Sin on the Run (17 page)

Walt seemed to have mottos he lived by. Blake punched Monty's number and while he waited for an answer, he drank the water.

“Who is this?” Monty answered, obviously not recognizing Walt's number.

“It's me. I need you to run Jersey plates.” The car had out-of-state plates, so unless a tourist had picked up Orlov, it was a rental. “Find the rental company, then hack in. He's got Rhonda, and I don't know how long she has. I need you to GPS that car. Tell me where he's going.” Many rental companies had installed GPS units in their cars. If a car was stolen or not returned, they could track it.

“Shit, this might take me a few minutes.”

“She might not have that long.” He didn't know what the Russian had planned. He hadn't killed her in the swamp, so he had something else in mind for her. And sick bastard that Orlov was, Blake didn't like it.

“I'll call you when I know. I can reach you at this number?”

“Yeah, sure.” He hung up, precariously close to losing it. Christ, this was his fault.

“You in trouble?” the old man asked.

“My girl is.” He'd need this guy's gun. Better to tell him the truth or some version of it.

“Can I help?”

“Not unless you have an arsenal of weapons handy.” How long would this take? Was Rhonda all right? Had they killed her and dumped her body somewhere?

Walt's phone rang. Blake answered. “Go.”

“You got lucky. Looks like he stopped along the South Dixie. Satellite's coming now.” There was a pause while they waited. “Yeah, he's at Bram's Motel. Or the car is. That's cocky.”

“Orlov thinks I'm dead, and he's injured.”

“
Why
does he think you're dead?”

“Maybe because an alligator tried to eat me. Bram's Motel?”

“I know where that is,” Walt told him.

“The smart animal didn't have a taste for haggis?” Monty asked.

“Funny. Anybody in the area?” Backup would be nice.

“Cowboy might be. Let me track him down, get him headed in your direction.”

If Cowboy could make it in time, it would help. Blake couldn't use his injured arm and while he could shoot with one hand, he couldn't fight. Maybe they'd get lucky. He hung up, eyeing the closed glove compartment.

“Blake?” said Walt.

“Yes, sir.” What were the odds he'd have to wrestle this nice old man for his gun?

“Some Russian has your girl?”

“Yes, sir. And he's going to kill her if I don't make it on time.”

The old man accelerated. “Before I trained for this job, I served in two wars. Marine Corps.”

“It's an honor to meet you, Walt. This country needs people like you.” None of his family had served in the military and when he'd talked about enlisting, his grandmother had threatened to cut him off. He'd been seventeen at the time and not man enough to tell her to shove it. Plus the accident had thrown the family into turmoil. It wouldn't have been fair for him to take off.

“Yes, sir, they do. And I'm gonna help you get your girl back.”

“Walt, I appreciate that. But this guy is dangerous and,” he turned to look at the man, “he wouldn't hesitate to kill you.”

Walt smiled. “Wouldn't be the first to try.”

* * *

Blake counted on Orlov's wounds being severe. Otherwise, why not keep driving? That alligator had gotten in one good snap before he'd set his sights on Blake. In the parking lot of the cheap motel, Blake sat in the pickup with Walt, contemplating how he was going to get Rhonda out without getting her killed.

“You're not going to call the sheriff for help, are you?” Walt said.

“I don't want a shootout and Rhonda to get caught in the crossfire. What I need is a distraction. He didn't drive that car, which means there are at least two of them in there with her. I have to take at least one out.”

“The black sedan with the Jersey plates?” Walt pointed to the car parked outside a motel room. “I heard. How about a little fire? Would that work?”

“Sure, got any suggestions?”

Walt turned, reaching into the back cab of the truck. Grabbing the tarp strewn across the back seat, he tugged. “Is TNT to your liking?”

In a wooden crate, lay ten or so sticks of dynamite. He didn't ask. Didn't want to know. “Yeah, that'll work.” He smiled. “How much ammo do you have for that pistol?”

“The one in the glove compartment? Hell, that's a pea shooter.” He got out of the truck, motioning for Blake to follow.

He didn't realize how useless his injured arm was until he tried to open the door. He hoped he could use whatever Walt was going to show him.

The old guy dropped the tailgate and hopped in. Using a key next to the truck ignition key, he unlocked a padlock. With a wide, knowing grin, he popped open the lid.

Blake looked at the contents, then at Walt. “You expecting a war?” Inside were more guns than he'd seen in the trunks of FBI snipers.

“Like I said, I always carry. Plus—”

“You can never be too careful?” Blake finished for him.

Walt rolled his shoulders. “I did some sharpshooting when I was overseas. Hard habit to give up. The only thing I get to pick off now is rabbits and the occasional deer. I don't much care for hunting animals.”

Blake took another peek inside the box. “Is that a tranq?”

“Never know when you'll find a gator in your backyard. I own a ranch. Got some livestock, so I'm licensed to have it.”

“What's the range?” he asked, looking back at the motel room.

“That one?” He tipped his head back and forth. “Mmm, I'd say a hundred feet.”

He'd need to take the driver out, then get inside and deal with Orlov. But he couldn't very well have Walt shoot anyone. “You still want to help?”

* * *

Rhonda moaned. How the hell did she end up in a stampede? She slowed her breathing. She was lying on something soft. One at a time, she pried her eyes open, ready to tell whoever was jackhammering her skull to stop. The room was dark. How much time had passed? She unstuck her dry mouth and tried to focus on the blob sitting somewhere in front of her. Her vision slowly cleared, and she recognized the asshole from the swamp.

He had a gun on the table beside him, his arms lazily draped over the armrests of a chair. He hadn't been happy to find the Russian bleeding. Then he'd stuck her with something. She'd heard Orlov call him Albert, and right now, Albert was looking at her like she'd done something wrong, like she was to blame. That couldn't bode well for her. Blinking away the remains of whatever drug they'd given her, she saw the ring on his finger. It was the same gold band with a red stone as the one she'd seen in Vegas. Was this some kind of brotherhood? Killers-R-Us?

Albert called out in Russian and Orlov came into the room from the bathroom. He was shirtless. He glanced over at her and said something to Albert.
Watch her?
The Russian she learned from Mrs. Grekov was a little rusty. Then she thought he asked his pal for more medication. While Albert didn't appear happy about it, he popped open a pill bottle and gave him one anyway.

The bandages on Orlov's hand showed he was tending to the injury on his arm. And all of Albert's fussing and the gentle way he touched Orlov's shoulder led her to believe she'd gotten the Russian's intentions toward her wrong. These two were more than associates. She glanced at Albert's ring finger again. Might these two be married? Russia wasn't exactly liberal with gay rights.

She went to scrub her face and realized her hands were tied. She did it anyway, the dirt and grime like sandpaper against her skin. And with all the sweating she'd been doing, her wig itched like crazy.

Orlov returned to the bathroom. The men kept talking. She worked out that they intended to sell her, and from the name-dropping and the words she could make out, she figured it hadn't been the Russian mob who'd hired them, but Sorrentino. Either that, or these two were taking money from both sides.

She drew her arms in close, balling herself up, the air conditioner cold against her damp body. If these two morons thought she'd go down without a fight . . . they didn't know her very well. She'd survived too much shit in her life. She tried to not to think about the drug they'd shot her with . . . and the side effects. There was nothing she could do about that now. First, she had to get away.

She eyeballed Albert, too concerned about his partner to do as he'd been told and watch her. Would he shoot her before she made it the short distance to the door?

She debated pretending to be sick, but doubted either of these two would care.

She tried not to think about Blake. When she got out of this, then and only then would she allow herself
that
grief. Now, she had to focus on getting out alive.

Orlov stuck his head into the bedroom, his glassy eyes trying to focus on her before speaking to Albert. Her skin crawled every time he looked at her. To think Blake was dead because of this slimy bastard. How much would yanking the lamp out of the socket reduce the force behind her slugging him with it? Judging from how stoned he was, would it take much?

He told Albert to call someone. The remainder of the conversation happened too quickly for her poor Russian. She glanced down at Orlov's arm. It would take more than a makeshift first-aid kit to bandage that wound, but if infection didn't set in, the bastard would live. She shivered, refusing to think of the damage an alligator would do to a man's body. She wouldn't go there. Later.

Orlov was retreating into the bathroom when someone knocked. His flunky had just sat and was now looking at him for instructions. He was told to answer but the rest was lost to her. The younger man rose, his gun by his side. What would happen if she screamed? Would they shoot whoever was at the door? Slowly, she sat up, putting her feet on the floor.

The bed was to the left of the door, so she couldn't see.

“Howdy.” A man's voice filtered into the room.

“Yes,” he replied in an accent heavier than Orlov's.

“Sorry to bother you, but is that your car? The black one in front?”

The young man tucked his gun under his shirt, letting out a long line of Russian curses, some of the first words Rhonda had learned. She didn't have to know Russian to understand something was on fire. She could smell it. The car? Good, maybe
it
would explode.

Orlov bolted from the bathroom, his injured arm now wrapped, his free hand carrying his own gun. The two exchanged words, then Albert headed outside, slamming the door behind him. They were alone, and while her hands might be tied, he was injured and . . . sedated as shit, possibly not thinking clearly. He split his attention between her and listening to outside. She planned it out in her mind.
Grab lamp
,
hit jerkoff, run for door
. Her butt had barely lifted from the bed when she heard the boom, then felt the whoosh of heated air as the front window shattered.

O
ne minute Rhonda was getting ready to bean him, the next she was a human shield, the lamp dropped and useless by her feet. She tried to kick him, but decided it wasn't a good idea with a gun barrel pressed to her temple.

The asshole called out to Albert, but got no reply. He tried again, inching closer to the broken window. Still no answer. On the pavement, in front of the smoking car, a pair of legs lay motionless. Something other than his usual malevolent sneer darkened Orlov's ugly eyes. Rage. The arm around her waist clamped so tightly she could barely breathe.

He manhandled her until they were against the wall, next to the blown window, as he tried to see what he was up against. For someone with an alligator bite, half-cooked on drugs, he was disappointingly strong. Acrid smoke began to fill the small room but he didn't seem to notice or care. Then the bathroom door shattered and what air was left in her lungs vacated as Orlov crushed her to him.
What the hell?
They were being shot at. Who else had this asshole pissed off? And why was she stuck in the crossfire?
Shitty dumbass luck
. And her damn wig slipped, covering her right eye.

“Let me go,” she croaked. If he didn't loosen his hold, she'd pass out.

He barked something at her. Growing lightheaded, she repeated it in her fuzzy mind.
Zat-kneess?
He told her to shut up? She blinked, trying to focus, her breath a loud rasp as the corners of her vision blackened, her muscles growing slack. Then he must have realized what he'd been doing, because suddenly she gasped with much-needed air.

Trying to focus, she saw his glassy stare glued to Albert's legs. The wig slipped further down her head, giving her an idea. With him distracted, this was her chance. Testing her fingers to make certain she'd regained control of her muscles, she lifted her tied hands. Pretending to wipe her forehead, she reached for the corner of her Orphan Annie wig. She freed it from the remaining clips and pins, and flung the damn thing at his face. He cursed. It was the distraction she needed and she used the opportunity to free herself of his grasp. Shielding her own face, she threw herself through the broken window and landed hard on her ass. She hoped like hell whoever was shooting wouldn't shoot her. Without thinking too much about the consequence, she rolled as fast and as far away as she could.

In the distance, she heard sirens, but more important were the gunshots blasting all around her. Scrunched up in a tiny ball, she tensed, waited to feel the burn of being shot. Then nothing. The shooting stopped. Slowly, she lowered her hands. And saw Blake running toward her.

Was it the after-effect of whatever drug they'd given her? Blake was alive?

Tears clouded her vision and streamed down her cheeks. Had she hit her head?

He knelt in front of her and helped her sit up. “Did they hurt you? Rhonda, damn, are you hurt?”

All she could do was stare. He was alive.

“Walt,” he shouted. “Do you have a knife to cut these ropes?”

“I got eight in the truck, son. I'll get one.”

“Can you stand? Rhonda talk to me.”

“You're alive.” She laughed, giddy with the news. The man she loved was alive.

“We'll have to add observant to that list.” He smiled. And it was wonderful.

“How? I saw the alligator. You didn't come up.” Blake's right arm was bandaged . . . and bloodstained. “How big is that bite mark?” Orlov's had been nasty and he hadn't been the alligator's Sunday dinner. “And where's Orlov?” Had he been shot?

“Here.” From behind Blake, a man passed a knife.

“We don't have to worry about him.” Blake cut through the ropes then tossed them aside. “And I'm not going to lie. You'd see right through that. I'm going to need stitches. But for once, can we focus on you first?”

“I'm not bleeding.” She argued, not giving a shit what happened to the Russian. Blake was injured.

“For now, I'm fine. Turn it off, Rhonda. I want to take care of you.”

The sweet sentiment touched her heart, but it didn't change anything. He was hurt, she was not. Sirens bellowed and the blaring honk of a fire truck startled her. It was starting to be a recurring theme with them.

“Are we running?” she asked, her heartbeat already going into overdrive. How were they going to escape?

“No,” he said, glancing back at the destruction. “This has to be explained. Can you get up?” he asked again.

“I think so.” She allowed him to help, never more grateful for his hands on her body. “I don't understand, Blake. I saw what that alligator did to Orlov.” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, getting her first look at the chaos behind them.

The charred remains of Orlov's car continued to blow black smoke as glass littered the walkway in front of the open door of the room where she'd been held hostage. The hotel manager stood by his office, a baseball bat in his hand as he waited for the police.

“How did you get away?” she asked, ignoring the mayhem filling the parking lot.

“With a little help from the Discovery Channel.”

It took a few seconds for her to figure what he meant. “The death roll? You outmaneuvered an alligator?”

The older man whistled. “I've heard tell of someone doing that once. But never seen it myself. You are one lucky bastard.”

“Yes, I am,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I am one very lucky bastard.”

* * *

After being overruled by Rhonda, Blake agreed to have the paramedic look at his arm before tending to the cuts she'd sustained falling out of the window. He'd need stitches and a trip to the hospital. Temporarily bandaged, Blake now stood to the side and watched as Rhonda's arm was treated. Her wrists were chafed from being tied, but thankfully none of her injuries were serious. The other ambulance carrying the unconscious bodies of Orlov and Albert had already left. Walt's sharpshooting talents had proved handy.

Albert had been tranquilized. Orlov hadn't gotten off that easy. It had taken a few seconds for the drug to work and Albert to hit the pavement. Not wanting those precious seconds to endanger Rhonda's life, Blake had opted to take the Russian out himself. When she'd surprised him by smacking him with her wig, she'd given Blake the perfect opportunity to shoot. He, like Walt, knew how to handle a rifle, even with one good arm.

“All clear.” The paramedic handed Rhonda a bottle of water. “Drink this. You look dehydrated. And please,” he nodded in Blake's direction. “Get him to the hospital. He's going to need antibiotics.”

“Thanks.” She took the bottle, gulping down a healthy swallow. When they were alone, she gave him the most pathetic, sad, beautiful smile he'd ever seen. “I need a shower. I really stink.”

He laughed, taking the seat in the back of the ambulance next to her. “You just escaped the clutches of a hired assassin and that's what you're worried about?”

“Hey, a girl has her pride. I look, and smell, like I've been in a swamp.”

“You
have
been in a swamp.”

She sniffed in his direction. “You don't exactly smell like apple blossoms.”

He put his good arm around her, pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered, “I smell like a man. You . . .”

“Okay, now who's the mean one?”

“That title is yours, beautiful.” He kissed her, not giving a shit what she smelled like. To him, she was perfect, perfect and alive.

“That's enough, love birds.”

Blake glanced up to see Agent Harris walking toward them. “How the hell did you make it here so quick?”

“I was checking out the boat that went boom. Glad to see you two are all right.”

“Rhonda, this is Joe Harris, Interpol. How's Orlov?” Blake asked.

“Last I heard, in surgery. You nailed him in the chest, collapsed a lung.”

“Are you going to get in trouble for that?” Rhonda asked, then eyed Harris like she was going to tear him a new one if the answer was yes.

“There'll be an inquiry,” Harris said. “And the sheriff wasn't happy about you endangering the life of a local. It seems Walt is a hero around these parts. He has a Medal of Honor and not one,” he held up two fingers, “but two, Navy Crosses. Your new friend, however, is insisting he volunteered his services, so you're off the hook. As for shooting Orlov, considering one of the FBI's most wanted had a hostage, I don't think anything will come of this.”

“Better not,” she threatened.

God love her, she had more guts than Blake had given her credit for. “Can we go? I need stitches and a shower. I stink.”

Rhonda snickered and jumped off the ambulance. “Come on. Let's go before you get gangrene.”

“Is it true?” Harris asked. “Did you really outsmart an alligator?”

“Don't give me too much credit. They're not the brightest of animals.”

“No, but they don't exactly like to let go of their dinner once they have it.”

He heard a soft moan coming from Rhonda. She'd gone deathly pale. “Thanks,” he said to Harris. “Now make yourself useful and take us to the hospital. We can talk in the car.”

On the drive, Blake repeated everything Rhonda had overheard. Nothing she'd heard necessarily meant they were out of the woods. It could very well have been Sorrentino who'd taken out the hit, but that wasn't a guarantee. Krupin still thought Blake had killed his nephew.

“Is it possible,” Blake asked Harris, “that Krupin knows Sorrentino double-crossed him?”

“That's the million-dollar question. And if he does, shooting you no longer serves Sorrentino a purpose.”

Blake squeezed Rhonda's hand. If Orlov was working for Sorrentino, and they hadn't killed Rhonda, it meant they'd planned to sell her. Diamonds hadn't made Sorrentino rich. Drugs and human trafficking had. He wanted to shoot Orlov all over again. Some way, somehow, he'd make Sorrentino pay.

At the hospital, he learned his arm would need four stitches to the largest of the puncture wounds. The rest would be left open to drain if needed. Lucky for him, the gator's teeth had missed the major artery and the numbness he felt was a normal aftereffect. He'd be given more antibiotics, but to ensure no infection set in, he sat soaking his arm in Betadine until the doctors gave him the go-ahead to leave. Rhonda had disappeared briefly to shower, but now she sat with him, glaring at his arm. He didn't dare tell her his shoulder hurt too.

“Hey,” he said, lifting her chin with his free hand. “It's going to be fine. Stop thinking about what could have happened.”

“Like you becoming a gator's lollipop.”

“Mmm, I don't think licking was on his mind.”

“Don't joke. You could've been lunch.” She shivered.

“Fair enough. And you could've ended up some slimeball's toy.” The very idea made him want to punch something, or worse.

“That
isn't
fair. I don't have puncture wounds on my arm. If you keep this shit up, you won't be so pretty anymore.” She crossed her arms, sticking out her hip.

She thought she'd gotten the better of him. And he considered letting her win, but it wasn't their style. That, and she looked very cute when she got all sanctimonious on him. “And give the angels nothing to cry over? Never happen.”

“Howdy, folks.” Cowboy peeked his head around the green examination curtain. He let out a low whistle when he saw Blake's arm. “I know y'all like eating animal innards, but it's best when you don't become them.”

Blake rolled his eyes. “Why is it people think every Scot eats haggis? Does every Yank eat hotdogs?”

“Only at baseball games. Covered in Texas chili, of course.”

“No beer?”

“Goes without saying.” Cowboy smiled. “I brought y'all a couple of phones. Same number for you, Blake.” He handed one to each of them. “And I have a car waiting.”

Blake took his new cell and scrolled through the messages. One caught his attention. His mother had called and by the time log, she'd done it very early in the morning. His bones told him she didn't just want to chat.

“I have news,” Cowboy went on. “Good, for a change.”

Great, he could use some good news. He suspected his mother's wasn't of the same variety.

“Guess who called Ryan?” Cowboy announced. “Never mind, you'll never get it right. Krupin. I don't think you have to run anymore.”

Blake's phone interrupted them. Torn between what Cowboy had to say and the caller, he chose the caller. It was his mother again. What the bloody hell had gone wrong now? “Mother.”

“Blake, it's your brother,” she said. How he hated hearing those words. “Please don't argue. I want you to come home.”

* * *

Rhonda brushed her teeth, amazed at the sheer size of the airplane bathroom. Ryan Sheppard didn't do anything on the cheap. This plane was larger and even more opulent than the first one they'd been on. They'd left the hospital immediately after Blake had been given the okay and come directly to the airport. She'd hoped to get the results of the pregnancy test before leaving but when that hadn't happened she was glad she'd left her number with the nurse. Once again, she'd found luggage filled with everything she might need, including evening wear. Although why would she need a cocktail dress? Blake had insisted she come, instead of leaving her behind with Cowboy. There'd been an odd desperate tone to his requests, but she assumed whatever his mother had said had been the culprit of his mood.