Beauty & the Beast (25 page)

On the landing, the stairwell walls were their normal color—no paint blistering. He unsealed the bulkhead door and opened it a crack. The lights were still on. He could see that the fire suppression system had worked here—and then some. White retardant foam and showers of water had been sprayed all over walls from nozzles in the ceiling, and the combination had made the floor a slippery mess. He carefully stepped inside and let the door shut behind him.

After turning off his oxygen, he removed the breathing mask and hood. Vincent took a deep breath. Under the cloying odor of the fire retardant, he caught a familiar scent. The molecular signature was Bethany’s. No doubt about that. She had passed this way. And she was not alone. Vincent sensed the presence of her father. He could see her tugging him along behind, urging him to go faster. The man’s breathing becoming more and more labored, his footsteps faltering.

Foam and water sloshed over the boots of the fire suit as the ship rose and fell. Vincent strained to hear over the moaning of the hull.

He could make out a shrill whimpering, not steam but a dog. Then he sensed their heartbeats. There were only two human sets. One of the three hadn’t made it. Concentrating harder, he separated the two rhythms. One was strong; the other thin, reedy, faltering. Bethany’s father had either already suffered a heart attack, or was on the verge of having one.

Carrying the hood and mask and lantern, eyes blazing amber, Vincent sprinted through the puddled water and caps of white froth. Zeroed in and closing ground, he knew he was going to find them in time.

A fraction of an instant before the shock wave hit he sensed it coming, in a subliminal flash. As it bore down on him from three decks above he saw the sheer power of it: steel walls rupturing, girders bending, hunks of metal flying.

The explosion swept him off his feet, threw him backwards through the air, and slammed him into a bulkhead. His body slid limply to the deck. The beast light in his eyes glowed. Flickered. Then he passed out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

As Heather hung a sharp left into the post-apocalyptic blast-scape of abandoned warehouses and factories, the left rear wheel of the SUV began to bounce violently. Then the vehicle tilted hard, throwing Heather against the door, and a hideous scraping sound replaced the hideous scraping sounds the car had made earlier, when Heather had sideswiped the row of cars.

The SUV collapsed onto its side like a dying beast. Svetlana almost tumbled into Heather’s lap. The Russian woman grabbed the wheel and cranked it hard while Heather was still holding onto it. The abrupt movement wrenched both Heather’s wrists and she cried out in pain.

Svetlana yelled at her in Russian, gesturing to the door, and Heather forced it. Shooting pains skyrocketed up her wrists and down into her fingers from the effort. She clambered out and jumped to the ground.

More pain. She was a mass of cuts and sprains and bruises. Her wrists pulsated and she wondered if they were broken.

She gingerly straightened herself out. Svetlana jumped down after her, knocking her out of the way, and Heather smacked against the roof of the SUV. Heather wobbled back and forth, then craned her neck and looked down the street in the direction they had come. There appeared to be no one in pursuit. Incredible as it seemed, they had successfully outrun Anatoly Vodanyov’s henchmen.

Heather’s micro-second of celebration was cut short as Svetlana grabbed her by one throbbing wrist and took off like a shot.

“Ow,” Heather groaned as Svetlana dragged her toward a dilapidated warehouse building. Watery moonlight revealed layers of graffiti, charred brick, and broken windows. Heather wondered why none of her misadventures had ever taken place in the nicer sections of New York. Or maybe even Hawaii.

The thought of Hawaii conjured an image of Cat and Vincent possibly running for their own lives through pineapple fields and stands of palm trees. She didn’t know how long she had been kept prisoner. If Cat and Vincent were still at sea, they might still be safe. If NYPD could catch the bad guys, then her sister and her husband could still finish out their honeymoon safe and sound.

A glint in Svetlana’s fist tore Heather from her reverie. Svetlana’s gun was out. How many bullets did she have left?

They entered the building. Darkness engulfed them; their footfalls clattered and echoed. Heather’s butt hurt.

“We need phone, we need phone,” Svetlana said, stopping and bending over to catch her breath. Heather was so winded she didn’t know if she could actually breathe any more.

“Yes, okay, a phone, where?” Heather cried. “Where do we get a phone?”

Svetlana forced herself back to a standing position and wagged the gun in front of Heather’s face. “Shut up. No yelling. You yell, I shoot. Yelling tells bad guys where we are.”

“Okay, sorry.” Now Heather sucked in gobs of oxygen. “I always yell when I’m running for my life, you know?”

“Is bad habit.”

Svetlana glommed onto her and swung her left, then right. Injured, exhausted, Heather dangled like a soggy, bleeding, seriously injured piece of rope. Svetlana seemed to have X-ray vision as she started up a flight of stairs Heather couldn’t even see. Heather lifted her feet and put them down purely by rote; she was spent but she pushed on, not even pausing when they reached a landing and Svetlana kept going. She didn’t understand what they were doing—why go up? If Vodanyov’s minions figured out they were up here, all they had to do was block the stairway—but she was too breathless to ask.

They flew up more flights. Drenched in sweat, her knees and thighs aching as badly as her wrists, Heather fought to keep up with the Russian. Her butt was throbbing.

Then they were on the roof and the moonlight was shining down on them again. The rooftop was littered with beer cans, broken glass, and trash, which Heather gamely waded through as Svetlana yanked her toward the edge of the roof.

The edge of the roof?

Remembering what had happened to Ravi, Heather opened her mouth to scream for help. But that was stupid; the only people for miles around wanted to kill her. And if Svetlana had planned to kill her, she would have done it already. But images of Ravi’s death and his hideous swan dive to the street whirled in her brain like a kaleidoscope. Her mouth filled with acid and her stomach clenched. She dug in her heels but Svetlana didn’t notice as she reached the roof’s edge.

She’s been nice to me
, Heather reminded herself, but she was moving into panic overdrive. For a couple of crazy seconds she thought about pushing Svetlana off the roof.
She’s been really nice. She’s already saved my life.

Svetlana trotted down the edge of the roof to the corner, made a right, and kept going. She glanced over her shoulder at Heather, who debated what to do, filled her lungs with the fetid rooftop air, and caught up.

“Look.” Svetlana pointed down. Incredibly, there was what looked like an occupied small industrial park amid the cityscape of dead factories and warehouses, and in it, an open mini-mart. Bright lights from the entrance coated the front of the store and the parking lot. There was one car in the space next to the front door.

“Come,” Svetlana said.

Back toward the stairs they ran, just as in the distance SUV engines roared. Their footsteps clanged loudly as they crashed down the rungs and the notion seized Heather that the murderers could hear them and would know immediately to come into this building. The mini-mart was blocks away and whoever was inside probably wouldn’t bother to call the police if someone was trespassing in this desolate landscape.

They left the building. Heather reflexively crouched over to make herself a smaller target as they ran down an alley. She tried to visualize where the mini-mart was and squeaked out a shout when Svetlana hung a sharp left at a T-intersection and made for open ground—a vacant lot.

“No! We have to stay hidden,” Heather yelled, but if Svetlana heard and/or understood her, she completely ignored Heather and leaped over a truck tire. Glass, cans, half-opened foam containers draped with rotting fast food dotted the dirt like land mines. By then Heather had completely lost track of their location and could only trust that Svetlana was seeing the bigger picture.

They reached a stretch of chain link and Heather staggered backwards in despair. There was no way she could climb it. She was done in. Done for.

“Go, go, go!” Svetlana bellowed, smacking her on the arm.

“Ow! I can’t!” Heather cried.

“Shut up! Up!” Svetlana smacked her on her butt. It hurt like the world’s biggest bee sting. Then the woman bent down and positioned her shoulder under Heather’s bottom and straightened. She locked her knees. “Up!” she ordered.

Sweat stung Heather’s eyes. Her hair was in her face. She couldn’t see what she was doing. But she hooked her fingers around the chain link and slid her toes into the diamond as if she was going horseback riding and the wire was a stirrup. She grunted from the pain but pulled herself up.

Svetlana said something in Russian. “Good, good, good, Heather. Good. More. Faster.”

Heather almost retorted, “I’m trying.” But
trying
would get them killed. She had to do this.

It took her a year, or so it seemed, but she was finally teetering at the top of the fence. The ground danced far below. She was afraid the drop would damage her ankles and was about to inch back down when Svetlana pushed her hard and she plummeted to the earth. Her cry of pain was masked by the sound of Svetlana’s falling body as she joined her.

“I’m hurt, I’m hurt,” Heather said. “I can’t go on.”

“Shut up.”

Svetlana stood and pulled her to her feet. Heather rocked back and forth. Svetlana took off without looking to see if Heather was following her. Miraculously, Heather kept pace, moving through a white-hot curtain of fiery torture.

They hung a sharp left and it was like they had crossed the border into another country: There was a purple
OPEN
sign in the window of the blessed mini-mart and a clerk behind the counter, head down, probably texting.

And texting meant a phone.

Svetlana pushed open the door, gun in hand, and ran inside, Heather a few steps behind her. The clerk shouted, “Whoa!” and raised his hands in the air. His phone lay in front of him.

“
Nyet
, police!” Svetlana cried, pointing to his phone.

“Please, call the police,” Heather translated. “Call them
now
. People are after us!”

“Call, call, call!” Svetlana said. She whirled around in a circle. “Where is buying phone?”

“Hey, so wait!
Wait!
” the clerk said.

Heather darted forward and grabbed the guy’s phone. She showed it to Svetlana, who nodded. Heather punched in 911. The dispatcher answered.

“This is an emergency!” Heather cried. “I’m at—” She looked at the clerk, who just stood there, mouth opening and closing. “Oh,
God
, what is this address?” she demanded.

“You say or I’ll kill you!” Svetlana shouted, aiming her gun directly at the poor, terrified man. He fell to his knees behind the counter and began to cry.

“Is there a robbery in progress, ma’am?” the dispatcher asked. Cool as a cucumber. Probably waiting for break time and telling the rest of the dispatchers how many robberies this made for the night.

“Yes!” Heather cried. “I mean no!” What if the cops rushed in and shot them? They wouldn’t do that. Cops were not the foolhardy, trigger-happy mavericks people saw on TV. Except when they were.

She said into the phone, “I mean we need you! We need the police
now
! People are after us. Russian mobsters! In pursuit!” She tried to remember police codes. “My sister is Detective Catherine Chandler of the one-two-five precinct. Two females. We are in danger!” If she had been on a landline, the dispatcher would see where she was. Stupid, stupid cell phone.

Then she got an idea. Running down the aisles toward a bathroom sign, she caught sight of a bulletin board tacked with flyers about minimum wage, governmental regulations, and a business license for Marco’s Cash & Carry. And on the license was the address. Same as on that roast beef sandwich.

“Is this a prank call?” the dispatcher demanded. “We are very busy here. There are severe penalties for tying up the emergency line for specious reasons—”

“Here, here is the address,” Heather cried. She was halfway through it when Svetlana raced up behind her and grabbed her arm.

“Go!” Svetlana shouted. “Ilya is here! Out back way!”

“They’re here!” Heather yelled. “Zip code! Here’s the zip code!”

She ran. She couldn’t hear anything and had no idea if the dispatcher was even still there.

A popping sound behind them drew her up short. Svetlana yanked on her, sending shooting pains up Heather’s arm. She dropped the phone and picked it up. Pressed it against her ear as she stumbled for purchase.

“That is Ilya,” Svetlana whispered. “Police are coming?”

“Hello? Hello?” Heather whispered into the phone. “Dispatcher, are you there?”

Dial tone.

“You-you bitch,” Heather said, letting out a sob. Tears and sweat poured down her face. As she allowed Svetlana to herd her along, she punched in Tess’s number.

“Vargas.” Yes, yes, yes, it was Tess.

“Tess, oh, my God!” Heather whispered. “I was kidnapped. I got away. I’m with Svetlana. She has a gun. We just left Marco’s Cash and Carry. Here’s the address.” She rattled it off. “We’re heading…” She had no idea what direction they were going. “…away from the mini-mart. Out the back door. I don’t see street signs. I don’t see anything! Can you track us?”

“Call JT,” Tess said. “Get on his grid. Right now. He’s got the good stuff. Then download ‘Find My Phone’ if you can and invite me to follow you. If you can. Don’t jeopardize your safety to do this. Get to JT first.”

“Right, right,” Heather said.

“I’m on my way. I’ll call for backup. Call me back when you’re done with JT. Help is coming.” Tess was all business but Heather heard both the joy and the terror that Tess was clamping down. “Is Anatoly Vodanyov the man who kidnapped you?”