene of the shooting.
Multiple sirens sounded loudly behind them. He’d get off Penn well before he hit the logjam around 7th Street and be well away before the D.C. cops were on the scene. He’d employ evasive maneuvers to lose any pursuers in the quagmire of local city streets and traffic before hitting the road to their evacuation point in Virginia.
In his peripheral vision, he checked out Elana more fully.
“You’re hurt!” A second, more head-on glance confirmed Elana was indeed in some kind of pain.
Elana stared at him, a frown on her lush, pale lips and fear in her silver-gray eyes. She leaned away from him, hugging the passenger door.
He’d scared her. V rote evo ebat’! Fuck him in the mouth. He’d gnaw off his own arm before hurting her, but she didn’t know him well enough to realize that…yet.
“I’m…I’m, uh…fine…just winded.” Elana took several breaths and then turned a visually calm face toward him. But it was a lie. Underneath, she was in pain and wary. His zaychik was afraid of men, and he didn’t even want to think about why that was. Then she asked in a snippy tone, “Does your mother know you have a potty mouth?”
Diverted by her scolding tone, Vanko shook his head. One minute she was afraid of him and the next she took him on verbally without a single flicker of fear. Elana was a complex equation, and one he’d enjoy solving.
He grunted. “Who do you think I learned it from? And where did you learn your gutter Russian?”
Vanko wondered how much she’d tell him. He always had the dossier Tweeter prepared if she didn’t tell all, but he wanted her to trust him enough to share her background. Elana was destined to be his, and that would only happen with complete trust on both sides.
“My uncles taught me. My mother had a fit.” Elana smiled and then grimaced.
She was definitely in pain…physical pain. And she wasn’t telling him for some reason.
Vanko clenched the steering wheel to avoid reaching for her. He sensed she wouldn’t want to be touched by a strange man right now. But if she needed medical attention, all bets were off. “You’re not fine. What’s wrong?”
“It can wait until we’re somewhere safe.” She laid her head against the head rest and closed her eyes. Her features were taut with the pain she refused to admit to.
Like hell it can.
He kept his voice low and gentle as he ordered, “Tell me, dusha moya.” Sweetheart. “Where are you injured?”
She jerked at his words and then moaned, a low, animal-like sound of anguish. Her skin was ashen and her forehead beaded in sweat and creased with pain.
“Elana, talk to me.” His voice was more demanding this time.
“Persistent, aren’t you?” She huffed out a breath. “I got skinned, as they call it in suspense novels. It hurts, but not so badly it can’t wait until we are in a safer place.”
Her reply was snippy, and he had to choke back an inappropriate laugh. How could she scare the shit out of him one second and make him want to laugh at her feistiness the next? Especially since she was lying through her little white teeth.
Elana sighed and looked around. “Where are we going?”
“Eventually Virginia and a hotel for a few hours until the SSI company jet lands at a rural airfield to pick us up for the flight to Idaho.” He made a quick turn onto a residential street. Elana gasped, grabbed the sissy bar, and shot him an indignant glance. He didn’t miss the wince of pain that flashed across her face when she moved her right side.
The gasp and look settled it. He’d be touching her. “Now? A place to pull off so I can see how bad your injury really is.”
“Whatever.” Her voice faded away, and she muttered under her breath, “Bossy just like my uncles.”
Vanko hoped she liked her uncles since she’d have to deal with a lot more of his brand of bossiness. He’d keep her safe any way he saw fit.
“Elana?” When she didn’t reply, he looked at her and found her eyes closed and her lips thinned. He could practically hear her teeth gritting.
“Pizdets! Dermo!” Fuck! Shit!
She was holding a tight rein over her pain and exhaustion. She didn’t want to be a fucking bother. What kind of half-assed men had she dealt with in the past that she couldn’t ask for help? God save him from stoic, brave, too-proud-for-their-own-good women.
He spotted a mostly empty church parking lot and pulled into it. After releasing his seat belt, he angled his body toward her. She moved away and then froze as if she realized what she’d done.
“Sorry,” she whispered, “it’s not you…it’s just—”
“Hush, I understand.” And he was afraid he did; too many years working at Interpol on sex trafficking cases had taught him to recognize the look he saw on her face and the fear coming off her in waves.
Elana was more than merely wary of men—and probably had a good reason for being so. She’d been abused in her past. He wanted to howl and hit something. He reined in the volcanic rage threatening to erupt. She shouldn’t have to deal with his anger in her fragile state. She needed gentleness and protection.
But he needed to know what had happened to her in the past, so he didn’t trip any triggers that might make her run from him or render her unable to react in a dangerous situation. If she didn’t volunteer the information, he’d get it from the dossier.
For now, he’d watch his tone of voice and try not to startle her with unexpected movements. She had to learn to trust him; her life might depend on it.
“Just taking your pulse, zaychik moy.” He reached for her left wrist.
Her pulse was weak and thready.
Cold sweat formed droplets on her face. Her arm was cool to the touch, too cool. Tears leaked from the corner of her closed eyes. She shuddered convulsively and teethed her lower lip as if she were holding back cries of pain—or fear. She was in shock.
Yeah, he really wanted to kill someone, preferably the man or men who’d instilled a fear of anyone with a penis in her. But without a specific target for his anger, he, instead, left the car running, put the heat on high, and then got out. He circled around to the passenger door. Opening it, he reached for the large bag she’d clutched against her right side between her and the door.
“No!” She held the bag tighter.
“I need to look. Please.” He forced himself to be patient and was rewarded when she nodded and let go of the bag.
He looked from the blood smearing the bag and the side of her raincoat to her pale face. “Goddammit. A graze?”
She looked down and then back up at him. Her brow creased. “Yes, a graze. It’s bleeding a lot because I was running and aggravating it. I’ll be fine.” She belied the calm tone and words by biting her lip and hissing when he unbuckled her seat belt and began to pull her coat off so he could see the wound better.
Vanko winced at the thought he would hurt her even more, but he needed to know if she required a hospital or if the wound was something he could doctor. A hospital would expose her to more danger, but he’d take the risk if she required more care than he could provide.
Her coat out of the way, he let out some of his pent-up rage and tore open her bloodied blouse from the bottom along the right seam up to her armpit and then unzipped her skirt to expose the wound. With her sitting, he couldn’t get to all of the wound track, but he saw enough.
He grunted with relief. Although it was more than a graze, it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. The bullet had torn a shallow, ragged gouge across the fleshy part of her upper right hip and below her waist. The bloody wound track was obscene against her pale, fine-grained skin.
Weather the Storm (Security Specialists International #3) Page 5
