Limbo Man (16 page)

Vee’s ballcap was even lower when she stood in line for tickets at the airport in Omaha, doing her best to avoid face recognition software. Daddy had promised to give them space, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t order his people to keep track of her if they could. To ensure his cooperation, she’d had to admit they were on to something, that Sergei’s memory was coming back. A memory that only functioned when he was operating as a wild card, free as the wind. Even though that wind flirted with the boundaries of Limbo, the black void on the edge of Hell.

While Vee stood in line, Sergei was lingering in the Men’s Room. Not even the floppy canvas hat, which had somehow survived the last few days—probably because his ego wouldn’t let his bald head, bandages, and swollen face be seen without it—would be sufficient disguise. More likely, the canvas hat would single him out like a follow-spot on a theatrical star.

Vee made a mental note to buy him a new hat. Fortunately, the brains under the damn hat seemed to be snapping into high gear. When she woke him after the long drive to Green River, he had come to life instantly, approved her plan to charter a plane with a curt nod, then took charge of the arrangements as if he had a blueprint laid out before him. He’d even demanded a share of Vee’s wad of hundreds before talking to the charter pilot. After all, a man could not turn to his female companion and ask her for money at the critical moment.

Vee allowed him his pride. She could tolerate the role of little woman, if that’s what it took to keep him happy. At least for a while. Only when they were folded together in the rear seat of the Cessna did Vee lean close to Seryozha’s ear to ask where they were going.

Omaha?
What was in Omaha?

Good connections to almost anywhere, he’d told her. And that was it, allowing her to seethe in silence all the way across the states of Wyoming and Nebraska.

And now she was buying two tickets to Philadelphia, which, knowing Seryozha, was unlikely to be their final destination. Though, hopefully, the flight from Omaha to Philly would be long enough for her catch forty winks. The world around her was turning into little more than a buzz of voices. A foggy blur where she could get by only by concentrating on the task directly ahead.

She had to remember something besides buying tickets . . .

Hat. A new hat for Seryozha. Vee tucked the two boarding passes into an inside pocket of her leather jacket, scanning the kiosks as she walked back toward the Men’s Room. Food, magazines, books, gift shop . . . something red caught her eye. Cornhusker ballcaps, a whole pile of them. Vee rummaged through the bin until she found a black one, with nothing more than a large red N on the front. The brim was broad, however. Just the thing.

She slipped the plastic bag with the ballcap to Sergei, who promptly ducked back into the restroom, returning to the concourse a properly attired fan of the Nebraska Cornhuskers. He’d removed the bandage from his cheek, leaving the vivid red scar to the shadows of the oversize cap brim. Being the master spy she suspected he was, he’d also assumed a new persona, the bearing of the man who had scolded Walt Tingley, the man who had chartered a plane in Green River. She suspected Nick the Invalid had gone the way of the floppy canvas hat.

Vee heaved a sigh. Nick, she liked. Sergei—
call me Seryozha
—tended to steal her breath away.

“Cheapest flight we could get, don’t cha know?”  Sergei winked at the car rental agent at Philadelphia International Airport. “Told the missus we could drive the rest of the way. Visiting the in-laws in Red Bank.” He leaned close to the male agent. “Not really anxious to get there fast, now am I?”

The agent grinned right back, not even raising his brow as Seryozha disgorged a stack of hundreds from his pocket. “With the economy in the tank,” he confided to the man behind the counter, “I’m doing my bit to keep debt down. Pay as you go, that’s my motto.”

“Sign here, Mr. Wilson.” The agent handed over the car keys. “Silver Taurus, third row on the right.”

“You drive,” Vee said as they fastened their seat belts. “I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“You had two hours on the plane.”

“Making about four hours in the last four days.”

“Is okay,” he assured her, at his patronizing best. “I planned to drive anyway.”

“Good thing, since I still don’t know where we’re going,” Vee ground out, her patience teetering on the brink of explosion.

“Atlantic City.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all. Best place to meet someone is in the middle of a crowd. A big crowd, with lots of security.”

“You’re meeting someone,” Vee echoed flatly. “This trip actually has purpose, other than disappearing off the radar.”

“Valentina,” he returned with what sounded like patience stretched as thin as her own. Or perhaps disappointment. “You know I do not have time to play games. From now on, every move has a purpose.”

“Sorry. I don’t have your capacity for operating on no sleep.”

“You got us out of Wyoming while I slept. We make good team. I promise a soft, very large bed in Atlantic City. And I will not bother you until you have caught up on your sleep.”

Bother?
Bother?
He couldn’t still be thinking . . . They were partners, that was it.

Cade had been her partner, and look how that turned out.

If she could just get a few hours uninterrupted sleep, she could handle this. Really. Vee lowered her seat and let the sounds of the superhighway lull her to sleep.

“What?” She groped her way up out of the sleep of exhaustion, swatting the hand that was shaking her. Hard. Seryozha swore and pinned her wrists, forcing her fists to her sides.

“Shopping mall,” he snapped, looking about as loverly as a great white shark. “We must have clothes, good clothes.” When she simply glared at him, he let go of her wrists, got out of the car, and opened the passenger door. He held out his hand. His green gaze softened infinitesimally. “Sorry, but no shopping carts here. You must walk.”

She didn’t move. “Nice outfit,” he coaxed, “for a big hotel. My clothes must look like Sergei, even if my face does not. And you must look like Sergei’s woman. He has very good taste. No jeans, no leather jackets, no sneakers, no ballcaps.”

“I worked hard to find that ballcap,” Vee wailed, knowing she sounded like an idiot, but she was having a hard time coming back to nasty reality.

“And I will treasure it,” he assured her. “And now we will go shopping.”

Grumbling, Vee allowed him to pull her out of the car.

Two hours later, Vee had acquired a designer pantsuit in soft, flowing black with an outrageously ruffled sparkling white shirt and all the accessories to go with it. Seryozha, in his guise as Serge
i
, had opted for all black, with a gold chain in place of a necktie. The compleat wiseguy. He had just come out of the Men’s Fitting Room and had assumed a pose, a rather arrogant one, for her inspection. She had to admit it. The monster was fading fast, turning into a man. No, turning into her nemesis, Sergei Tokarev.

“They will recognize my clothes and the style of my woman,” he informed her, “even if they do not recognize me.”

Whoever “they” were. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking. She still had sleep to catch up on. “Fine. You almost look human,” she growled, and turned abruptly toward the mall exit.

Once back in the car, Vee resumed her nap, waking only when they entered the stop-and-go traffic of downtown Atlantic City.

Sergei drove like a man who knew exactly where he was going, pulling up at one of the high-rise casinos fronting the ocean. “
Zdrasvityeh
, Johnson,” he boomed to the doorman, whose classic double-take might have been amusing under less dire circumstances.

“Mr. Tokarev, sir?”

Sergei shook his head sadly. “Run down by a New York taxi. Bad. Very bad. Casino good for rest, no?”

The doorman beamed. “Welcome back, sir. We’ll take good care of you.”

After breezing through a similar reaction at Reception, Sergei asked with an accent that seemed to deepen by the second, “My room iss available?”

“Of course, Mr. Tokarev.” The receptionist cut two key cards and handed them over. And just like that they were standing at the elevator. No request for ID, no mention of payment, no awkward comment about their minimal luggage.

“My home away from home,” Seryozha smirked, obviously enjoying her stunned expression. They stepped into the empty elevator.

People were trying to kill him, and he’d exposed himself in a place where he was well known? He was either mad or very clever. Vee confined herself to muttering, “I might have known you gambled.”

“Not me. Tokarev. He’s very fond of poker. And blackjack. Good at it, too, I might add.”

“Fine. He can gamble while I sleep.”

“You do not play?” He made it sound like a criticism.

Vee bristled.
“I told you I’m an investigator, not a spy. I don’t enjoy taking chances.”

“Is dreary life, Valentina. You need fun.”

The elevator door slid open. They stepped out into a long, empty corridor, elegantly decorated in shades of blue, coral, and gold.

“Tell Tokarev he can go to hell,” Vee growled. And stop smirking!”

“Is too bad,
dushenka
. Tokarev cannot do as you ask. He is known here. He pays the bill.”

Vee ground her teeth as he opened the door on the first swipe of the card. Those locks hated her. It always took three or four tries before she could get a hotel door open.

And then she forgot the little annoyances, exacerbated by lack of sleep. The large corner room featured a sunken conversation area deep enough to be termed a pit—with comfortable sofa, chairs, and plasma TV, all fenced to prevent the unwary from tumbling into it. The bed was kingsize with an über sophisticated comforter in black satin, banded in white. And beyond it loomed a panel of windows that drew Vee with near childlike curiosity, her energy momentarily revived. She peered out at a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean, the city’s world-famous boardwalk, and the Steel Pier.

“Okay,” she grumbled, while still feasting her eyes, “Tokarev has good taste.”

He chuckled, his arms surrounding her from behind, pulling her back against him. “You like?” he whispered in her ear.

“I like,” she whispered, “but do you have to stay in character when we’re alone? Sergei Tokarev is not my favorite person.”

“Ssh!” he hissed into her ear. “You want I speak good English and maybe get us killed?”

Bugged?
Tokarev’s regular room was bugged? Well, hell, of course it was. FBI, Homeland Security, the bad guys—take your pick.

With a small huff, Vee broke away, headed for the bathroom, which turned out to have a whirlpool tub and what looked like enough gold fixtures to gild the Lincoln Memorial.

“Sleep,” Sergei told her when she came out. “I make phone call, look for more clothes.”

“Your contact?”

“
Da
.” He handed her a notepad and pen. “Write sizes,
pazhalsta
. I good with women, but not with sizes.”

He said it with such a feigned look of innocence that Vee couldn’t contain a snicker. Impossible man.

He glanced at her list. “Not forget bra, panties.” Vee added her panty size, but balked at the bra. “My bra is fine. No need to replace it.” Or let him know it had a custom-made pocket for an emergency GPS locator, complete with an On-Off switch.

Dammit, but she hated it when he played Sergei, but she had to admit that under the circumstances he had no choice. But why he’d come to Atlantic City made no sense. The minute he transformed back to Sergei Tokarev, he became a target. So why take the chance?

He’d already answered that. He’d come to meet someone, and there was safety in numbers. The crowds at the casinos in Atlantic City were huge, mindless swarms of human beings intent on the lure of easy money, the thrill of staking it all, or desperate to win back what they’d lost. Though they couldn’t care less about Sergei Tokarev and Vee Frost, they formed an unwitting, impenetrable shield.

There was no such thing as an impenetrable shield. There was always a way. But right now . . . the broad expanse of bed beckoned. Vee stripped to her bra and panties, arranged the pillows to her satisfaction, pulled up the covers . . . and was instantly asleep.

She woke to a room illuminated more by the neon glow of Atlantic City’s casino strip than by the last fading rays of the sun. She lay on her back, forcing her brain back to life by picking out the room’s many elegant features, which were almost lost in the gloom of early evening, while very much aware of something large and warm beside her.

Vee turned her head. The dusk was kind to him. The two-inch scar on his cheek, a gentle pink. The facial swelling less grotesque, the bruises reduced to sallow yellow. From this angle she couldn’t see the bandage on the back of his head, but the fuzz was beginning to look more like hair than brown sprouts on a chia pet. She pictured the photo Tingley had shown her. Right height, right build, right head shape. Determined chin. Good lips—when they weren’t reduced to in a grim line, curling in arrogant disdain, or laughing at her. Not that his lips had been clear in the photo, nor the fathomless depths of his green eyes. But he was the Sergei Tokarev of the photo. And something more.