In Sheep's Clothing (25 page)

G
racie cradled Andrei in her arms, his hot blood saturating her shirt. Gritting her teeth, she pressed her hand into the wet tissue of his jagged stomach wound. “What happened, Vicktor?”

Vicktor’s hands shook as he redialed the cell phone. He couldn’t look at her.

Andrei started to moan.

“Zero-one at Leningradskaya Street, building fourteen,” he barked in Russian at the dispatcher who answered. “I need an ambulance and backup.” He snapped the phone shut. Retrieving his trench coat, which lay in a pile beside the car, he knelt beside Gracie. “Put this on the wound and press hard.” She took it without meeting his eyes.

Guilt churned in his chest. Vicktor rested the butt of his gun against his forehead, the cold metal shocking his sweaty skin. He’d been careful, checking the shadows as he shoved Andrei off the elevator in front of him…

They swept the flat together, Vicktor’s fist knotted in the collar of Andrei’s coat.

The trashed flat seemed untouched—boxes upended, closet doors thrown open, their contents spilled like the insides of a gutted animal. The house reeked of rotting tomatoes.

Gracie’s bedroom was so quiet he could hear birds singing in the trees and the low rumble of a bread truck as it shuddered over hardened ruts in the courtyard. Vicktor flung open the bathroom door, smacking on the light. The smell of mildew stung his nose, but there was no one hiding behind the flimsy shower curtain. Or in the living room, or hiding in the odorous fog of the kitchen.

Not a trace of the agent he’d sent to guard the flat.

The fine hairs on his neck stood up.

He should have paid attention.

Gracie’s two bulging suitcases sat where Andrei had left them, against the wall in the corridor.

Vicktor forced Andrei to his knees. “Open them.”

He watched Andrei for any subtle movements as the man unzipped the first suitcase. It popped opened like overripe fruit, spurting bulky socks and sweaters into the hallway. Andrei lowered it onto its side and began to paw through the contents.

“Hurry up.”

Andrei pulled out books and prodded hidden places under the folds of sweatshirts. “It’s not here.”

“Open the other one.”

Andrei moved toward the second bag. It, too, spurted open. Vicktor pictured Gracie sitting on it to zip it closed. “Hurry.”

Andrei rummaged through the clothes and souvenirs. “Gracie was wrong. The information isn’t here.” Andrei tossed out a wad of socks. Something shattered on the wooden floor.

Vicktor picked it up and grimaced when he found the smashed remains of a
zhel
ring holder. “Take it easy.”

Andrei lifted a pile of jeans. “Got it.” He shot Vicktor a look of triumph and held up a large manila envelope. Andrei studied it for a moment before Vicktor yanked it from his hands.

“University of Minnesota Cancer Center.” Vicktor breathed for what felt like the first time in hours. Beside him Andrei climbed to his feet.

Whoever the assailants were, they had the speed of panthers.

The weight of a man on his back slammed Vicktor to his knees. Vicktor jerked hard with his elbow and rolled. The attacker tumbled off and Vicktor leaped to his feet.

A black Baikal pistol stared him in the face.

“Give me the envelope.” A pig of a man with a ruddy face and dilated pupils, he glared at Vicktor. He wore a shiny black leather jacket.

“Nice coat,” Vicktor said, and dropped the envelope.

As the man followed the envelope with his eyes, Vicktor cracked him in the chin with his right fist, deflected the muzzle of his gun with his left. The gun went off as the pig’s head whipped to the side. Vicktor spiked him in the chest with his elbow. Breath wheezed out of him.

The pistol fell to the floor. Vicktor jumped for the weapon. Another shot sounded as he swept it up.

The pig pounced just as Vicktor turned, weapon in hand. Vicktor cuffed him hard. The thug dropped like a stone.

“Vicktor!”

Vicktor looked at Andrei and turned cold. Andrei clutched his stomach, blood spurting through his fingers. The other hand indicated the back of the other attacker as he escaped.

Gracie waited downstairs.

Vicktor started after the intruder.

Andrei’s breath was ragged. “Stop, Vicktor. I shot him. He won’t go far.”

Vicktor hesitated.

Footsteps thundered down the stairwell.

“Are you sure?” Vicktor scrambled back to Andrei, already punching in zero-one. The chauffeur was white. He slumped against the wall, eyes big and scared, but nodded. He kicked a silver Tanager, no bigger than a lighter, toward Vicktor.

Disbelief froze Vicktor, even after the dispatcher came on the line. She hung up before he could recover. Andrei had had a gun this entire time and hadn’t used it on him?

Gracie had been right. Andrei was the truest friend she could have here, despite his not-so-righteous role as traitor. A sheep among the wolves.

“I’m sorry, Vicktor.”

Vicktor cringed. Andrei’s saturated shirt dripped blood where a knife had dug a hole under his rib cage.

“Get me downstairs. I have to talk to Gracie.” Andrei’s voice wobbled.

“Of course.” Vicktor felt ill, seeing the chauffeur’s life ebb out.

Tucking the manila envelope inside his belt, Vicktor threaded an arm around Andrei and towed him to his feet. Andrei howled in pain. Vicktor dragged Andrei to the hall and called the elevator.

“Sergei—what about Sergei?” Andrei’s voice was a scant whisper.

“Who’s Sergei?”

Andrei coughed. “The one who jumped you.”

Sergei. Andrei’s boss? “Out cold.”

Andrei slouched against him as Vicktor dragged him out of the apartment and laid him in Gracie’s embrace….

“Hang on, Andrei,” Gracie whispered. Andrei moaned.

Vicktor paced the yard. Where was the ambulance? He released a pent-up breath. Why hadn’t he called Roman, or Arkady? He winced, indictment sinking razor claws into his heart.

Andrei’s breathing was labored. Gracie sobbed.

Vicktor wanted to drop to his knees and howl. Hadn’t she been through enough? Now he had to go and kill her best friend?

She met Vicktor’s eyes, desperation screaming from her tortured expression.

Vicktor looked away, into the sky, at the pigeons, the spying babushkas, the impatient people in the bread queue—anywhere but at Gracie.

“I called the ambulance,” he said starkly.

Andrei’s skin turned a smoky gray, his lips purple; his life was pooling on the ground.

“No, oh no, Andrei,” Gracie moaned. She bent her head close to his face, her hair and tears dripping into his eyes.

“Gracie,” Andrei rasped, “I’m sorry…please…forgive me.”

Gracie choked her sobs. “I already have, Andrei. I already have.”

A small smile crossed Andrei’s ghostly face. In the distance a siren whined through the air.

She couldn’t stop shaking. Disbelief cut a jagged swath through her heart as Gracie hugged herself and watched the EMTs load Andrei’s body into the ambulance. They’d made a gallant effort to revive him, despite their meager resources, Andrei still died before her eyes.

The wind nipped her ears, blew tears from her cheeks. Never in her worst nightmares had she believed she’d see the lifeless bodies of three of her best friends in one week’s time. Agony forced her eyes heavenward. “Why?”

The sunrise had bruised the sky a deep purple, and gray clouds prophesied a misty day. Gracie bit the inside of her cheek, feeling scraped out from within. “I need You more than ever today, God,” she moaned. “Hold me up.”

Ten feet away, Vicktor stared unmoving at his bloodied trench coat. His wan expression betrayed tortured thoughts. He looked up and met her eyes. The agony in his gaze wrenched her heart. She took two steps toward him. He blinked and his expression hardened.

“We need to go. Now.”

Gracie halted and glanced at the ambulance. “I need to call his cousin.”

Vicktor closed the gap between them. “You can do that from my house. I have to change.” He studied her. “And so do you.”

He strode toward the car. Rattled by the steel in his voice, she blinked after him, then examined her clothes.

She was covered in Andrei’s blood. It had turned the black pants a russet brown and saturated her leopard-skin shirt. Red etched the grooves of her hands. Her stomach lurched, a small moan escaped her lips and her knees gave way.

“Oh, Andrei.” She crumpled to the ground, fell forward and covered her head with her hands, moaning. Andrei was gone. Killed because he’d been protecting her. She felt parted down the middle.

“Gracie! Oh no, don’t do this. Please hold together.”

Vicktor’s arms enclosed her and she felt him pull her to his chest. He lowered his face close.

“I’m going to get you home. Don’t be afraid.”

Gracie dug her fingers into his shirt. “It’s all my fault, Vicktor.”

His sharp intake of breath was followed by a groan. “No. This is not your fault.”

“Yes, yes, it is. Andrei was supposed to be protecting me.”

“
Nyet.
Listen to me.” He leaned away from her, grabbed her shoulders.

Gracie saw a haunted look creep into his face.

“If anything, it’s my fault,” he said.

She started to shake her head. His grim expression silenced her.

“I’m taking you home.”

Then he lifted her. And she, because she was boneless with grief, let him. Somehow it just seemed easier to bury her face in his chest, curl her arms around his neck and hold on.

Larissa rolled up a pair of jeans and tucked them into her carry-on. She wouldn’t have to take much. Looking at herself in the mirror, she ran a hand over her face, noticing the dry skin. She needed a tan, and perhaps a massage. She wasn’t used to this kind of stress.

It would be over in a few hours.

She’d feel a lot better if Andrei answered his telephone. Where was he?

In her heart, she hoped he had found Gracie and coaxed the information out of her. She really didn’t want Gracie to die. She put her hand to her throat and grimaced at the empty place there. Boris was definitely stressed. The man was practically coming unglued, pacing her apartment half the night. His plan would never work. She’d have to do it herself. Sometimes she wondered how he’d ever thought up the scheme in the first place. Dumb luck, perhaps.

His dumb luck was running out. And if she didn’t help him, he was going to get them both killed. She picked up the necklace, broken in the middle, pried open a tiny link and wrapped the ends together. It would hold just long enough to help her finish the job.

Gracie sat on Vicktor’s bed, numb, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring out the window.

A pigeon sat on a balcony just across the alley, and Gracie focused on it, on the movements of its tiny head, on the dark eyes. Andrei’s brown eyes, thick with emotion, bored into her memory. She saw his fierceness, swelling when he kidnapped her from Vicktor. His words returned like a haunting prophecy.
I am so sorry I got you into this. But I swear I won’t let him hurt you.

Was he referring to Vicktor? Or someone else, someone he feared more? Gracie clutched her forehead with her hands and took a cleansing breath. Andrei, her best friend, her protector, her translator in this harsh Russian world, had died in her arms. Her clothes were stained with his blood.

Betrayer’s blood.

Protector’s blood.

He’d stood between the KGB and her for two years, and paid for it with his life.
Oh, God, why?
A fresh sob shook Gracie.
Please, don’t let his death be in vain.
She crunched the envelope to her chest and raised her eyes to heaven.

She heard the water running in Vicktor’s bathroom. Poor man. He’d looked hunted. It made her ache to think he blamed
himself for Andrei’s death. The ride to his flat had been agonizingly silent—Vicktor battling some unspoken pain, she gulping back horror. She didn’t want to admit how much she longed to be safely tucked back inside Vicktor’s embrace. But he had no room for her.

His guilt took up all the space in his heart. She could see it, even if he couldn’t. Vicktor needed forgiveness like a person needed air.

What did he have planned next? Where would she run to that she couldn’t be found? Or was Vicktor planning on giving away the envelope? To whom? Who wanted this information, and why?

Money. If Leonid truly had been cured of cancer, then the antidote would be priceless.

And worth dying for. She ran a finger over the address Evelyn had written. This information would
not
land in the hands of Dr. Willie’s killer—not without the battle of her life. She’d leave Russia with the notes.

Or die trying.

“C
’mon, Vicktor, sort this out.” Vicktor sat on the edge of his bathtub, the door securely locked, muttering to himself. Steam hung near the ceiling and sent rivulets of perspiration down his face. His clothes clung to him, sweat coursed down his back. He shoved his hand through his hair, then pushed his palms against his temples.

Think.

“Sergei,”
Andrei had said. Vicktor flashed the face through his memory. When his FSB backup had arrived at Grace’s flat, they’d arrested a reviving Sergei and hauled him outside. Slouched in the back seat of the squad car, he’d glowered at Vicktor. The thug had seemed familiar. Vicktor scowled, willing the memory to come to him.

They’d found the rookie FSB agent assigned to watch the flat trussed up on the balcony.

Vicktor stared at his hands, crusty with dried blood. It wasn’t the first time he’d held a dying man, wasn’t the first time his hands had been covered in blood. He felt cold now,
however, seeing how red filled every pore, even the grooves of his fingernails. Self-condemnation hit him low and hard in his gut.

After peeling off his clothes, he stepped into the shower. The heat nearly took off a layer of skin. He turned and put his face in it, wanting it to hurt. When he could stand it no longer, he cranked on the cold and grabbed the soap. Blood pooled brown at his feet as he scrubbed.

Moments later, he was toweling off. He let the water run for Gracie who had insisted he shower first. He tugged on a pair of sweatpants, pulled on a T-shirt and wrapped the towel around his neck.

Steam drifted from the bathroom when he opened the door. The cool air hit him. “Gracie? It’s your turn.”

Silence.

He walked down the hall and stopped at the doorway of his bedroom.

She stood with her back to him, staring out the window.

“Gracie, you okay?”

She shrugged. He saw grief in the curve of her shoulders, her wretched posture. His heart ached, knowing he had caused it. He winced and ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could take them back ten hours to that moment in the garden and never let go. Something wonderful, magical, so right it hurt, had passed between them. And he’d killed it this morning. He clenched his jaw, willing himself not to fall apart in front of this woman who had more guts than anyone he’d ever met.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I.”

Oh no, Gracie, please don’t think that.
He couldn’t stop the groan as he walked toward her. “Don’t give up hope, Gracie.” If the light in her eyes died, it just might kill him. He put his hands on her shoulders. “No, you’re not going to die.”

He lowered his forehead to her hair. Her smell played havoc with his emotions. How was he supposed to say goodbye to the one person that made him feel hope? He tried to keep the agony from his voice. “Not if I can help it.”

She turned, and he was shocked—no, terrified—by the fierceness in her eyes. She lifted her chin.

“I’m ready to die. I don’t want to, but I’m ready. I don’t want you to give Dr. Young’s medical notes to this maniac. I want you to send them to America.”

He went dry-mouthed, picturing the worst. Gracie, shot dead, or worst, knifed by the Wolf. His body reacted to the picture, his breathing almost painful. He stepped back. “No.”

She moved toward him and touched his face. “It could save lives,” she said.

He fought to keep emotion from his voice. “We don’t know that.”

“I think we do. Leonid was cured. Dr. Willie gave his life to protect this information—”

“Or to protect you. He knew you had it.”

She winced.

“I can’t risk your life.” He didn’t care that he had just cracked open his chest, letting her get a full view of his desperation. Or that he was now reaching out, clutching her arms and trembling.

Yes, she saw the panic in his eyes, for her expression softened. “It’s my life. I can. I want to.”

Don’t look at me that way, Gracie. Please.
He glanced away.

“Besides,” she said, and he heard a smile in her voice, “it would kill you to let the Wolf get this information, wouldn’t it?”

He frowned at her. “Yeah. How did you know that?”

“The way you describe him. The way your voice turns cold and your face darkens. You have some sort of past with him, don’t you?”

He licked his lips, aware for the first time that she might know him better than she let on. “Yeah, I do. He’s my greatest mistake. I do want to get him. But the truth is, Gracie, that it would kill me if you died and he got away.” He might as well declare his feelings with a megaphone. “If anyone is going to give their life for that information, it’ll be me.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Vicktor. I’m ready to die. You aren’t.”

He flinched.

A ray of sunshine broke through the wall of clouds and a shaft entered the room, lighting her hair gold. He pushed her hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “Well, then I’m not ready to lose you.” What she didn’t know was that if she died, he would, too. A little bit every day for the rest of his life.

“Gracie, what am I going to do after you’re gone?” Had he really let that leak out? He opened his mouth, maybe to take those words back, but she was staring at him with a startled expression that turned him mute. Wide eyes, beautiful and huge, a slight smile that packed a whammy.

What was he doing sending her home?

A thousand images raced through his mind, Gracie reaching across the table to take his hand, her eyes tearing at his words at the
dacha,
her laughter when Alfred slobbered on her. She was so beautiful and giving and full of this unconditional love that it made his knees weak. In fact, it ripped the breath right out of his chest.

He already felt like he might be dying.

“Gracie, I know this sounds crazy. But maybe…Don’t go. We’ll find the Wolf, and until then I can protect you. And then you can be here and maybe we can figure out—”

“Vicktor,” she said, but he couldn’t hear the no.
Please.

He leaned down and did the only thing he could think of to silence her.

He kissed her. Cupped one hand behind her neck, closed his eyes and touched his mouth to hers. Sweetly. Softly. She held her breath and trembled just slightly, and he felt pretty sure that he was going to dissolve into a puddle right there.

Her lips softened against his, full of trust. She mouthed his name, and his emotions climbed up his throat.
Gracie.

She had her hand on his chest. But she wasn’t pushing him away.

In fact, she was kissing him back.

It felt like a written and stamped invitation.

His arm went around her waist, and he pulled her to his chest and felt his heart move out of his body to a place where there was no past, no future, just now. Blessed, glorious now.

“Gracie,” he murmured, not wanting to stop, but needing to know, please, that he wasn’t scaring her. He had the barest grip on his self-control, and knowing that made him slow down.

Could it be that Mr. Reckless cared more about behaving himself than wrapping his arms around her, deepening his kiss and making her forget everything but a list of reasons why she should stay, forever?

Maybe he’d begun to think with his heart instead of his pride.

He felt her hands on his chest.

Yes, okay, slow down.
With a ragged breath, he tore himself away. She met his eyes, a strange, pained expression on her face.

He felt kicked in the gut.

“No,” she whispered.

No? She might as well have plunged a knife into his chest. Closing his eyes, he hoped she didn’t see the effect her words had on him. He blew out a breath and released her.

“Sorry,” he said. He couldn’t look at her.

“It’s not your fault,” she said, but it didn’t feel that way.

He sighed.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she mumbled, and moved toward the door, away from him. Away from them.

He clutched the back of his neck. A muscle screamed, pulling taut. Dredging up his voice, he called after her. “How about some clean clothes?”

She turned and nodded. A tear edged down her cheek. He suddenly wanted to throw something, anything, hear it shatter and drown the agonizing wail inside his head.

No?

He strode past her to the closet. Pulling out a pair of black jeans and a denim shirt, he handed them over without looking at her.

“Thank you.” Her voice trembled.

He held himself together until he heard the bathroom door close. Then he sank onto the edge of the bed, covered his face with his hands and listened to his heart shatter.

Gracie slumped against the bathroom door, giving way to the pressure in her knees.

She’d kissed Vicktor. And she meant
kissed
him. A one-hundred-percent, lean-into-it with-her-heart-in-her-throat kind of kiss. And he’d been so gentle, so perfect. Tears glazed her eyes.

What had she just done? She curled her arms over her head and groaned, still feeling his hands in her hair, her lips burning. Some missionary she was. She couldn’t even behave herself.

Was it possible to fall in love with someone in three days? To let him move in and take over your heart? But love wasn’t based only on feelings. Love meant commitment, sharing like goals, values, futures.

She and Vicktor were night and day. Light and darkness.

Please, get me out of here, Lord. Save my heart from being totally skinned.

Too late.

She curled the pile of Vicktor’s clothing to her chest and buried her face in it. His clothes smelled like him. She inhaled, then with panic, dumped them onto the floor. She didn’t want to think about his smell, or his incredible blue eyes, or the feel of his strong hands, or the way he scooped her into his arms, or even the tremor of his voice when he said her name.

Obviously grief and fear had her clinging to an emotional precipice, and with a nudge she could happily tumble over into Vicktor’s arms and be lost forever. His gentleness, his protectiveness burrowed right to her heart.

Okay, yes, she loved him. Loved the fact that she felt beautiful and perfect in his eyes, that he’d do anything to protect her. The thought of leaving him made her grasp the edge of the sink, and haul in deep, pained breaths.

I’m sorry, Lord. I am. Help me to leave him….

Climbing to her feet, she peeled off her bloodied attire and stepped into the shower.

She’d just stay here, forever, in the bathroom. With the shower blanketing her in warmth, and cleansing her of the grief of the past twenty-four hours, and hiding her from the emotions that could only lead her, and Vicktor, to a place they couldn’t bear. She crumpled into the bathtub, closed her eyes and lifted her face to the water.

Vicktor answered the telephone on the second ring.
“Slyushaiyu.”

“Sounds like you had a rough morning.” Roman’s voice was a balm on Vicktor’s fraying nerves.

“I’ve had better.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m praying for you, pal.”

Vicktor nodded, wishing Roman could pray Vicktor’s way into Gracie’s heart. “Thanks.”

“I chatted with Preach last night, and he got your info. I copied it and sent it to your home address.”

“Appreciate that.”

“The bottom line is that cancer vaccines are a fringe method of treating cancer. They’ve found one to eradicate melanoma, but it has little effect on other cancers.”

“So Young’s remedy could be a breakthrough.”

“If it works. You want me to come over there?”

Vicktor rubbed a screaming muscle in his neck. “No, thanks. I’ll call if I need something.”

“What are you going to do?”

Vicktor blew out a breath. “I have to get her safely home.”

The silence on the other end of the line said his friend knew what that meant.

“I guess this is one of those times I’ll ask you to pray to that God of yours.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. But maybe it was time to invest in a little help. He’d contend with the cost later.

“You got it, Stripes,” Roman said, then clicked off.

Vicktor rummaged through his closet until he unearthed a brown knit shirt. Kicking out of his sweatpants, he pulled on a pair of black jeans. He could hear the shower still running and wished it could wash away the horror of the last few days. He doubted Gracie would ever return to his homeland. The memories alone would keep her away. Regret tightened his empty stomach. Why had he allowed himself to open his heart? Hope had led him places that he, a smart man with a history, knew better than to tread.

Throwing his clothes into the clothes hamper, he also picked up a suit coat he’d draped over a chair. He’d turned into a complete slob, he thought wryly. He emptied the pockets onto the bed, intending to hang the jacket in the closet.

A piece of paper snagged his attention. He picked it up and memory jolted through him. The picture he’d found at the Youngs’ apartment. A Korean and a Russian, arm in arm with Dr. Young. He squinted at the Russian. The face seemed familiar.

Vicktor flicked the picture with his middle finger. Pastor Mikhailovich. Sure, the guy who’d practically dragged Gracie out of the lighthouse restaurant. He’d seemed rattled by Vicktor’s sudden appearance, even sweating. And something about his voice had struck a chord. Vicktor squinted at the Korean. His eyes widened. Gracie’s words hummed in his ears,
You have the truth right in front of you, you just need to open your eyes to see it.

Vicktor picked up the phone and speed-dialed Arkady, who answered on the second ring.

“I need you to do me a favor…” Vicktor started.

Five minutes later he hung up and called Yanna. Her businesslike voice softened when she heard his request. “I’ll see what I can drum up,” she answered.

“Great. We’ll be by HQ in about an hour.”

“I’ll see you then,” Yanna promised, and hung up.

Sitting down at his desk in the family room, he heard the shower turn off. And felt dread. Now Gracie would walk out of the bathroom, looking heart-wrenchingly gorgeous in his clothes, her green eyes shining like jewels. And he was sup
posed to turn off his feelings and not somehow get his heart cremated. He swallowed a rising panic and opened his laptop.