“Uh, what?” She looked and found his brow creased and his gaze dark with what she read as worry.
“I asked if you could hold the gun. I can handle you and the bags, but won’t be able to get to my gun if I need it. All you have to do is hold it and hand it to me when I tell you. Okay?”
God, she did not want to handle a gun. She hated guns, which was why her uncles had taught her how to use a knife. But Vanko had asked very little of her and he was doing all the hard work, so she said, “Okay.”
“Good girl.” His smile and the warm approval in his voice made her reluctant acquiescence worth it. “Reach around to the small of my back and pull it out.”
“What if it goes off?” She’d never even handled a gun and was scared to death of them.
“It’s a Glock,” he explained, “and the safety feature is in the trigger mechanism. You’d have to use more pressure than you’re capable of right now for it to fire.”
Elana nodded and took a deep breath and then let go of his neck. She slid her left hand down his back and reached under his jacket and pulled the gun out. She brought the weapon back up to his shoulder. She transferred the gun to her right hand and cradled it against her chest. She then hooked his neck with her left arm once again.
The matte black gun was ugly and bulky; her hand barely fit around the grip. She wrinkled her nose. It smelled like oil. Even more reasons why she’d never like guns.
“Good job.” Vanko’s breath warmed her cheek. “All set?”
“Yes.” She settled her head on his shoulder. She was still woozy, and her neck didn’t quite have the strength to hold her head up. “Have the bad guys tried to come into the motel looking for us?”
“Not yet. They just arrived. I’ve been checking the lot from our window every fifteen minutes since you fell asleep.” He bent and levered the door handle with the hand holding her legs. He used his leg to prop the door open just enough to stick his head around the doorway. He checked the hallway in both directions. “Our ride checked in a few minutes ago, right after I spotted the mercs.”
“But they’ll still try to search the hotel—” She couldn’t live with herself if anyone else was hurt because of her. She kept having gruesome visions of Libby, Harry, and the downed pedestrians on the Mall.
“Not if the local cops are screaming into the parking lot and zeroing in on our Hummer, they won’t.” He winked. “I called 911 and reported suspicious activity and men with guns just before I woke you up.”
Elana let out a relieved sigh. “Okay, good.” She snuggled into his muscled shoulder and took in deep breaths of Vanko. His scent calmed her as it had earlier. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“No thanks needed.” He brushed his cheek over her hair as he pulled his head back into the room, his leg still bracing the door open. “There is no one in the hall. Hold on tightly. I’ll be moving fast.”
Elana held the gun firmly against her chest. When Vanko exited the room, the door slamming shut behind them, she grabbed more tightly onto his leather bomber jacket with her left hand. Even though Vanko had placed her uninjured side against him, her wound still made itself known as she was jostled with the fast pace. Her right hand was shaky and weak. But she’d hold onto the gun with her last ounce of strength, because Vanko trusted her to do so. She clenched her jaw and bore the twinges of pain, dulled by the pain meds. Her metabolism was already flushing them out of her system.
Damn, Elana hated being useless…weak…out of control. She’d had the same trio of feelings when she hadn’t been able to stop Demidas from shooting her parents. She’d felt the same way when his man, Zivon, had used her as a shield during the rescue by her uncles. Why was she always so incapable?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered against Vanko’s neck.
“Again with the apologies, dushka? For what this time?” His rumbling voice was low and gentle.
“For not being more helpful.”
Vanko muttered a particularly foul Russian triple-tiered curse, the worst sort of curse. “You’re doing just fine. You’ve dealt with everything thrown at you with grace, humor, intelligence, and courage. I don’t ever want to hear you belittle yourself again. Understood?”
The quick, gentle kiss he brushed over her forehead belied the sudden sharpness in his tone.
“Yes.” No. She didn’t really understand, because she didn’t see herself in the way he’d just described. She knew what she was—a wuss.
But now wasn’t the time to try and convince him of that fact. She brushed a soft kiss against the underside of his jaw. “Thank you.”
For everything. For being you. For having more faith in me than I do.
Vanko’s body shuddered against hers. “Do that again—later—when I can do something about it, eh, devochka?”
Elana couldn’t believe he wanted her kisses. Yes, he’d had a hard-on when she’d touched him, but men seemed to be wired that way. From her observations, most men could get hard by merely looking at a woman, but keeping them interested had never been in her repertoire.
Vanko didn’t understand she was damaged. She was frigid and a scared little bunny—and not in the affectionate, pet name way. When later came—if it came—she’d have to lay it out for him. Vanko deserved more than half a woman.
Held securely in the shelter of his arms, she enjoyed his strength and body heat as he carried her swiftly through the overly cool motel hallways. They received a lot of double-takes from people they passed. If it weren’t for the facts they wore casual clothes and carried a medical kit and a couple of beat up bags, the onlookers might have assumed they’d just been married, and Vanko was in a hurry to get the honeymoon started. If they only knew the truth, they’d be horrified.
“Where are we going once we catch our ride?” She kept her voice low so as not to be overheard.
“The Russian Ambassador’s residence. His limo is outside. See it through the doorway?”
Shock robbed her of her voice. Elana looked down the hallway. Yep, that was the Russian flag on the front fenders of the black stretch limo. The man standing beside the back passenger door wore the uniform of the Russian army.
After several seconds, she finally found her voice. “Are you nuts?” she sputtered and began to squirm within his hold. “No, no, and no! Demidas owns half the Russian government. He’ll find me on Russian soil.” Even if it was in D.C.
“Calm down, zaychik. Trust me.” His tone was low and soothing. He easily subdued her and then gently squeezed her legs where he held her. “We’ll be in and out in less than a day. The ambassador owes me. And he doesn’t know your name. He only knows you’re my woman.” Vanko nuzzled her ear and whispered, “We’ll be segregated from the majority of the staff. And we aren’t telling them who you are—you’re dead, remember? And if Grigori recognizes you, he’ll stay silent…he owes me big.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “I knew you were crazy as soon as I saw you driving the wrong way on Penn. I was even more convinced when you took up sidewalk driving. But this takes the cake. You’re certifiable.” She’d whispered her diatribe in an angry rush, totally unafraid of his reaction to her words. Now wasn’t that telling?
He chuckled. “I’ll grow on you. Trust me.”
She sniffed. “Like fungus—and yeah, I trust you…but only you.” She dug her nails into the back of his neck.
He hissed and then muttered, “Little cat.” She heard amusement and oddly enough pride in his voice.
“I’ll be a really pissed-off cat if Demidas finds me.” She dug her nails into his nape once more for emphasis. “Promise me. Do not leave me alone when we get to the ambassador’s residence. No separate bedrooms. No leaving me as I sleep to drink vodka shots with your buddy, the ambassador. No leaving me for a second.” She hissed the last words against his ear.
Vanko stopped just short of the exit door and stared her in the eyes; a strange glow lit his gray-green eyes. “I promise. I’ll never leave you—not for a second—not ever.”
And as the ambassadorial guard opened the hotel’s exit door for them, Elana wondered if his promise was as permanent as it sounded.
Chapter 9
Saturday, December 3rd, 5:30 P.M. (EST), Outside the Springhill Suites
Crocker sat in the driver’s seat of the rental Jeep and waited for Peavey to return from his scouting mission inside the motel. The Hummer the librarian had escaped in sat four rows over. No one had approached it since their arrival.
Dillman sat in the passenger seat with his head back and eyes closed, but the tension in his arms and shoulders indicated the man would be ready to spring into action when called upon just like the trained weapon he was.
Crocker glared at the text file on his smart phone. Surprisingly, MacLean had come through and sent the tracker code for the Hummer—better late than never—and also included attachments for the D.C. police reports of the library shooting and Mall incident, plus a dossier on the Hummer’s driver. He opened the dossier—“Fuck! Fuck!.Fuck!” He pounded the steering wheel. “Fuck!”
Dillman startled and pulled his weapon. “What’s up?” The man turned a fierce glare on him. “We under attack?”
Crocker swore some more. “The driver of the Hummer?”
“Yeah? What about him?” Dillman straightened even more in his seat.
“The guy’s ex-Interpol,” Crocker spat out the words like rapid fire bullets. “Name’s Vanko Petriv, and he works for SSI now. I’ve heard about him from some guys who ran drugs and guns in Eastern Europe. Fucking bad news.”
Peavey had slipped into the rear passenger seat during Crocker’s diatribe. “Did I hear you say Petriv was the driver of the Hummer?”
“Yeah.” Crocker turned and looked over the seat at Peavey.
Peavey scowled. “The asswipe fucked up a buddy of mine during an SSI op against some Colombian paras.” He shook his head. “Anyway, the fucker’s registered under the name of Jake Smithson. Room 104.”
Dillman turned from scanning the parking lot and stared at Peavey. “How the hell did you find that out?”
Peavey grinned, his odd yellow eyes glinting, and held up his iPad. “I picked up the motel’s WiFi signal, hacked into their registration system, and then looked for today’s registrations associated with Hummers—there was only one.”
“Good work, Ed. Really good work.” Too bad Peavey’s face was just as recognizable as Dillman’s in the videos floating around on the Internet. Crocker had already committed to hang them out there to take the heat for the Mall fuck-up.
“So? How we gonna do this?” Dillman caressed the barrel of his Glock with his trigger finger. He tapped his foot on the Jeep’s floorboard. His gaze never stopped moving. The man was wired and jonesing for the adrenaline rush of battle.
On the other hand, Peavey, like Crocker, wasted no energy, saving it for battle, sort of a Zen approach. Sucked that Peavey would have to go down with an assclown like Dillman.
“We’re waiting on backup,” Crocker said. “I’m not going to have another You Tube clusterfuck by storming a fucking motel in Virginia with guns blazing.”
Plus Petriv was fully capable of taking the three of them down without breaking a sweat. But with the additional two men Crocker had called, even Petriv couldn’t survive five military-trained men coming at him at once.
“When we go in, it’ll be a surgical strike.” Crocker turned to Peavey. “Ed, where’s Room 104, and can you get us through the outside security lock without blowing the door?”
Peavey grinned. “Anticipated that—”
“Anticipated that,” Dillman said in a sing-song voice. “What a suck-up.”
“Quiet!” Crocker snarled as he grabbed Dillman by the throat and applied pressure to the man’s carotid even as he chopped the man’s gun hand. The Glock dropped to the floor of the Jeep. “You need to think more with your head than your mouth, Mike. Go ahead, Ed, finish what you were saying.”
Peavey looked from Crocker to Dillman and then back again. “Uh, Sam, Mike’s turning blue.”
“I know.” Crocker smiled. “The sooner you’re done reporting, the sooner I’ll let go.” He turned and glared at Dillman. “This way he won’t interrupt.”
The gurgling gasps of Dillman trying to breath filled the enclosed space as he struggled to get Crocker’s hand off his throat.
Peavey’s lips thinned, his golden gaze sparking with an unreadable emotion. “Room 104 is through the door exiting into this side lot and is,” he checked his tablet, “two doors from the exit on the north side of the hall. Quick in and out.”
“Good.” Crocker released Dillman’s throat and then leaned over to pick up the man’s gun. “I’ll just keep this for now.”
The moronic peckerhead was too busy gasping for breath and rubbing his neck to respond.
“Here, Mike, drink this.” Peavey handed a bottle of water over the seat.
Dillman snagged it and took several sips which he struggled to get down. It would be several hours before he could take a deep breath or swallow larger amounts without the choking feeling. The bruises would last a lot longer.
“What’s the backup’s ETA, Sam?” Peavey’s voice was calm, but Crocker heard tension in his voice.
Crocker checked his text messages. “Three minutes. They just exited I-66. Gear up.” He handed Dillman his Glock. “I trust you understand who’s in charge, right?”
Dillman nodded, a scowl on his lips and burning anger in his dark eyes. His breaths were rapid and raspy.
“Mike and I’ll do what’s needed, Sam. Don’t worry.” Peavey slapped Dillman on the shoulder in a buddy-to-buddy way.
A black crew cab truck pulled in next to the Jeep. “That’s our backup.” Crocker opened his door to give his other team a sit rep just as two Fairfax County Sheriff’s cars raced into the motel lot with lights flashing, but no sirens. “Shit! That motherfucker Petriv must’ve made us.”
“We’re boxed in.” Dillman pointed his Glock out the passenger side window at the lead sheriff’s car and took a shot, which hit the windshield.
“Dillman, you ass!” Crocker yelled as the deputies returned fire.
Shit!
The situation went from fucking bad to fucking worse as Dillman and Peavey returned fire.
Fucking hell, this had the makings of a goat rope to the nth degree. There was no way to fob off the local yokels now, even if they’d had only a slim chance before considering the amount of weapons they had with them. Dillman had screwed the pooch. Now every law enforcement agency in the county would be converging.
He had to get the hell out of here.
Fuck, fuck, fucking hell.
Crocker used the door of the Jeep for cover and let loose a couple of shots that went over the top of the closest patrol car. He didn’t want to kill any cops, but also wanted to get out of this alive. He hand-signaled his other team, who were also shooting high at the cops—because they weren’t shit for brains like Dillman—to come pick him up. Dillman didn’t know it yet, but his stupid ass move had just moved up Crocker’s plan to cover his ass and risk Dillman’s and Peavey’s.
Leaning around the driver’s side door, Crocker laid down more cover fire as his second team moved in to pick him up. Bullets flew fast and furiously as Crocker’s other team also provided cover fire. It could’ve been ten seconds or ten minutes as time had seemed to slow down, but finally he was clear. He dove into the other team’s truck and pulled the door shut, then yelled, “Go! Go! Go!”
Bert Stevens, the driver, pulled away with a squealing of tires, maneuvered around the two patrol cars, and peeled out of the lot.
Crocker looked out the back window and saw Dillman take a bullet as the idiot leaned out to shoot at the deputies. One officer was down and bleeding; the other was still shooting. Then Peavey tried to pull Dillman into the Jeep, showing what a good Marine he was, but he took a bullet also.
Fuck, what a mess. If the two survived, they were well and truly screwed. Their faces were already all o
ver the news media and the internet.
“Uh, Sam…” Stevens called from the driver’s seat. “Where we going? Cops will be all over this area in a few.”
Crocker rattled off the address of the farmhouse he’d rented for just such an incident. One hand on the wheel, Stevens programmed it into the vehicle’s nav system and made a U-turn and then got on the access road to the interstate. “Bert, can you monitor the police band frequencies?”
“Yeah. Already on it. Deke has my handheld and is keeping ears on it.” Stevens hummed under his breath as he merged onto the interstate and then drove around slower moving vehicles, using just enough speed to keep up with faster moving traffic, but slow enough not to call attention to their truck. After several minutes, the man said, “What the fuck was Dillman thinking, shooting at a cop?”
“He wasn’t.” Crocker tapped Deke Jones on the shoulder. The man removed his ear buds and turned. “Deke, use my phone.” He handed it over the seat. “Draft our employer a short and succinct e-mail description of the cluster just perpetrated. There’s a special e-mail box listed under asshole.” He’d have done it himself, but he wasn’t too proud to admit his hands were shaking from the close call.
“Found it.” Jones looked up after he typed for a few seconds. “Anything else you want me to add?”
“Tell him I’ll contact him once we get to base.”
“The e-mail’s drafted and saved,” Jones said. “We still going to Idaho and meeting the rest of the team?”
“We need to go to ground for a few days. See what falls out.” Crocker didn’t trust MacLean and wouldn’t risk taking on SSI now. The whole op had been blown once the librarian had reported it to the cops. The police reports and intelligence briefing papers stated she only heard his voice and his last name. Since Crocker wasn’t his real name, the Feds could chase their asses all day. SSI might figure out who he really was, but if he didn’t go after them or the librarian, then they’d put him way down on their to-do list.
MacLean was the wild card in all this. If the asshat was caught, he’d turn on Crocker so fast that he’d have to go under and go…deep. For now, time was his friend.
Weather the Storm (Security Specialists International #3) Page 11
