the mechanical beast and bend it to her will. She let off the brakes and held tight to the steering wheel, forcing the tires to remain straight. The SUV swerved, but ceased spinning. They were aimed directly at a snow-covered steel guardrail. Another step on the brake, and the car slid sideways. Metal scraped against metal and sparks shot into the night. Snow flew in through the broken window. With a shudder, the vehicle came to a stop.
Cody held tight to the dashboard. His jaw was slackened and his tanned face had gone pale. “Where’d you learn how to drive like that?” he asked. She couldn’t decide if it was awe or terror that fueled his breathlessness.
“Manhattan,” said Viktoria with a shrug.
Cody leaned back in the seat and exhaled. “I should have killed him,” he said.
Viktoria began to shiver and it wasn’t just from the cold wind that blew at her from all sides.
“I don’t like that he’s still out there,” Cody said. “He’s not the man in charge, but he’ll tell his boss you’re still alive. He’s probably using the phone in your cabin right now.”
“He could be, but he’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“When those men broke in, I tried to get to the phone. One man took it from me and smashed it against the wall.”
* * *
Dimitri sidestepped down the hill and stood in the middle of the driveway, the taillights of the speeding SUV just two demonic eyes of red. He heard the screech of tires on pavement and the roar of the engine. Both faded until there was nothing. No lights. No sounds. Just the frosty scent of incoming snow on the air.
He recognized the smell—knew it well. The weather in Russia was much harsher than any in the United States, and he’d been in more blizzards than he cared to recall. If he was right—and he was—then one hell of a storm was about to hit Telluride.
His smart use of time was essential.
He returned to the cabin and, as he’d feared, his comrade was dead on the floor. Shot by the other man who never should have been there. Dimitri kicked the door closed and flipped on the light. There were bullet holes in the wall and casings on the floor. He knew there’d be several more of both outside. Concealing those would take time, never mind dealing with the corpse and all the blood.
He turned to the stove. It used gas as the heating element. Perfect. On the table sat a plate of iced cookies. Picking one off the plate, he took a bite and chewed it slowly. The Christmas tree in the corner was covered with a cheap set of lights, also useful. In a drawer he found a set of matches. In the bathroom cabinet stood a large bottle of rubbing alcohol alongside a bag of cotton balls.
Using a knife from the kitchen, he cut through the wires of the Christmas tree lights and plugged them back in. The live end sparked and hissed. He then returned to the stove and turned on all the gas, leaving the burners unlit. After pocketing half a dozen cookies, he went to the door and opened it. He placed the cotton balls in a pile and soaked them with the alcohol, then made a trail to the lights. Once across the threshold, he lit the match and tossed it into the puddle of alcohol on the floor. He closed the door and began to walk down the driveway.
As he ate another cookie, he regretted not taking time to say some words over his fallen comrade. They’d served together in Ukraine during the summer a few years ago, and the man deserved more than to be incinerated in a lonely little cabin. Well, that could hardly be helped now.
Dimitri needed to get in touch with the others and let them know what had happened. He had neither car nor phone. By now, the boss would be wondering why there’d been no contact.
A whoosh erupted behind Dimitri and heat warmed his back. His best chance at survival lay before him and he didn’t bother to turn around. As his pace quickened to a run, he decided that fire was the best way to erase any sins.
* * *
“Try again,” Peter Belkin barked at his driver. His second team had yet to make contact, even though they should have left the Mateev cabin twenty minutes ago.
The man lifted his walkie-talkie. “Beta, this is Alpha. Do you read?”
The faint crackle of static could barely be heard over the wailing child, who sat next to Belkin.
Gregory Mateev had been inconsolable since leaving the cabin, not that Belkin had expected anything less. Even though the boy was being taken for his own good, he was too young and too upset to understand.
“The mountains could be causing interference,” said the driver, raising his voice to be heard over Gregory. “We still don’t have mobile phone service, but should be okay when we reach the house.”
Gregory quieted. Belkin turned to the kid, trying to smile. Fist cocked back, Gregory threw a punch that caught Belkin under the chin. The attorney’s teeth cracked together and his jaw throbbed.
“That’s it,” said Belkin, “I’ve had enough of you.”
“Well, I’ve had enough of you.” Gregory threw out a wild kick that struck Belkin in the arm.
Belkin gripped his biceps. He would have a bruise by the morning. From his breast pocket, he removed a syringe already filled with a sedative. He drove the tip into the child’s upper arm and pressed down on the plunger. The child began to scream, but as soon as the mild tranquillizer entered Gregory Mateev’s bloodstream, he quieted. With a few drowsy blinks, his head lolled to the side and he slept.
Acquiring Gregory Mateev and returning him to his grandfather was Belkin’s main objective, and now at least, the boy was safe—and quiet.
The job should have been simple. Nikolai Mateev, the godfather of the Russian mafia, wanted his grandson to be raised in Russia. After the death of Nikolai’s son, Lucas, Belkin had been hired to convince the mother to give up her child. But Belkin had pushed too hard in New York City, spooking Gregory’s mother and forcing her into hiding with the boy for months. When Belkin had gotten word that she might be in western Colorado, he’d flown in to the area with his team to be there when she surfaced. Since then, there had been no contact. No use of a credit card. No bank withdrawals. No internet searches. It was as if she had simply disappeared and until this afternoon, Belkin feared that she actually had. Now he just wanted to complete his task and get paid.
Gregory slumped over in his seat, snoring softly as the SUV rounded a bend and pulled through a circular drive. The driver parked in front of a two-story house built in the alpine A-frame style, complete with wooden scrollwork on the eaves and a balcony to make up the A’s crossbar. Light shone from an exterior sconce, illuminating the snow as it fell.
“Try to contact Team Bravo again,” said Belkin, “and after you’ve spoken, put Gregory to bed in one of the upstairs rooms.” Belkin stepped into the night. Fat, downy snowflakes floated down, coating the road and settling on Belkin’s shoulders and well-trimmed dark hair.
The extreme cold and falling snow reminded him of how fickle the weather could be in Russia. Taking the phone from his pocket, he glanced at the home screen. A blizzard warning scrolled across the bottom of the display. He opened the weather application, where a digitized radar reading of pink and white, signifying heavy snow and winds, filled the entire northern part of Colorado. Future radar predicted that the blizzard was expected to hit Telluride in the early morning and last for the next twenty-four
