Wiser Than Serpents (27 page)

Why hadn’t he pushed her—made her confront the idea that God cared about her?

No, why hadn’t he told her he loved her? Really, finally, in good and bad, Kwan or no Kwan, over e-mail and up close, loved her?

Do you trust God, David?

He wiped away another tear as he pulled up to the Yungs’ house.

I hope.
Please help me trust You, God.

He braked, and the car screeched and he slammed it into Park, getting out before it had come to a complete halt. Then he was inside.

What he saw made him hold on for a second to the door frame. “Trish, how bad is it?”

Cho had been hurt—the bloody cut and Everest-size goose egg over his eye testified to something hard connecting with his skull. David winced just looking at it. In true horror-movie fashion, blood had run down his face and was pooled in the collar of his dress shirt. More blood stained his sleeve.

But it was Trish who had David’s attention, the way she sat on the sofa, holding her stomach, breathing hard. Cho sat beside her, his hand on her stomach, and he looked up when David entered.

“What happened?”

A scratch down the side of Trish’s face oozed rivulets of blood. Concrete meets face, and concrete had won. “They surprised us—Cho was downstairs—I didn’t even see them coming. I just looked up, and they were inside.”

Trish moaned, which cut off Cho’s words and made him go white. “I have to get you to the doctor.”

Trish couldn’t take a breath, but then neither could David, or Cho probably, considering that his unborn child was probably fighting for life.

“Did they hit you?” David said, grabbing up the phone and tossing it to Cho. “Call nine-one-one again.”

“No—I mean, yes, but Yanna took most of it. They came in with this long pole, probably the same one they used on Cho.” Trish put her hand out, touching his cheek, her face crumpling as she mentally relived the attack. “And Yanna saw it coming and she stepped in front of me. It knocked us both down.” She put her hand over her stomach, again, and made a face that prompted Cho to dial.

“Are you sure it was Kwan’s men?”

“No, I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I just…just lay there as they hauled up Yanna. She was kicking and screaming, and landed at least one punch—”

Oh, swell. Give them another reason to hit you, Yanna. David sank down to a crouch because suddenly his stomach wasn’t feeling so well.

“But they hit her and told her to shut up.”

He put his hand up, wanting to stop her words but knowing he couldn’t and instead covered his eyes with his hand. “Did they kill her?” Had he really asked that? Or worse, was he ready for the answer, because that thought knocked him off his feet and he had to sink all the way to the floor, one hand out to take the weight. He took some deep breaths. Nearly put his head between his knees.

Oh, Lord.

“No—they had a pretty tight grip on her when they left, but she wasn’t howling anymore, in fact it almost looked like she was cooperating.” This, from Cho, who cut off his testimony to talk to whoever had answered the phone.

Cooperating? David stared at Trish, who had ducked her head, breathing hard now through whatever pain gripped her. What would make Yanna not fight?

Elena.

They had Elena. And Yanna went with them because they told her so and she believed them.

He leaned back, breathing hard, sweating.

Get a grip, David.

Only, what, exactly, would getting a grip look like when the woman he loved had been hauled out to who knows where by a couple of human traffickers?
Unraveled. Unhinged—
now those words he could embrace.

Cho had hung up, and he turned to his wife. “The ambulance is on its way. Just try and stay calm.”

Calm. It was possible David would never be calm again.

Cho looked up at him, gave him a grim look. “You’re going to get her back, David.”

He stared hard at Cho, at those dark eyes, a rabid suspicion that made him both ashamed and furious, rising from some haunted place inside him.

“He left that—” Cho pointed to a manila envelope on the table. Next to it sat Yanna’s smashed laptop. “He said to tell you to wait for his call. Kwan will trade Yanna…for you.”

Vicktor was prepared for Gracie to be surprised. To react, even to stare at him, maybe even yell. But he didn’t think Gracie had that kind of aim. He barely managed to miss the flying—metal? Before it banged on the door, chipping out a piece of wood.

The second missile caught him in the forehead. Blinding pain made him hit the dirt, or at least the wood-planked floor. “Gracie, stop! It’s me—Vicktor.”

And then, silence. Pure silence during which he wondered if he’d passed out, because his head certainly spun, the pain centered right there in the middle, throbbing. He reached up and sure enough, not just a goose egg, but blood.

Oh, wasn’t this a great way to make an entrance.

But he quickly put his hand back down because the floor had lurched up at him, and his cheek connected and he was down for a two-count.

And then Gracie was there. Right beside him, kneeling over him, a cool hand over his wound, pulling him up toward her, into her arms.

He leaned back, against Gracie, letting her hand stop the bleeding. Breathing hard, he looked up at her.

Her expression was shocked, but only for a second, because then her eyes started to shine with tears—or maybe fright—and she swallowed and managed a shaky smile.

He might just live.

Or slide happily into unconsciousness.

“Vicktor, I can’t believe it. What are you doing here?” But she didn’t wait for an answer, just bent down and kissed his cheek, holding him.

No, this wasn’t going to work. He let her hold him a second longer, then leaned up, turned and, while she held his head, he put his hands around her waist, pulled her to him and kissed her.

And as if she were
ecstatic
to see him, she kissed him back. Arm around his shoulder, holding on, kissing him back like she hadn’t seen him for months…or years. Like she wasn’t remotely tired of him, or annoyed by him.

Like she still loved him.

He felt his panic begin to shake free—not the panic that had made him rent a car and drive as if he might be on the autobahn, straight to the place where she said she wanted their honeymoon—but the deeper panic.

The one that told him she no longer needed him. No longer loved him.

Gracie.

He might be trembling so he pulled back, breathing hard, and ran his eyes over her face.

She smiled up at him, her beautiful eyes bright. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Surprise.”

She shook her head, incredulity on her face. “How did you find me?”

He shrugged. “I know you.”

That obviously touched her, because she nodded and wiped a finger under her eye. “You do.”

“Yeah. Just a little.” He cupped his hand under her chin. “And I was worried about you. You sounded weird on the phone, and when you sent me that text, well, Roman ran the name, and I did the math, and when I couldn’t get a hold of you…I…”

“You hopped on a plane to America.”

He swallowed. But she didn’t stop grinning.

“You
hopped
on a plane to America.”

“Yeah, okay, I did do that. But not because you’re incapable or anything. It was just because…because I’m a panicker. I do stupid things, and it probably won’t be the last time I do something really over the top, but in this case, I’m glad I came because—”

“Because we’re in trouble.”

This from the girl standing in the doorway to another room. A thin girl, about eighteen or so, with long brownish-blond hair and a face that looked definitely Russian. She wore American clothes, however—sweatpants and tennis shoes and a down vest—and, most important, held another horseshoe in her hand. “Were you the one who hit me?”

“No, that was me,” Gracie said, taking her hand away and looking at his wound. She made a face. “That won’t be pretty. You might even have a scar.”

“It’ll be a memory.” He found his feet, closed the door and locked it. “The time when Grandma nearly took Grandpa’s head off.”

Gracie made a little whimpering sound, and he reached down to pull her up. Then, one last time, because he had to, and because his heart was still pounding hard, he pulled her tight against him and held on.

She held him back. “I was hoping you’d come.”

“Really?” he whispered. Please, let it be true, and not because she was in trouble and might be happy to see anyone on her side, but because she really meant it. Because she hoped
he
would be the one knocking at her door.

“Deep down inside, I think I’m always hoping that.” Her smile faded. “Wait a second—how did you get into the country so quickly? You don’t have a—”

He put his finger over her mouth. “A little bit illegal, here,
dorogaya.
”

Gracie’s eyes widened, her smile now completely gone. “If you get caught.”

“I won’t get caught.”

“But—”

A sound made Vicktor freeze. Footsteps, on gravel. Outside. And them with the lights on, televising their every move. He flicked off the lights.

“Get down.”

But it was too late, because whoever was outside had friends inside, too. Glass broke in the bedroom, then, before Vicktor could get them someplace safe—like, where, behind the sofa?—footsteps rushed through the house.

One came in behind Gracie’s horseshoe-holding friend. He grabbed the girl around the neck and added a gun to her temple for oomph.

Vicktor stepped in front of Gracie.

“Jorge, put down the gun,” Gracie said slowly.

But Vicktor’s eyes were on the men coming in through the door. With an ax.

Welcome to America.

V
icktor was here. In America.
Here.

And about to get killed. Because shortly after her Russian hero had jumped in front of her, the door with its flimsy lock had slammed open, and two men had rushed in, one holding the ax.

Which hit the floor right where she and Vicktor had been standing.

She ended up near the sofa—Vicktor must have thrown her—and as she blinked to clear her head, she saw Sokolov take Vicktor to the ground.

Meanwhile, Jorge had Ina by the hair. “No, Jorge!” Gracie called, as Ina clawed his arm.

She’d counted three attackers, Sokolov on Vicktor, Jorge grappling with Ina, and number three—sure enough, she threw her hands over her head as something came crashing down over her. She dodged, and it hit the sofa.

Her attacker lunged toward her, off balance. Gracie brought up her knee, connected with his gut, and groped for one of those decorative rocks from the coffee table.

Her hand curled around it just as her attacker grabbed her throat.

She hit him with everything inside her, all her fury and frustration. An explosion of payback that probably saved her a couple thousand dollars in counseling. Blam! Right on his temple and the man went down.

On her.

She screamed, pushing him off her, kicking free and climbing out from under him.

Ina had vanished into the bedroom, but Gracie could hear screaming. She scrambled toward the sound.

Or—

Sokolov sat on top of Vicktor, and whatever had happened ended with Vicktor on the bottom. Sokolov held the sharp end of the ax an inch away from Vicktor’s throat while he leaned into him. Blood coursed out of the wound on Vicktor’s head.

Vicktor spoke some not very nice words in Russia, real low.

And Sokolov spit at him.

Then he elbowed Vicktor, hard in the face. Vicktor didn’t even flinch, eyes on the ax.

Gracie looked at the rock in her hand, and fired it off.

She’d played high school softball for just this reason.

It hit Sokolov in the head, knocked him off just enough for Vicktor to push him away. And that was all Vicktor needed. Just like that he had Sokolov in a submission hold, his hand bent back, Vicktor’s knee in Sokolov’s spine, gripping his neck.

“Call the police, Gracie!”

The cell phone, the
cell phone.
Ina had been reaching for it—yes, there under the table. Gracie dove, picked it up.

A gunshot sounded from the bedroom.

Gracie dropped the phone. “Ina!”

“Nine-one-one, Gracie!”

But she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Because she saw, in her mind’s eye, Ina, lying on the floor, in a pool of blood, lots of blood, just like her friends in Russia, and she began to shake.

Sokolov swore, kicking at Vicktor.

Vicktor shoved his face into the floor. “Gracie! Call for help, right now. Pick up the phone.”

But she just stared at him, unable to move.

He must have seen her fear, because his face softened, as did his voice. “It’ll be okay.”

And right then, she wondered what was so horrible about needing him? Because more often than she liked, her past rose up to haunt her, and she needed his voice in her ear, to break her free from the past. To remind her that she had, and would, live.

“You’re okay, Gracie. I promise, it’ll be okay. Pick up the phone.”

She grabbed the phone. Punched in 9-1-1.

Froze. “If the cops come, you’ll be arrested. They’ll deport you—you’ll never be able to come back.”

“Call them.” Vicktor looked up at her, eyes dark, fierce.

As he spoke, Ina came out of the bedroom, blood down the front of her, dazed, stumbling. “I shot him.” She started to shake, dropped the gun on the floor. Then crumpled beside it. “I shot Jorge.”

Gracie pushed Send.

Mission accomplished, she’d found her sister. Only, Yanna should probably work on her goal-setting techniques because although she’d found—or
hopefully
found—her sister, she’d neglected the second half of the plan, which was,
and escape alive.

Oh, yeah. That part. Alive and without getting David killed in the process. Although, when she’d started out on this jaunt into her worst nightmares, she really hadn’t realized how much company she might have.