In Sheep's Clothing (20 page)

L
arissa rooted through her wooden locker, located in a small changing room down the hall from her office. “Aha!” she exclaimed and pulled out a pair of black polyester bell-bottoms and a velour leopard-skin patterned shirt.

“Oh…I don’t know…” Gracie stared at the outfit.

“Compared to the little number you’ve got on, this thing is tame.” Larissa draped the shirt over Gracie’s body.

“Where do you wear this thing after Halloween is over?”

Larissa gave her a look of mock offense.

Gracie wiggled out of her ripped black dress and let it fall in a heap to the floor. Larissa picked it up with two fingers, as if it were something the cat dragged in.

Gracie pulled on the shirt, gingerly working it over her injured elbow, hating how it molded to every curve. Just what she needed to make Vicktor notice all her attributes except her morals and ethics.

Not like she’d ever let him get that close again.

The memory of a dog whining and a voice calling her name
echoed in her ears as she tugged on the bell-bottoms. “I think it might be against my religion to wear something like this.”

“You look fabulous! No one would ever guess you’re a missionary.”

“That’s what I am afraid of.”

“I’m just trying to help you out here. The idea is to blend, right?”

“I think my mother had an outfit like this when I was about three years old.”

“Sandals?” Larissa held out a pair of stiletto high-heeled sandals.

Gracie made a face. “Thanks, Larissa, but maybe it would be easier to go barefoot.”

Larissa held up the sandals like they were earrings. “They’re my favorite pair.”

Gracie slipped on the shoes. She rose three inches higher and wobbled. “I don’t want to know how I look.”

Larissa urged her toward a full-length mirror. “Oh yes, you do.”

Gracie groaned as she hazarded a look. Her hair fell around her gaunt face in an unkempt mess, shadows bagged under her eyes, and a muddy scratch ran along her cheekbone. She traced it, noticing tinges of purple. “I didn’t realize I’d hit my face when I fell.”

“Fell?” Larissa echoed.

Gracie didn’t elaborate. And she had to concede that, despite the war-torn additions, she looked little, if anything, like the woman who’d fled the Youngs’ flat only three days ago. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

She unpinned her hair and attempted to gather it. Larissa scrutinized her injury for a moment, then retrieved a brush from her locker. Gracie swept back her hair, turned it into an inverted ponytail.

“Now some mascara.”

“Wow, clothes and makeup, too. What is this, Larissa’s Beauty Salon?”

“Close your eyes. Pretend you’re reading a good book late at night in bed and you’re fighting to keep your eyes open.”

“Right.” Gracie lowered her eyelids and felt Larissa layer her lashes with mascara. A moment later, Gracie smiled at her new, groomed reflection. The throb in her elbow seemed to lessen.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Gracie said, pulling Larissa into an embrace.

“You just be careful.” Larissa’s voice thickened with emotion. “Here, take this.” She pressed a wad of rubles into Gracie’s palm. “I’ll come out tomorrow to check on you.”

Gracie nodded. “Oh, can you call Andrei and tell him where I am? He’ll be worried.”

“Of course. What about the FSB?”

The FSB. The Formerly Safe Bureau. The Federation of Spies and Bad Boys. Gracie’s jaw tightened. “I’m on my own now.”

She left the Aeroflot office and sauntered down the sidewalk feeling like she was on exhibit. Noting the curious glances from old women, a blush heated her face. No one would guess she was American missionary Gracie Benson. For the moment, her leopard-skin patterned shirt protected her.

Her injured ankle began to ache and the high-heel shoes pitched her at an unfamiliar angle. She longed for a pair of faded jeans and her hiking boots, but they felt as far away as America.

No passport, no visa. No clothes, little money. Gracie hobbled to a bench and sank onto it. “Lord, I really need Your help here.”

The wind picked at her hair and sent chills up her spine. She should have borrowed a jacket, too.

The smell of fresh bread called to her empty stomach, and it groaned. The boulevard traffic had picked up—women walking dogs, children scampering home from school for lunch. Gracie watched a group of boys jostling one another, playing, laughing. Carefree.

Her chest burned and she swallowed the acid creeping up her throat. Once she got to Larissa’s
dacha,
what would she do? Her list of friends shrank daily. Even Andrei had seemed
standoffish, annoyed this morning. And if Vicktor found her…he’d probably throw her in the clink until he could send her packing.

If he didn’t have other plans for her…She let her fears settle into one painful truth—precious few people knew where she’d been this morning and the glaring majority had been FSB agents.

Someone had leaked her whereabouts.

First sign of Mr. FSB and she would kung fu him and run for the hills. The thought brought tears to her eyes. What had she been thinking, throwing herself into the arms of the FSB? She shuddered. Andrei had known better. Fear had uprooted her common sense and tossed it hither. The FezB had a reputation that made the average Russian shudder, not to mention what it would, no
should,
do to a foreigner. Vicktor was the last person she should trust. His blue eyes had obviously charmed away her brain cells.

She pushed to her feet, swayed on legs of rubber, then gritted her teeth and set out for the train station. In an hour she’d be tucked away at Larissa’s
dacha.

Someplace where the FSB, or Vicktor’s so-called Wolf, would never find her.

Vicktor screeched up to the curb, nearly crunching Arkady’s black Moscovitz. He scrambled up the three flights to his father’s flat, his heart rocketing through his chest. If he were a praying man, he’d have been making serious promises.

He nearly collapsed when he saw Roman hanging out near the doorway. His friend braced two hands on Vicktor’s shoulders, barring his entry to the flat. Vicktor’s breath caught in his throat. “No, Roman, don’t tell me—”

Roman’s eyes locked his. “He’s fine.”

Relief washed over Vicktor. Wrenching out of Roman’s grasp, he doubled over and gripped his knees, his breath ragged, his chest tight. “The dispatcher said shots were fired.”

“Your pop got him.”

Vicktor stood up. “The Wolf?”

Roman again palmed his chest to stop him. “We don’t know. There were two of them. One of them got away.”

Vicktor pushed Roman’s hand away. “What don’t you want me to see?”

Roman grimaced. “He’s okay, Vita. The paramedics are patching him up.”

“What about Gracie?”

“She’s gone.”

Vicktor sprinted past him. He nearly fell over the bloody corpse sprawled in the hallway of the apartment, but didn’t stop.

Nickolai sat on the sofa, surrounded by medics, blood-smeared cloths layering the floor. Vicktor braced his arm on the wall, feeling weak. “Pop? You okay?”

Blood ran down the side of Nickolai’s face, dripped off his chin and pooled in his shirt collar. Vicktor knelt before him. “What happened?”

Nickolai raised his gun. “Still a crack shot.”

“But you’re hit.” Vicktor reached up and peeked under a thick gauze bandage wrapped around Nickolai’s head.

“It’s a scratch.”

Vicktor frowned at him.

“Alfred did it when he jumped off the sofa. Upset your mother’s shelf. The vase I gave her for our last anniversary nearly did me in.” He pointed to the shattered remains of Antonina’s vase. Relief poured out of Vicktor in a hot breath.

Nickolai’s expression darkened. “Your girl got away, Vicktor. They tore off the door coming in. I popped the first one while she went out the window. Alfred took after the other one. She’s got guts, that American. I don’t know how she got off that balcony. But she’s scared and running. You need to find her, fast.”

Vicktor climbed to his feet and strode to the balcony. Outside, the wind picked up just enough scent to suggest spring. The sun winked overhead as if betraying a secret. Vicktor clutched the rail and peered over.

A fragment of black material flapped from the neighbor’s ironwork below. His throat knotted. “Where are you, Gracie?” Squinting at the ground, he couldn’t make out blood, but he winced as he imagined her falling. He closed his eyes as indictment curled around his soul. He’d done it again: had let the Wolf get his father. What had he been thinking bringing Gracie here?

Roman’s presence behind him made him hang his head.

“I shouldn’t have left her here.”

“Yes, you should have. She’s alive because your pop is a better cop than he believed, and you knew it.”

Vicktor met his gaze. “I have to find Gracie.”

Roman nodded. “You find her. Keep her under your wing and let us hunt down the Wolf.”

“I’m not sure it’s the Wolf we’re after.”

Roman frowned.

“I can’t explain now. Just do me two favors. Go talk to a guy named Strakhin. The COBRAs arrested him last night.”

“One.”

“Then check our chat room at eight p.m.”

“Got it.”

As Vicktor brushed past him, he felt Roman’s hand on his arm. “Watch your back. I’m not here because of your pop, Vicktor. Malenkov got another call on Ishkov’s the private line. This time, the voice on the other end warned us of a crime.”

“The crime?”

“The murder of an American woman and a Russian cop,” Roman said quietly. “I think someone besides you is trying to keep Gracie alive.”

“Or maybe it’s someone who needs her alive, instead of dead.” Vicktor stalked out to the family room.

“You said there were two of them?” he asked Nickolai, who was busy giving his statement to a rookie crouched at his feet. Vicktor noticed stars gleaming in the rookie’s eyes. He shot a look at Arkady, who leaned against the doorjamb. Arkady met his gaze with a tight expression.

Nickolai nodded. “Bigger than you and wearing a dark leather coat.” In his brown eyes Vicktor saw an old spark ignite.

“Thanks, Pop,” he whispered.

“And find my dog, too, son.”

Gracie fingered Larissa’s wad of rubles as she approached the bread factory, hunger clawing at her stomach. Perhaps a loaf of bread would stave off the growling beast that seemed determine to broadcast her presence.

Cutting a path toward the factory, she ducked into a long line winding out from a weathered blue kiosk. Ten minutes later she emerged with two fat loaves of hot bread. Yes, yes, yes, the best things about Russia…crusty bread and the smell of lilacs in spring. Her mouth watering, she picked her way back toward the boulevard.

She noticed the shadow a second before a body slammed into her. “Ahh!” Her breath was jolted from her. She stumbled and dropped one of the loaves of bread. Alfred scooped up the loaf and bounded off with it, saliva dripping over his prize.

“Alfred!” Relief made her stagger to a tree, where she braced an arm and scowled at the thief. Alfred dropped the loaf between his paws and appeared apologetic, blinking those brown eyes. Gracie sighed. “C’mere, you big oaf.” She patted her knees and the dog swaggered toward her, his fat rump twisting with the sway of his whip tail.

Crouching, she embraced his wide head and scratched the flat place between his ears. “I was afraid you’d been shot…”

Her heart went cold. “If you’re out here, then what happened to Nickolai?” She grabbed the dog’s ears and buried her face in his head. “Oh, please, Lord, no.”

Alfred licked her on the face and she wiped her cheek. She painfully sifted through her options. Responsibility and Christian love would send her back to Nickolai’s, but respect for his sacrifice would push her to the train station. She felt sick, but climbed to her feet. Scratching Alfred’s snout she murmured, “Say goodbye to Vicktor for me.”

Vicktor sprinted along the boulevard, feeling lost. Frustration welled up in the pit of his stomach. “Where are you, Gracie?” he asked, turning a circle.

He felt as if he’d pushed her off the balcony himself. Roman was wrong. He
hadn’t
been sure his old man had the pluck to defend her. He’d been desperate, and while he had hoped Nickolai could handle the job, he hadn’t seriously thought anything would happen.

Overconfident. Reckless. The accusations burned into his mind.

Vicktor stood, arms hanging at his sides, directionless. He’d just scared the skin off a young woman in a black coat and blond hair.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shot a glance heavenward. It was the third time in two days he’d considered praying. Scowling, he shook his head. What was it about Gracie that made him feel so helpless, so…panicked? The thought of her terrified and wounded made him ache.

Good thing Roman wasn’t here to see worry turn him to befuddled mush.

He’d find Gracie, throw her into a safe, as-comfortable-as-he-could-make-it holding cell and keep her under sentry until he could find a way to fly her home. Roman was right. The best idea was to send her safely away, quickly and quietly. And he’d let Roman pray the Wolf didn’t tag along.

His hands in fists, Vicktor marched down the boulevard toward his father’s flat. It was time to call in reinforcements. He’d find Gracie even if he had to alert the entire FSB force from here to Moscow. “Sorry, Gracie.”

The sound of a dog’s bark stopped him. He whirled, searching for the animal. “Alfred?”

The dog bounded toward him from across the boulevard, near the Svezhee Bread Factory. Vicktor ran to him, never so grateful to see his father’s mutt in all his life. His heart almost pounded through his chest. He caught the dog, who jumped up on Vicktor like he was a poodle. Vicktor wrapped his arms
around Alfred’s girth. He didn’t even grimace when the animal slobbered on his face.

“I’m glad to see you, pal,” Vicktor said into the dog’s fur. “Where have you been?” He pushed the dog down and Alfred ran in circles. Then Alfred barked once and lit out for the bread kiosk.

“Come back here!” Vicktor yelled.