Читать книгу: «Marital Privilege»
“Did you ever consider giving me a choice?”
“We chose each other, Laura. Our feelings for each other had nothing to do with my background. That hasn’t changed.”
“Everything’s changed.”
“Because my past is different than you thought?”
“Because my future is different. Our son’s future is different.”
This morning, when she’d awakened, her life had been everything she’d ever wanted. She had a thriving business. She thought she was married to the man of her dreams. And she had a perfect little son on the way.
And now her marriage—everything she knew—was gone.
Marital Privilege
Ann Voss Peterson
MILLS & BOON
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Special thanks to Lynda Sandoval, Linda Style,
Susan Vaughan and Virginia Kelly for their help
filling the gaps in my limited knowledge.
To my critique partners Carol Voss and Judith Lyons.
And to my family for doing without wife and mother
while I battled the Russian mob.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ever since she was a little girl making her own books out of construction paper, Ann Voss Peterson wanted to write. So when it came time to choose a major at the University of Wisconsin, creative writing was her only choice. Of course, writing wasn’t a practical choice—one needs to earn a living. So Ann found jobs ranging from proofreading legal transcripts, to working with quarter horses, to washing windows. But no matter how she earned her paycheck, she continued to write the type of stories that captured her heart and imagination—romantic suspense. Ann lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband, her two young sons, her Border collie and her quarter horse mare. Ann loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at ann@annvosspeterson.com or visit her Web site at annvosspeterson.com.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Alec Martin—Born Nikolai Stanislov, Alec has tried to build a new life since entering the Witness Security Program. But when the man he sent to prison—his own father—is paroled, he has to run to save his life—and that of his wife and unborn son.
Laura Martin—She thought she was married to the man of her dreams, a safe caring man, only to find out he’s the son of a mobster. But before she can figure out if she still has a marriage, she has to run for her life.
Ivan Stanislov—The powerful head of a faction of the Russian Mafiya, Ivan wants revenge almost as much as he wants his unborn grandson.
Wayne Bigelow—The reporter says he wants to help Alec. Can he be trusted?
Tony Griggs—When the U.S. Marshal died, he gave away Alec’s new identity. Now his murder might bring Ivan Stanislov down.
Detective Mylinski—Is the seemingly honest cop beyond suspicion?
Special Agent Callahan—He needs Alec’s help to bring down Ivan Stanislov, but will he be able to honor his promise to keep Alec safe?
Sergei Kamarov—The murderous brute wants revenge and to regain his place in the warm spot.
Pavel Tverdovsky—The young thug is the future of the Russian mob.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Chapter One
Alec Martin stared at the photo of U.S. Marshal Tony Griggs on the morning news and struggled to wrap his mind around what he was seeing. He stepped toward the television set suspended high above the scarred oak bar. “Can we turn up the sound?”
The bartender glanced up from his cup of morning coffee and the list of booze he needed to order. “No remote. Lost it during a Packer game a couple years ago. You want to climb on the bar and turn it up? Hey? Be my guest.”
Alec didn’t move. The stiff collar of his dress shirt choked him. Sweat slicked his palms. He’d dreaded this day for ten long years. Even now he didn’t want to believe what he was seeing.
Snips of headlines scrolling under the talking head, CNN style.
Retired U.S. marshal killed.
Signs of torture found.
The screen focused on a balding police detective named Mylinski. Frustration knotted Alec’s aching gut. He had to know more, and staring at a soundless interview with a tight-lipped cop wasn’t doing a damn bit of good. He grasped his cell phone from his belt and flipped it open. Spinning on his heel, he made for the door, punching in Wayne’s direct number at the Brooklyn Chronicle from memory.
“I haven’t given you my liquor order yet,” the bartender’s annoyed Wisconsin accent sounded from the bar.
“I have to make a call,” Alec shouted over his shoulder as he pushed outside. The morning sunlight blinded him for a minute, but he didn’t slow his pace.
The secretary answered on the second ring. “Brooklyn Chronicle.”
Alec didn’t recognize her voice. “Wayne Bigelow, please.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bigelow is in a meeting. Would you like his voice mail?”
“No.” The last thing Alec was going to do was leave him a message. Not about this. “Interrupt the meeting.”
“Excuse me?”
“Do it. This is an emergency.”
“That may be, Mr….”
“Stanislov.” Alec never thought he’d hear the name come from his lips again. It rested on his tongue like a curse word, bitter, cruel. “Nika Stanislov.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stanislov, but I’m not going to interrupt an important meeting for—”
“Tell him the name.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tell Bigelow the name. Nika Stanislov. He’ll take my call.”
“Please hold,” she said, her exasperation coming across loud and clear. A click sounded, and canned music took over the line.
Alec strode across the parking lot, pulse hammering louder than the drone of synthesized strings in his ear. If anyone would know what was going on, it was Bigelow. He’d better, anyway. With Griggs gone, Alec sure as hell didn’t trust anyone in law enforcement.
He dipped his free hand in his pocket, pulled out his SUV’s keyless remote and unlocked the vehicle before he reached it. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and threw it inside. His ass had just hit the driver’s seat when Bigelow’s voice boomed over the phone.
“Nika. My God, how are you?”
“Is he out?”
“Yesterday.”
The knot tightened. Alec had always thought he’d know the day the bastard got out of prison. That he’d feel the vibration in the air. Smell the stench. Something. But he hadn’t had a clue.
“I would have called, but…” Bigelow let his sentence trail off. There was no point finishing.
“Yeah, I know.” Bigelow didn’t know where Alec was. Nobody knew where Alec was. At least, no one was supposed to.
“Didn’t the Marshals’ Service tell you he was up for early parole?”
“No.”
“Probably a screw-up between state and feds. Typical.”
Alec wished this was a typical screw-up. But his gut told him different. “Griggs is dead.”
“Griggs?”
“A U.S. marshal on my case. The one in charge of relocating me.”
“When?”
“I just saw it on the news. Breaking story from Madison.”
“Madison?”
“Wisconsin.”
Bigelow let loose a string of curses. “Doesn’t anyone around here stay up on the news? We’d better have a reporter on a flight to Wisconsin right now, or someone’s going to lose his head.”
Alec turned the key in the ignition. The SUV roared to life.
“Where are you, Nika?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“You want me to call the cops for you?”
“No cops.”
“FBI? I know a guy—”
“No.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Whatever I have to.” And the first thing on his list was finding Laura. Now. “I’ve got to go.”
“Will I hear from you again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me give you my cell.”
As soon as he finished reciting the number, Alec cut off the call. He had to reach Laura. And he was afraid he didn’t have a second to lose.
He hit her number on his cell’s speed dial. His wife’s phone service picked up on the second ring. A pleasant voice directed him to her voice mail. Damn. Laura was always forgetting to turn on her cell phone. And at this hour in the morning, the restaurant’s answering machine would still be on.
He ended the call without leaving a message, and concentrated on driving. He had to get to the restaurant. He had to reach Laura. If Griggs had been tortured, he could have caved. He could have spilled Alec’s location. And if that happened, dear old Dad and his thugs were already on their way.
Pushing the accelerator to the floor, he raced down streets and around curves until he reached the strip mall at the edge of the tiny-but-growing town of Beaver Falls. Nestled at the end of the mall next to the Cup-N-Sup coffee shop and a women’s clothing store sat Laura’s pride and joy, The Blue Ox Café. The parking lot in front was still empty. It wouldn’t get busy until eleven o’clock, when Laura threw open the door for the lunch crowd.
Tires squealing their protest, Alec gunned the SUV around the building to the back lot. Three cars dotted the employee parking area. Laura’s blue van was not among them, but he spotted her partner’s Jeep. She’d probably hitched a ride with Sally, as she often did. He could only hope that was the case. If today was errand day, he might not be able to reach her for hours. And by then it might be too late.
He stopped the SUV at the curb behind a produce truck and jumped out. Dodging a ripe-smelling Dumpster, he dashed to the employee entrance and ducked inside.
No sound came from the kitchen, not the rattle of pans on the cook’s line, not the slam of the walk-in cooler’s door as the produce guy made his delivery. Heart knocking against his rib cage, Alec stepped into the kitchen. His shoes squeaked on rubber mats stretched over red tile. He moved as quietly as possible, walking through the prep kitchen, peeking into the deserted line. The odor of deep fryers hung in the air, heavy as an approaching storm. And there was something else. Another odor. Familiar but too faint for him to identify.
Pulse pounding in his ears, he ducked back into the prep kitchen. Next to a slab of prime rib, a meat cleaver lay on a cutting board, blood dulling the shine of its razor-sharp edge. He grasped the wood handle. Weapon poised in front of him, he stepped into the waiters’ aisle that led into the dining room.
Music drifted from the dining room, the high-pitched tone of strings rasping his nerves like cheese across a grater. The scent grew stronger.
Natural gas.
The restaurant was filled with it. Flammable. Highly explosive. He had to do something. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t take long for gas to reach the flames heating deep fryers and ovens on the cook’s line.
He spun around and raced through the waiters’ aisle and into the kitchen, his shoes squeaking on the mats. Reaching the cook’s line, he switched off fryers and ovens. He extinguished each pilot light and turned off every gas valve he could spot. It wouldn’t be enough. The leak hadn’t originated in the kitchen. The scent was strongest in the dining room. Even if by some miracle he found the leak, there was enough gas already hanging in the air to blow the place. All that was missing was a flame. But it wouldn’t be missing for long. Once the furnace clicked on, the gas would ignite. It would be all over. If anyone was in the building, he had to get them out. He had to find Laura.
And as much as he didn’t trust the police, he needed help. He flipped open his cell phone and punched in the number.
“Nine-one-one,” a woman’s voice answered.
“There’s a gas leak at the Blue Ox Café.”
“What is your name, sir?”
Alec hesitated. “That’s not important. There’s something else going on, too. I’m not sure what, but the place seems deserted. You’ve got to get the police out here. Hurry.” He cut off the call. Clipping his cell phone back on his belt, he clutched the meat cleaver, rounded the corner of the waiters’ aisle and stepped into the dining room.
As he rounded the corner, another odor hit him. A sweet copper scent that mixed with the natural gas and turned his stomach. He slowed his pace, weaving through tables, listening for anything out of the ordinary. He circled a row of booths and inched across the open center of the dining room, and jolted to a stop.
Dark blotches fouled the multicolored carpet and streaked a table in the center of the room. And beyond the table—
“Oh my God.” Cleaver in front of him, Alec raced toward the bodies, waiting for a flash of movement, a gun to his head, a blade between his ribs.
He reached Laura’s prep cook first. His chef’s whites were black with blood from the slash across his throat. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
There was no helping him. No saving him. Cursing his father, Alec moved on to the next body.
A waitress no older than twenty curled around a table leg at the edge of the dining room, as if she’d been hiding when the bullet had drilled into her chest and stolen her life. Her face was swollen, purple with bruises. She’d taken a beating before the bullet. And that pointed to one man. A sadistic bastard who got his kicks beating women before he killed them. His father’s right-hand thug, Sergei Komorov.
Gritting his teeth, Alec left the waitress and moved to the final prone form. The middle-aged guy who delivered produce had made it as far as the tile floor in front of the hostess stand before he’d been shot. His blood puddled under him and ran in rivers between the tiles.
Panic roared in Alec’s ears. The odors of blood and gas clogged his throat. Three dead. Where the hell was Laura?
There was one place left. He straightened from beside the produce guy’s body and forced his feet to move. Laura and Sally usually opened the kitchen first thing in the morning. By this time, they had moved to the bar.
He raced into the lounge. The room was cloaked in shadow, heavy wood blinds drawn over the windows. He led with the meat cleaver, checking behind half walls and plants, glancing under the row of bar stools. No blood. No bodies.
No Laura.
Relieved, he tried to block the image of his beautiful wife bloodied, dead. He had to find her. She had to be okay. Laura was his life, his future.
Laura and their unborn son.
He stepped behind the bar. Booze bottles that spent the night under lock and key lined the rail. The till was open, its tray of cash not yet in place. Someone had been opening the bar when this had happened.
Alec tried to breathe, tried to stay calm. He strode over the rubber mats, straight for the closed office door at the end of the bar.
Dread blared in his ears like a siren. He closed his fingers around the cool brass doorknob. Turning it, he yanked the door open.
A body leaned back in the chair. Long blond hair streaked dark with blood. A plastic tie clasped feminine hands together at the wrists. Broken and battered, fingers jutted at strange angles.
A sob shook from his chest. He grasped the back of the chair with trembling hands. Holding his breath, he spun it around. Blood coagulated, sticky beneath a slashed throat. Her face was so bruised and swollen, it was almost unrecognizable. She stared at him through blue eyes glazed with death.
Blue eyes.
Another sob tore from his gut. Sally, not Laura.
He averted his eyes from her face, ashamed at the relief welling within him. Spilling over. Sally, not Laura. Laura might still be alive.
But where was she?
If Laura had left to run errands, there might be a clue as to where she went, what the restaurant needed. He studied the desk. Blood spattered the surface, the three-ring binders, the papers detailing the Blue Ox’s liquor order—the order he was to pick up later that morning. He raised his eyes to the computer screen. A pink message slip stuck to one side of the screen, a simple message scrawled on the front.
“Laura sick. Won’t be in until late. Sally, could you open bar?”
Cold dread throbbed in Alec’s ears and pumped through his veins. He had to get home. He only prayed he wasn’t too late. Because if he had spotted the message, he could be sure his father and his men had spotted it, too.
And they’d already be on their way.
Chapter Two
Alec raced into the restaurant’s entryway. The odor of gas had grown stronger. It now completely choked out the coppery scent of blood. Any second now it would hit the furnace flame, and the whole place would go up. He couldn’t do anything more here. He had to get out.
Instead of retracing his steps to the back kitchen entrance, he raced for the closed front door. He twisted the dead bolt and threw the door open.
Fresh air hit him in the face like a splash of cool water. He launched into a run, sprinting down the sidewalk toward the parking lot.
Movement caught his eye. A woman stepped out of the Cup-N-Sup, steaming coffee in hand.
Oh, hell.
He veered for the coffee shop. “Get out of here. There’s a gas leak next door.”
The woman’s eyes widened. Clutching her cup, she ran for her car.
He dove for the coffee shop’s door and yanked it open. “Everyone needs to evacuate.”
Two employees and half a dozen customers turned to stare at him. None made a move.
“There’s a gas leak next door. The building is going to blow. You need to get out.”
Several customers shot for the door. Others narrowed their eyes, as if trying to figure out what he was up to.
He glanced out the coffee shop’s window, willing flashing red and blue lights to appear on the street outside, a siren to pierce the air. Where the hell were the police?
He turned his attention back to the skeptical people in front of him, raking his mind for something to make them move before it was too late. “It’s a terrorist attack. Get out.”
They headed for the door in a wave.
He followed. “Get as far from the building as you can. Run.”
People scattered.
Alec moved to the clothing store. After shooing the owner and a customer out, he circled to the parking lot in the rear of the building where he’d left his SUV. He needed to get home to Laura. To get her out before his father and his men found their house.
Please God, don’t let me be too late.
He cleared the hedge surrounding the rear parking lot. Feet hitting pavement, he raced for the SUV.
A rumble caught his ear. A thundering boom hit him in the chest, followed by the whoosh of sucking air. The ground shook. Sound exploded. He dove back behind the hedge. Flattening his body to the ground, he covered his head with his arms. Heat seared him. Debris hit him, cutting his arms, striking his back. The taste of blood flooded his mouth.
He raised his head, peering over the hedge. A ball of flame enveloped the building. His SUV stood silhouetted against the inferno, it and the produce truck reduced to nothing but twisted and blackened heaps of steel.
Hell.
He forced himself to his feet, trying to draw breath. His lungs seized and burned. There wasn’t enough oxygen. Wasn’t enough air. He stumbled toward the street. He had to find someone to take him home. He had to reach Laura before it was too late.
The street looked as solid as a jammed parking lot, drivers gaping at the ball of fire where a strip mall used to be.
He forced his legs to carry him over the curb, across the asphalt to the cars. The first driver hit the gas when she saw him and raced past wide-eyed. A man driving a panel truck rolled down the window. “Hey, buddy. You need an ambulance?” He pulled out a cell phone and punched 911.
Alec leaned on the hood to steady himself. “I need you to take me to my house. Please.”
“From the look of ya, an ambulance is a better idea.”
Alec looked down at himself. His white dress shirt was tattered. Blood soaked through the right sleeve. His tie hung like a cut noose around his neck. No wonder the first driver had hit the gas when she’d seen him coming. No wonder this guy wanted to strap him to a stretcher. But it didn’t matter. Reaching Laura was the only thing that mattered. “You don’t understand. The men who did this, they’re after my wife. I have to get home.”
The guy held up a finger. “This will just take a minute, pal. Hold on. The police and ambulance will give you the help you need.”
Fat chance. The police should have been here already.
A chill swept over Alec. His father had wide-reaching power. Enough power to keep news of his pending prison release from reaching Alec. Enough power to kill a U.S. marshal. Did he have enough power to delay the police in Beaver Falls? Did his money and muscle reach all the way to small-town Wisconsin?
Alec turned away and ran back across the street toward the strip mall. On the edge of the sidewalk, several bicycles stood in a bike rack. He pulled out an unchained touring bike and swung a leg over the seat. Pain shot through his arm and back. He gritted his teeth. Settling on the seat, he pushed off, pedaling as fast as his legs would move.
The wind fanned the cuts and scrapes on his arms, drying the rivulets of blood. Pain burned along his nerves. His lungs screamed for air. He pushed on, piloting the bike along city streets and over hills until the brand-new housing development on the outskirts of town sprawled before him.
It was late April and the trees hadn’t yet sprouted leaves. He could pick out his house among the many similar houses lining the gently curving streets. He could also pick out the dark-colored sedan parked at the curb a half block away in front of a home under construction. Just the kind of nondescript car his father always favored. And in the front seat was the unmistakable shadow of a man.
Alec’s blood turned to ice.
He pumped the pedals harder, racing down the hill. Negotiating streets he knew well, he passed his street and turned up the cul-de-sac backing up to his house. He climbed off the bike and let it fall to the curb. Cutting through the neighbor’s yard, he climbed over the low split-rail fence separating the backyards.
Hunkering down in a copse of trees and bushes, he surveyed his house. Blinds were drawn over windows and patio door. There was no sign of movement. Nothing unusual. Nothing, that is, but the hum of Alec’s nerves.
They were inside. He could feel it.
He scooped in a deep breath. What could he do? How could he fight them? How could he get Laura out of there?
He’d never owned a gun. After escaping his father’s world, he couldn’t stand the thought of owning a weapon of violence. At the moment his protest seemed stupid, naive. What he wouldn’t give to have a gun in his hand right now.
He crept around the edge of the yard, running half-crouched. Reaching the garage, he sidled between the fence and the wall until he drew even with a window barely large enough for a man to slip through. With any luck, his father and his thugs hadn’t thought of anyone coming through the garage. They’d be focused on the street in front.
And on Laura.
He pushed horrible images from his mind. He couldn’t let himself imagine what Sergei Komorov might be doing to his wife—what the bastard might have already done while Alec had been discovering the bodies in the restaurant and evacuating people from the strip mall. Laura had to be all right. If Sergei had touched her, Alec would strangle him with his bare hands.
He punched his fingers through the screen, the nylon ripping with ease. Grasping the bottom edge of the screen’s frame, he pulled it up and pried it from the window. Now he just had the window itself. He couldn’t break it, couldn’t risk the men inside hearing the glass shatter. Instead, he fitted his fingers to the seam between the upper and lower sash of the double-hung window and wiggled until the latch popped. Sliding the lower sash open, he unseated it then the upper and set them on the ground.
Funny how he’d made sure the windows in the rest of the house had double locks but he hadn’t thought about the garage window. It had seemed too small to bother with, too separate from the rest of the house.
He could only hope the men inside hadn’t thought of it, either.
He placed his hands on the window frame. Arm throbbing, he hoisted his body through the little space and lowered himself inside until he stood on the lawnmower. So far, so good. Now for a weapon.
Stepping off the mower, he grabbed a shovel from a wall rack. He crept to the door leading to the kitchen and pressed his ear to the cool steel.
The rumble of male voices filtered through the door—voices colored with Russian flair and cut with a hard Brooklyn edge. Accents he’d hoped never to hear again.
Rage hardened in his gut. He gripped the shovel, knuckles white. He pressed his ear tighter to the door.
“What does Mr. Stanislov want done with her?” a voice he didn’t recognize asked.
Laura. He was talking about Laura. She must still be alive. Relief sucked the strength from Alec’s legs. He leaned on the door and strained to hear more.
“Ivan told me, bring back Nika.” Sergei’s voice boomed through the kitchen.
Alec’s gut tightened. So dear old Dad hadn’t made the trip. He’d sent his thugs to collect Alec. He was getting lazy in his old age.
“You going to take care of her, then? I know you like doing the women.”
Sergei grunted. “I got to find out what Ivan wants us to do. I think he’ll want the baby.”
“You’re not touching my son.” Laura’s voice chimed through the kitchen strong and clear.
Alec’s heart clutched. Tears welled in his eyes. She sounded unhurt, unbowed.
And gloriously alive.
“Son? Ivan will like that. A grandson. Maybe the child will make up for the father.”
“Grandson? What are you talking about? You have the wrong house. My name is Laura Martin, and I don’t know anyone named Ivan.”
“Ah, I see.” Sergei’s voice took on an amused lilt.
Guilt drilled deep into Alec’s chest. He should have told Laura the truth about who he really was from the beginning. He should have known he couldn’t keep his past at bay forever.
He couldn’t think about that right now. There would be time for regrets. Time for the truth to come out. Now he had to focus. Laura’s and the baby’s lives depended on it. The men inside would be armed with guns, and here he stood with nothing but a shovel. He had to even the odds, give himself a fighting chance.
He fingered his cell phone with his free hand. If he could distract at least one of the men, make sure he was out of the kitchen, away from Laura, maybe he could surprise the other before the thug could draw his gun.
Alec unclipped his phone from his belt and entered his home phone number from the speed dial directory.
Inside the kitchen he could hear the phone ring.
He pushed his ear to the door.
“I should get that.” Laura’s voice. “It’s probably Sally from the restaurant. If I don’t answer, she’ll send someone over. Probably the police.”
“She will not be sending anyone,” Sergei growled.
“You don’t know her. She worries about me like she’s my mother.”
“She’s dead. Slit her throat myself.”
Laura gasped.
Alec gripped on the shovel with sweat-slick hands, the image of Sally’s battered and lifeless body sharp in his mind’s eye.
Sergei’s guttural laugh filtered through the door. “Don’t worry. As soon as the baby comes, you’ll be joining her. Unless I get impatient and cut him out of your belly.”
Alec gritted his teeth. It was all he could do to stay where he was. To wait. The bastard wasn’t going to touch his wife, or their baby. He’d see to it.
The phone continued to ring. Finally the answering machine picked up. Moving silently away from the door, Alec ducked down behind Laura’s van, set down the shovel, and cupped his mouth with one hand. When the answering machine’s beep sounded, he talked into the phone in a low voice. “Look out the front window, you bastards. You might as well give up now.” Alec snapped the phone shut and stuffed it into his pocket. He picked up the shovel and made for the door.
A single set of footsteps moved across the kitchen floor and thundered toward the front of the house.
Now was his chance. Shoving the door open, he burst into the kitchen swinging.
The shovel connected with Sergei’s head before he could turn around. The sound of the blow echoed through the room. The force shuddered up Alec’s arms.
Sergei bellowed like a mad bull. He staggered forward but didn’t go down. Instead, he spun and reached for the gun in his waistband. He yanked it out and leveled it on Alec before he could land another blow.
Sergei fired. The shot went wide, the bullet ripping into the cabinetry beside Alec.
Alec swung the shovel again, this time connecting with Sergei’s arm.
The brute cursed in Russian. The gun rattled to the floor.
Movement flashed in the corner of Alec’s eye. Laura. But he didn’t have time to turn his head before Sergei launched himself.
Alec swung, catching Sergei in the face with the shovel’s sharp edge.
Blood slashed across his cheek and nose. He staggered back and fell against the cabinets.
Footsteps thundered from the front of the house.
Alec landed the shovel against Sergei’s head again. He spun just in time to see the second man round the corner into the kitchen. The barrel of his gun stared Alec directly in the face.
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