the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (42 page)

In the kitchen he pushed to his feet, then momentarily lost his balance from the pain. The room spun and he grabbed hold of his emotions. Before bolting outside, he yanked a checkered towel from the counter and slapped it over the shoulder gash. Exiting, he slammed the door shut with his bloodied left hand and tipped a trash can over.

Then he rushed into the woods.

Hayes couldn’t decide if he’d hit Lord or not. He tried to count the number of shots. Four, he could recall, maybe five. That meant five or six bullets left. His eyes were quickly adjusting to the darkness, the faint glow of embers in the hearth providing only minimal light. He heard a door slam and assumed Lord had left. He leveled the Glock and moved forward, entering the kitchen cautiously. His right toe slipped on something wet. He bent down and dabbed the fluid. A coppery stench confirmed blood. He stood and moved toward the door leading out. A trash can blocked the way. He kicked the plastic container aside and stepped out into the cold night.

“Okay, Miles,” he called out. “Looks like it’s time for a little ‘coon hunting. Hope your luck’s not as good as your grandfather’s.”

He popped the magazine from the Glock and replaced it with a fresh one. Ten shells were now ready to finish what he’d started.

Akilina heard the shots as she and Thorn raced back toward the cabin. She carried Orleg’s rifle. Just outside the cabin, Thorn stopped their advance.

“Let’s not be foolish,” he said.

She was impressed by the lawyer’s reserve. He was handling the situation with a calm she found comforting.

Thorn stepped onto the porch and approached the closed front door. From behind the cabin, she heard a man say, “Okay, Miles. Looks like it’s time for a little ’coon hunting. Hope your luck’s not as good as your grandfather’s.”

She crept up behind Thorn, the dog beside her.

Thorn turned the knob and swung open the door. The interior was black, except for the smoldering hearth. Thorn moved inside and went directly to a cabinet. A drawer opened and he returned with a handgun.

“Come on,” he said.

She followed him into the kitchen. The exterior door was swung open. She noticed Alexie sniffing the plank floor. She bent down and spied dark splotches leading from the great room outside.

The dog was intent on them.

Thorn bent down. “Somebody’s been hit,” he quietly mouthed. “Alexie. Scent. Take.”

The dog sucked another noseful of one of the stains. Then the animal’s head raised, as if to say he was ready.

“Find,” Thorn said.

The dog charged out the door.

FIFTY

Lord heard Hayes’s words and thought about the conversation they’d had in the Volkhov nine days before.

Damn, it seemed longer.

His grandfather had told him all about the times when southern rednecks vented their anger on blacks. One of his friend’s granduncles had even been snatched from his home and hanged because somebody suspected him of thievery. No arrest, no charges, no trial. He’d often wondered what it took to hate that much. One thing his father had always done was make sure both blacks and whites never forgot that past. Some called it populism. Others pandering. Grover Lord said it was a
friendly reminder from the Man-Up-Top’s representative.
Now he was the one racing through the Carolina mountains with a man following, determined that he never see dawn.

The dish towel he’d jammed onto the shoulder wound helped, but the steady brush of limbs and shrubs was doing damage. He had no idea where he was going. He remembered Thorn saying the nearest neighbors were miles away. With Hayes, Droopy, and Orleg behind him, he figured his chances weren’t all that good. In his mind he could still hear the shot just before he’d made his move on Hayes. He wanted to double back and find Akilina and Thorn, but realized the futility of that effort. In all likelihood they were both dead. He was better off losing himself in the night—making it out to tell the world what he knew. He owed that to Semyon Pashenko and the Holy Band, especially to all who’d died. Like Iosif and Vassily Maks.

He stopped his advance. Each breath came in short gulps and evaporated before his eyes. His throat was parched and he was having trouble orienting himself. His face and chest were covered in perspiration. He wanted to peel off his sweater, but there was no way his shoulder could take the effort. He was light-headed. The blood loss was affecting him, and the altitude wasn’t helping, either.

He heard thrashing behind him.

He brushed back a low-hanging limb and slipped into thick brush. The ground began to harden. Rocky outcrops appeared. The elevation was likewise rising and he started up a short incline. Gravel crunched, the sound amplified in the stillness.

A wide panorama opened ahead.

He stopped at the end of a cliff overlooking a blackened gorge. A fast-moving stream rambled below. But he wasn’t trapped. He could go left or right, back into the woods, but decided to use the spot to his advantage. If they found him, perhaps the element of surprise might give him an edge. He couldn’t keep running. Not with three armed men after him. Besides, he didn’t want to be gunned down like some animal. He’d take a stand and fight. So he pulled himself up the rocks, onto a ledge that overlooked the precipice. Open sky stretched for what seemed an eternity. He now possessed a vantage point from which he could see anyone who approached.

He groped in the dark and found three rocks the size of softballs. He extended the muscles in his right arm and determined he could throw, but not far. He tested the weight of each rock and readied himself for anybody who might approach.

Hayes had tracked enough animals to know how to follow a trail and Lord had thrashed the woods with no regard for the broken branches he was leaving behind. There were even footprints in places where the thatched floor gave way to moist earth. In the bright moonlight the path was easy to decipher. Not to mention the bloodstains, which came with predictable regularity.

Then the trail stopped.

He stopped, too.

His eyes darted left and right. Nothing. No more branches pointing the way. He tested the foliage all around and found no blood, either. Strange. He readied a shot, just in case this was the place Lord had chosen for a showdown. He was certain the fool would fight at some point.

Maybe here was the place.

He inched forward. No instinct told him he was being watched. He was about to change directions when he noticed a dark smear on a fern ahead. He crept ahead, one step at a time, gun out front. The ground turned to stone and forest was replaced with granite outcroppings that rose all around him in myriad misshapen shadows. He didn’t like the look or feel of the situation, but continued forward.

His eyes searched for clues—perhaps a bloodstain on the rocks—but it was hard to distinguish splotches from shadows. He slowed his pace to one step every few seconds, trying to minimize the crackle of rock beneath his soles.

He stopped at the edge of a cliff, water below, trees left and right. Beyond was a vast velvet sky dotted with a billion stars. No time for aesthetics. He turned and was just about to reenter the woods when he heard something
whoosh
through the air.

Akilina followed Thorn as he headed out the kitchen door. She noticed a bloodstained handprint and thought of Lord. The borzoi had already disappeared, but a low whistle from Thorn caused the animal to bolt from the trees.

“He won’t venture far. Just enough to find the trail,” Thorn whispered.

The dog heeled at his feet and Thorn stroked his forehead.

“Find, Alexie. Move.”

The animal disappeared into the trees.

Thorn moved in the same direction.

She was worried about Lord. He’d most likely been shot. The voice she’d heard earlier was Taylor Hayes’s. Lord probably thought both she and Thorn were dead, the chances of them escaping two professional killers slim. But they had an edge with the borzoi. The animal was remarkable, showing a loyalty that was to be admired. Michael Thorn had a way about him, too. This man had royal blood coursing through his veins. Maybe that was what gave him such presence. She’d heard her grandmother speak of imperial times. The people had worshipped the tsar for his strength and will. They looked to him as the embodiment of God on Earth and sought his protection in times of need.

He
was
Russia.

Perhaps Michael Thorn understood that responsibility. Perhaps he also felt enough of a connection with the past to be unafraid of what lay ahead.

Yet she was afraid. And not only for herself, but for Miles Lord as well.

Thorn stopped and whistled softly. Alexie appeared a few moments later, panting hard. He knelt down and stared the dog in the eyes.

“You have the trail, don’t you?”

She almost expected the animal to answer back, but he simply rested on his hindquarters and caught his breath.

“Find. Move.”

The dog ran off.

They headed in pursuit.

A shot exploded in the distance.

Lord arched the rock into the air just as Hayes turned. He felt something tear in his shoulder, then a blinding pain reverberated down his spine. He’d torn open the flesh wound again.