Her Rocky Mountain Defender (Rocky Mountain Justice Book 2)

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  “Look at me,” he said.

  Her head snapped to him, her eyes were wide.

  “I need you to breathe.”

  “Breathe? I’m freaking out, here. There’s no place for me to go. Nobody I can trust.”

  Roman knew that she hadn’t meant to injure him with her words, but the fact that he hadn’t earned her trust made his cheeks sting.

  Yet, why did he care? What was it with his reaction to this woman?

  “You can trust me,” Roman said.

  “Can I? I don’t even know you.”

  Roman didn’t dignify her comment with one of his own. Instead, he said the only thing that might help her gain control. “You’re a doctor, right? Every day you face all sorts of distressing scenarios, but I bet you don’t freak out—” he made air quotes “—with your patients.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “I’m trained to handle a variety of medical emergencies.”

  “Well, I’m trained to handle this kind of emergency. So, whether you think that you can trust me or not, you can.”

  Madelyn exhaled fully. “Okay. What do we do next?”

  “Anton’s not going to give up. There’s too much at stake,” he said.

  “Then we are going to die,” Madelyn said. The resolve of her statement was a blade to the heart, the first tiny cut of a thousand.

  Roman brought up a map of Boulder in his mind. “We’ll only get one shot to shake Anton off our tail, but first, we have to find him and get him to chase us.”

  Madelyn took in a shaking breath. “I think I like staying hidden better.”

  He wanted to say something to give her courage or at least comfort, like a pep talk, but after months of living a lie, he’d forgotten how to be inspiring. “Can I drive?” he asked instead.

  She hesitated. “I guess.”

  Roman glanced out the side window. The building next to them was so near that he couldn’t open the passenger door.

  Her gaze followed his. Roman turned to look at Madelyn. She gave a little shrug. “Sorry,” she said. “I can move the car.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Roman. “We’ll just trade places.”

  She moved to hover above him, his hands on her waist. Sure, they were being chased by a murderous gangster but the fact that her nice butt was right above his lap didn’t escape Roman. And it wasn’t simply her body that he appreciated, either. As far as working with a civilian—Madelyn Thompkins wasn’t half bad.

  He moved across the cramped console and into the ridiculously small seat. Every muscle in his abdomen ached. He found the lever that controlled distance from the steering wheel and eased back, the pain in his middle lessening. With the headlights still off, Roman maneuvered out of the alley. He pulled onto a deserted street. Ahead, he saw the black sedan driving slowly in the opposite direction.

  “Buckle your seat belt.” Roman dropped his foot on the gas. The little car shot forward with more force than he would have imagined. TwinPower turbo, indeed. He closed in on Anton. Bumper swiping bumper, he rocketed past in a deadly game of tag.

  Anton followed, as Roman knew he would. Left. Right. Left and left again. Left again and another right. He headed south, toward the interstate entrance ramp nearest the warehouses on the outskirts of town.

  Anton stayed close behind. Ahead, a light changed from green to yellow. It was exactly what Roman needed. He stepped on the gas, rocketing through the intersection as the light turned red. Anton followed. The blare of car horns trailing him like a ship’s wake.

  Roman’s foot lifted from the gas as the interstate drew near.

  Madelyn swiveled in her seat. The headlights from behind surrounded her in a golden halo. “He’s gaining on us,” she said.

  He knew. He smiled. Wait. Wait. Wait. There was a hairbreadth between Anton’s car and the one that Roman drove. The road began to travel upward, the incline leading to the interstate. Nose up, Roman jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, the side scraping on a concrete barrier as it pulled onto the adjacent service road. Anton sped past, his red taillight glowing as he stepped on the brakes. From behind came the piercing scream of an air horn. A big rig, loaded with two trailers, lumbered up the entrance ramp—forcing Anton to drive on.

  “He won’t be able to get off until the next exit,” Roman said, verbalizing the last bit of his plan. “That’s five minutes from here, which means we have ten minutes to disappear.”

  * * *

  Rain hit Oleg’s face, mixing with his sweat and leaving him chilled. He stood at the end of the alleyway and looked left, then right, then left again. The street was empty. His pulse raced.

  “They’re gone,” he said to nobody in particular. “Just disappeared...”

  His phone rang and he pulled it from his coat pocket. Anton’s name appeared on the screen and Oleg swiped the call open. “You better have good news for me,” he said.

  “Not so much,” Anton said. “They tricked me into getting on the interstate.”

  Oleg ground his teeth together. “Tricked you?”

  “I have a license plate, though. That should help, yes?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, it won’t help.”

  “Prosti,” said Anton. Sorry.

  “I’m not in the mood for your apologies. Just get your sorry butt back to the bar.” Oleg ended the call with a stab of his finger and slid the phone back into his pocket.

  Oleg was surrounded by idiots. The only one with half a brain was Roman. How had they gotten out of the beer cooler? Serge must have unlocked the door. But why? Oleg wasn’t about to discover the truth while standing in a downpour with the stench of rotten cabbage thick in the damp night.

  Turning on his heel, Oleg took a step. His foot landed in a shallow puddle. Cold water seeped into his shoe, turning his $1,200 designer loafers into garbage. Oleg clenched his teeth, biting off a string of curses. Once he caught Roman, the traitor and his little girlfriend, he was going to make them exquisitely sorry.

  In the distance, lightning split the sky in two. A springtime thunderstorm in Boulder? For a city that saw sun more than three hundred and thirty days each year, a passing cloudburst was a rarity. But a full-blown rainstorm? Never. Yet here one was. It was almost as unbelievable as someone escaping from The Prow.

  He quickened his pace. Roman’s car, a crappy Pontiac from the 1970s, sat in front of the bar. The handle was stuck fast, but it was still here—which meant they’d gotten away in the girl’s car. He thought of going directly to Roman’s apartment, but discarded the idea as soon as it came. Roman’s place was an obvious choice, and he knew that the bartender wasn’t that stupid.

  He needed time to regroup, but Oleg wasn’t about to let himself be seen like this—wet, dirty and rumpled. He jogged around the corner and let himself in the back door. Dripping, he went to his office to dry off and come up with a plan.

  Oleg jerked his desk drawers open and slammed them closed. No towel. No dry shirt. Not even a used tissue.

  “Serge,” he called out.

  Never mind that the guy was the nephew of Nikolai Mateev. He was a moron, and in Oleg’s opinion, he liked hurting people a little too much. Look at that chair in the middle of his office. It was bolted to the floor—done by Serge without asking for permission, never mind getting it—so he could tie adversaries to it and beat them bloody.

  Oleg was supposed to be teaching Serge about business, and not just how to run a bar, either. Nikolai’s great-nephew needed to learn how ill-gotten money could be infused into a legitimate business and make any drug profits seem legally gained. But it was clear that Serge had no interest in that kind of education. Hell, he’d barely learned any English. With him, it was all about the violence.

  Using his shirt’s damp sleeve, Oleg buffed his face dry. He slumped into his seat. The godfather of Russian organized crime was due in Boulder tomorrow eveni
ng. Then Serge would become Nikolai Mateev’s problem, and Oleg expected a generous reward for all the housekeeping he’d done. Babysitting and laundering—money, of course.

  And speaking of babysitting... “Serge!” he bellowed.

  Nothing.

  Oleg stood and slammed his seat beneath his desk. He stomped up the stairs and entered the bar. Rock music pulsed through the speakers, thrumming into the soles of Oleg’s feet and pounding out the beat in his chest. As the night had grown late, more customers had arrived and crammed into the room. They stood three deep at the bar. Now working alone, the bar manager bounced back and forth, like a frenzied ping-pong ball. He expected to see Serge having a drink. Nothing. Nor was he in the back shooting pool.

  “You seen Serge?” Oleg asked the bar manager.

  The withered old man shook his head. “Not since he left with you.”

  Oleg nodded and returned to the basement. Not only was Serge an idiot, he was also proving to be a mystery. The stockroom door stood ajar and Oleg opened it slowly. Empty. But maybe Serge had just been there. Oleg returned to the office. Empty, as well.

  That left one final option, and one that didn’t amuse Oleg in the least. Obviously, Roman had convinced Serge to open the beer cooler. Then had he overpowered Serge, making him a prisoner in the cell he was supposed to be guarding?

  One more day and no more Serge. For Oleg, it couldn’t come soon enough. He used his keys on both locks and pulled the door open. Oleg stepped up to the threshold and stopped.

  Serge, obviously dead, stared at the ceiling. His gaze was already milky.

  Oleg began to tremble and it wasn’t from the cold. He had let Serge die. Nikolai Mateev would see it no other way.

  The only thing Oleg knew to do to save his life was to disappear. He hated leaving everything he’d built up from the ground. The bar. The drug trade. His car. His women. All of it would vanish, like a candle flame that had been snuffed out. From the pit of his soul, fury rose. Oleg’s head throbbed. His shoulders ached. He drew back his foot and kicked Serge again and again and again.

  As a small boy growing up outside of Fort Collins, Colorado, Oleg had spent hour upon hour in the company of his paternal grandmother. As she cooked, she told Oleg stories of their family. His favorite was how Oleg was a direct descendent of the Romanov czars. In another time, he would have been Count Oleg.

  Because of those stories, Oleg had known he was destined for greatness. And this—taking care of Serge the Stupid, laundering money for the Russian mob—was to be his way. But Serge had been too moronic to stay alive and in death had ruined everything. Everything. Oleg brought down his heel on Serge’s nose.

  He wiped his sole on the back of Serge’s jacket. His heel caught on something, and he worked it free. Attached was a lanyard with an ID card for the University of Colorado Hospital. The picture was of a petite brunette. Name: Madelyn Thompkins. The seed of a new plan took root in Oleg’s mind, flowering into the only chance he had at saving his legacy and his life.

  Certainly, Nikolai Mateev would be furious that his heir apparent had been killed. And while Serge could never be brought back to life, Oleg could make sure that a recompense was paid to the murderers—Roman and Madelyn. And look, the degenerates even beat poor Serge’s corpse.

  All Oleg needed now was to find Roman Black and Madelyn Thompkins. While he imagined that Roman knew enough to get out of town, Madelyn had ties that kept her in Boulder. Besides, if given a computer and ten minutes, Oleg would know everything there was about Madelyn’s life—or what was left of it, that is.

  * * *

  “Slow down,” Roman said to Madelyn. “It won’t do us any good if we get pulled over by Jackson.”

  Madelyn licked her lips and nodded, letting up on the gas. After Roman had lost Anton, she’d taken back control of her car. She slowed down a little, the headlights shining on a puddle. An oily rainbow floated on the surface. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, it was the only thing that felt real.

  Roman said, “We’re alive and in one piece. Just remember that.”

  “Alive and one piece,” she echoed.

  “I need to get in touch with my employer in Denver. Can I use your phone?”

  She pulled it from her purse and handed it over. Roman entered a number, the phone’s volume so loud that Madelyn heard the ringing.

  Voice mail picked up. “You’ve reached Ian Wallace. Leave your message at the sound of the beep and I’ll return your call promptly.” The accent was British and educated. It reminded Madelyn of a blindingly white shirt, freshly pressed.

  “Ian, it’s DeMarco. Big happenings but I don’t want to get in to too many details on an unsecured phone. I’m on my way to you and will fill you in when I get there.” Roman ended the call. “Thanks,” he said.

  On a night that had too many questions and not enough answers, Madelyn needed to know who she was with and why. “I thought Oleg said your name was Roman Black. Now you’re DeMarco?”

  “I’ve been working undercover for months.” He handed her the phone. “My alias is Roman Black.”

  It seemed like the only answer he was willing to give and she set the phone on the console between the seats. He’d spoken about leaving Boulder. What was Madelyn supposed to do? Drive herself to another police precinct? She needed to report what happened, but without Roman?

  Roman gripped her arm. “I need a favor. My car is parked in front of The Prow. I can’t go back for obvious reasons. Can you drive me to Denver?”

  She could, but to her the real question was, did she want to? Sure, she wanted to help, but she also just wanted to be safe. She stared forward, indecision a rock in her belly. Madelyn switched her gaze to Roman. His palm remained on her wrist. Sweat dotted his upper lip. His hand slipped away. A bloody streak stained her flesh.

  “Roman. You’re bleeding.”

  “What? No, I’m not...” He touched his side and brought his hand up to examine by the light of the dashboard. His fingertips were crimson and wet.

  “I need to look at your abdomen. You’re wounded,” she said. Her medical training clicked into place like a puzzle piece, and Madelyn now had a clear picture of what needed to be done.

  “Sure,” said Roman.

  Madelyn pulled next to the curb and turned on the dome light. She reached around Roman and pulled up his soaked shirt. A neat furrow had been dug out of his skin. “You were grazed by the bullet, so there isn’t any internal damage,” she said. “But you’ll need stitches.”

  “I can get those in Denver.”

  “Denver is thirty minutes away, even without bad weather. Don’t be the hero. Let’s get you to CU’s hospital and you can make another call from there.”

  “I’m not waiting around all night in an emergency room. I need to get to Denver now.”

  Roman’s lips were pale, a sure sign of blood loss. She didn’t have time to argue. Madelyn reached into her purse for her badge from the University of Colorado Hospital. It was proof that she, and therefore he, would get into the hospital’s trauma center upon arrival. Wallet. Lipstick. Apartment keys. Three quarters and a nickel. She looked again. And again. “Where is it?” Madelyn searched through the console. Nothing.

  “Where is what?”

  “My hospital ID. I always put it in my purse and now it’s gone.”

  Then she remembered those harrowing few minutes in the beer cooler. She’d accidentally dumped the contents of her handbag and then hurriedly collected everything once the door had been unlocked. Had she been too hasty?

  “The Prow?” Roman asked.

  The sour taste of bile rose in the back of Madelyn’s throat. “It has to be there.”

  “We have to get you out of Boulder.”

  “I can’t abandon my life. I have rounds at the hospital, classes. Besides, you need to see a doctor.”

  “I thought you said
that you were a doctor.”

  “I’m a medical school student.”

  “Can you sew me up?”

  “If I had the proper equipment, of course.”

  “Then drive. I’ll keep pressure on my wound and give you directions as we go. Get onto the interstate and head west.”

  “West? Why not south and toward Denver? I thought you wanted to talk to your employer?” Whoever that was. She turned off the dome light.

  “We have to assume two things,” Roman said.

  “Yeah? What?”

  “First, is that Oleg Zavalov will find your ID. Soon, he’ll know everything about you. Anton already has the make and model of your car along with your license plate. It’s only a matter of time before Oleg has your address. Then Oleg will get people, like Jackson, out looking for you in all the obvious places—your apartment, the hospital and even the interstate to Denver.”

  “That’s not reassuring.” Rain fell heavily, a seemingly solid wall and not thousands upon thousands of individual water molecules. The wet road reflected lights, creating a world of reality and a wavering mirror image in the water. Madelyn pulled away from the curb.

  “I wish I had better news,” Roman said. “Because the second thing we have to assume will be worse.”

  “How can it be worse than Oleg Zavalov knowing everything about me?”

  “As long as Oleg is out there, your life is in danger.”

  Chapter 3

  The desolate road followed the profile of the mountain and Madelyn steered into the curve. Rain beat down on the car, the swish of the windshield wipers echoing the beat of her heart. Roman sat silently in the seat next to her. He pressed the bullet wound at his side, but was still losing blood. He was weak and the pressure to his side was lessening, which allowed for further bleeding. More even than the blood loss, she worried about shock. To counteract that, she needed him to stay alert. “Where are we going?” she asked. Forcing him to think and talk was the best way to keep Roman awake.