Play Nice (32 page)

Demarkov shot a look his way, quickly turning to move in the opposite direction.

Anna looked from Demarkov to the agent.

Now’s your chance.

“Gun!” she screamed as loudly as she could.

Demarkov turned on her, his eyes blazing.

“Gun!” she screamed in his face. She kicked at his shins, wriggled from his grasp as people bumped into her from all angles. “He’s got a gun!”

Several people nearby heard her, parroting the phrase until it spread like wildfire.

Demarkov’s partner reached for his weapon.

But he didn’t get to shoot it as secret service were bearing down on the man in seconds. Men in suits tackled Demarkov’s partner, dropping the man to the ground. Demarkov froze, hands going in the air, as guns pointed his way.

“He shot the senator,” Anna shouted, pointing her finger at Demarkov. “I saw him fire as I was getting out of the Port-a-potty.”

“She lies!” Demarkov growled, making a move for her.

“Freeze!” secret service instructed him.

Demarkov froze, his eyes shooting daggers at Anna.

She backed up, melting easily into the crowd as they swarmed him. She waited just long enough to see handcuffs clasp around his wrists before turning and running for the spot where she’d last seen Petrovich.

She had to find him. If he got away, she’d never be safe.

The crowd was thick, running in all directions at once, yelling, shouting, the police unable to control the mass fear that was quickly taking over. Anna fought through them, getting knocked to the ground, picking herself up, pushing through again. Finally she fought her way to the spot near the popcorn cart where she’d seen Petrovich take his aim.

Only he was gone.

She whipped her head wildly left then right, scanning the nearby area. People filled the space everywhere, running, shoving, taking advantage of the chaos. It was impossible to see them all, to look at each face passing her. She moved north, along with the flow of people toward the edge of the park, letting the crowd carry her as she scanned for Petrovich. She couldn’t leave without him. This was her chance, her only chance. If he left the park, she knew she’d never catch up to him. He’d be a ghost again.

The crowd carried her near the stage. She’d been unable to see anything after Braxton went down, an army of guys in dark suits swarming him, then quickly pulling him back behind the curtain again. The stage was eerily empty now, the one spot not crammed with bodies.

“Anya.”

Anna froze, the cold barrel of a gun suddenly poking into her side.

“Gotcha,” Petrovich whispered, his hot breath on Anna’s neck.

She turned to face him, coming nose to nose with the man. His sunglasses had been knocked off somewhere in the chaos, the ball cap was pulled down low over his forehead, shadowing his features.

But even through the shadow, she could see the fire in his eyes. “You shot Braxton,” he hissed out.

Anna let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Me? I told you I wasn’t doing this job. You were the one that wanted him dead, not me.”

Petrovich searched her eyes, trying to read her.

This was one time she didn’t need to hide her thoughts from him. What she’d said was the truth. She had no idea who had taken Braxton out. She could guess … but at the moment, all she cared about was taking care of the man in front of her.

The man who, thanks to his confusion over the hit, was off guard. Vulnerable.

“You’ve lost your touch,” Anna said, leaning in so close to the man she could smell the lamb and garlic he’d eaten for lunch.

She saw something flicker behind his eyes.

“You’re old, Goren,” she continued. “And you’re getting sloppy.”

He gritted his teeth, all but snarling at her, and opened his mouth to respond.

But she didn’t wait, instead sliding her right foot down the inside of his leg and stomping on his instep as hard as she could.

As she hoped, he cried out, lurching forward in pain. She grabbed at the wrist holding the gun, quickly twisting until she heard metal clang onto the sidewalk.

But unfortunately, Petrovich’s moment of vulnerability was just that—a moment. He quickly recovered, his free hand coming up to grab Anna’s neck, pinching the bundled nerves there. It was a move he’d taught Anna her first week at the KOS; it didn’t take brute strength to bring a man to his knees, just a working knowledge of human anatomy.

Anna buckled under the pressure, falling to her knees on the ground. Around her, the crowd still surged, bodies packed tightly against one another. Anna felt her vision go fuzzy as Petrovich continued to apply pressure, felt the blood supply being cut off to her brain, the ground rushing up to meet her. She blinked, struggling to maintain consciousness. Just when the black at the edges of her visions started closing in on her, the pressure let up completely.

Anna fell forward onto her hands with the relief, taking in big lungfuls of air as she tried to regain her bearings.

She looked up. Petrovich was gone, his back disappearing through the crowd.

She quickly jumped to her feet, pulling her Glock from her boot, and shoved her way forward, keeping one eye on the baseball cap bobbing through the masses.

As he reached the edge of the park, the crowd began to thin, and he moved faster, breaking into a run as he hit Lincoln.

Anna sped up, sprinting after him. Sirens sounded as emergency vehicles tried to converge on the area. Anna could only imagine how many were injured from the virtual stampede out of the park. But she was only interested in one person now.

She watched Petrovich turn a corner, moving onto a side street beside a coffee house. Anna raced forward, needing to catch up before he turned another corner. If he took off down an alleyway, she’d never find him.

She rounded the coffee house just in time to see Petrovich slide into the passenger seat of a silver sedan. The driver scarcely waited for his door to shut before pealing away from the curb. Through the back window, Anna could see the short, black hair of Petrovich’s companion.

Shelli.

He’d had an escape planned. He’d had someone waiting for him.

And he’s getting away.

Anna felt desperation bubble up in her throat. As she watched the car pull away from the curb and speed down the street. They made a right turn at the corner, tires screeching.

But Anna didn’t break her pace, continuing to chase after the car on foot. She made a right into the alleyway. At the end she swerved left, out onto the main street just in time to see the tail of Petrovich’s car swerve left again, heading toward 19th.

She sprinted after the sedan, passing lines of cars parked at the side of the road. A guy in chinos and Birkenstocks was just getting out of a Subaru parked at a meter beside a sandwich shop.

Without even breaking stride, Anna plowed into the man, grabbing at the keys in his hand.

“What the hell, dude?” the guy shouted.

But Anna didn’t stick around to answer, sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling away from the curb before the guy could even get his cell out to call the theft in.

She scanned the street in front of her, eyes locking on the sedan, a block and a half ahead. She swerved into the left lane, surging forward. Then cut off a pickup by swerving right again.

Shelli must have seen her, since she changed course, merging right and running a red light. Anna followed, narrowly avoiding being sideswiped by the opposite traffic. Horns blared, drivers yelled, and somewhere in the background she heard a police siren begin to wail. But she didn’t care. All she cared about was the car in front of her. She gunned the engine, taking the corner on two tires, screeching down the side street after Petrovich.

He was not getting away this time.

Anna sped up and rammed the bumper of the sedan. Her head whipped forward, teeth jarring together.

But the sedan didn’t stop, instead surging ahead, turning left sharply, the wrong way down a one-way street.

This time Anna didn’t follow, instead passing to the next street, turning with the flow of traffic. She swerved right, jumping onto the sidewalk, her speedometer hitting sixty as she flew past the other cars. She hit a pair of trash cans, sending newspapers and empty soda cups flying into the street, but she didn’t slow down, laying on the accelerator the full way down the block. When she hit the intersection, she pulled the wheel hard to the left, praying her timing was right.

It was.

Petrovich’s sedan emerged just at that instant, and Anna plowed right into the side of it.

The sedan skidded sideways, pinned against the side of a brick building by the Subaru.

Anna jumped from the driver’s seat as soon as her stolen car skidded to a stop, the sound of sirens still following her in the distance.

She watched as Shelli climbed out the driver’s-side window, tripping onto the asphalt, clearly dazed. Shelli paused a moment, looking from Anna to Petrovich, but must have heard the approaching sirens, too, since she took off in the opposite direction, half running, half stumbling toward the end of the block.

But Anna didn’t care about her. Her sights were set on Petrovich, shoving at the twisted metal of the passenger side door. It whined, metal scraping on metal, but complied, opening in time for Petrovich to jump out and run back down the alleyway without missing a beat.

Anna followed, her legs pumping, her heart racing. Petrovich’s legs were longer, but Anna was younger. In three quick strides, she was on top of him. She flung herself at his back, catching his shoulder and shoving him to the ground.

He yelled out as he fell forward, left hand going in front of himself to catch his fall, the right reaching down his leg.

But she was faster.

“Don’t move!” she shouted, her gun shoved into the back of his skull.

She knew he was reaching for the pistol strapped to his ankle. She knew his every move before he made it. Because it was the same move she’d make. He’d molded her in his own image. His downfall. He could never surprise her.

She stood up, towering over him as she allowed him to roll over and face her. She planted one boot in the center of his chest, both hands clutching the Glock held straight-armed in front of her, listening to the sirens bear down on them both.

“Don’t move,” she repeated.

Petrovich stared up at her. She could see his chest rising and falling as rapidly as she could feel her own move.

“Anya,” Petrovich breathed, his eyes on the gun barrel. “I see I taught you well.”

“You did,” she agreed.

He smiled at her. “This is the real Anya. This is who you are.”

“No. You’re wrong,” she argued, shaking her head. “This was never me. This was who you wanted me to be.”

His smiled slowly faded. “You won’t shoot me, Anya.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “No?”

He shook his head slowly from side to side. “No. You’re right. Things have changed. You’ve changed. You’re soft now, Anya. You’re emotional.”

Anna shifted her weight, willing his words to roll off her. Willing herself not to analyze each one for how much truth she knew it held, and how disconcerting it was that he did know her after all.

“You’ve lost your training, Anya,” he continued. “You’ve lost your urge to kill.”

“I never had the urge,” she shot back. “I never wanted to kill. I had no choice.”

“I know,” he said softly, as if he was almost sorry. “But you were young then. You are your own woman now. And I know you can’t shoot me.”

Anna squared her jaw, forced her grip tight on the gun, tried to block out his words even as they saturated her brain.

“Be quiet.”

“Anya…” Petrovich said.

“Numb,” Anna whispered.

Petrovich raised himself up on his elbows. He smiled at her. “My
dragi.
My Anya.”

“Just,” she breathed out slowly, “go numb.”

Anna pulled the trigger, a sharp pop echoing off the buildings as one neat little red hole appeared in Petrovich’s chest.

One bullet. That’s all you need.

He froze in place, sucking in a sharp breath, eyes slowly tilting downward to see deep red liquid seeping from his chest. He looked up at her, surprise clear on his face. It wasn’t often he was wrong. But she’d had one kill left in her after all.

Anna didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched as Petrovich’s eyes started to cloud over, then slowly went flat, before he fell back again, his head smacking against the pavement in a final blow.

CHAPTER 26

Anna sat forward in her plastic chair, watching a television mounted to the ceiling in the corner of the waiting area at Gate 72. A news program was on, giving live updates on Senator Braxton’s condition. The reporter was slim, blond, in her forties, and completely interchangeable with any other correspondent at any of the other four major networks airing the same story.