Game Over (The Baltimore Banners Book 2) (10 page)

     And the heavy weight on top of her was Nikolai.

     "Oh God. Nikolai! Nikolai!" She struggled to roll over but couldn't, not with him on top of her like that. She pushed up with her hands, struggling even more to fight off the panic, needing to check on Nikolai.

     Russian words of comfort were whispered in her ear, and relief surged through her. She pushed up with her hands again, needing to get off the street, needing to make sure he wasn't hurt. Gentle hands grabbed her, pulled her to a sitting position, but wouldn't let her stand up.

     "No, do not move." She turned her head, saw Nikolai kneeling beside her, and threw herself into his arms, holding him tightly as simultaneous waves of nausea and relief rolled her over. His body was hard and strong against hers, warm and alive, and she clung to him.

     Then, with a deep breath, she pulled away, her eyes traveling over his body, her hands following to make sure he was unhurt, to make sure he really was okay.

     "I am fine,
moe krasivejshee
. But you are hurt. Do not move."

     "No, I'm fine. I'm fine," she insisted, as he ran his own hands over her. She pulled away, shaking her head and ignoring the dizziness that swamped her, trying to let him know she was okay. He ignored her protests and forced her to sit as he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, then yanked his t-shirt over his head. She stared at him in confusion, wondering why he was undressing, watching as he ripped the t-shirt in two and folded a strip from one half. He leaned toward her and placed the folded strip against her temple, and she winced at the sudden pain and instinctively pulled away.

     Nikolai wrapped one arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer, his expression grim as he held the material in place. "You are hurt. Be still."

     Everything clicked into place. Gunshots. Screams. She sucked in her breath and tried to stand. "Is anyone hurt? We need to help."

     "There is no one to help. Now be still."

     "But—"

     "Bobbi." His voice was stern, commanding, and she finally stopped enough to really look at him. The look in his eyes told her all she needed to know, but she still leaned forward, looking past him, needing to see herself.

     One of the men who had passed them was sprawled along the sidewalk, a puddle of blood beneath him from the gunshot wounds in his chest, a gun held loosely in his lifeless hand. The second man was nowhere in sight.

     "Oh, God," she whispered, closing her eyes against the sight. She took a deep breath and opened them again, focusing on Nikolai. "Are you hurt?"

     "I am fine." His voice was shaking, and she felt the tremor in his hands as he held the make-shift bandage to her head. The color was quickly draining from his face, and Bobbi's heart slammed into her chest at the sight.

     "Nikolai, oh my God, where are you hurt? Tell me." She pushed his hand away and ran her eyes over him, looking for any wounds. He grabbed her hands, stopping her, his eyes staring into hers, anxiety and fear clear in their depths.

     "I am fine,
moe krasivejshee
. I am fine. But you are hurt. Stop. Please. Just..." He switched to Russian, "
you have scared me and I need to hold you, need to keep you in my arms
. Let me take care of you," he finished in English. His gaze held hers for a long minute, full of emotion. She finally nodded and leaned into him, feeling one strong arm close around her as he held her makeshift bandage in place with his other hand.

     Activity exploded all around them as they sat there on the side of the street, and she knew that they would soon be sucked into the whirlwind. But for now, it was just the two of them, holding onto each other, keeping the insanity of the immediate world around them at bay.

     The numbness was beginning to wear off, allowing unwanted feeling and emotion to seep in. Bobbi huddled deeper into the blanket, trying to stop the shaking. Nikolai's arms tightened around her and he pulled her closer, holding her more firmly against his chest. She was thankful for his warmth, thankful for the protective shield of his body as they sat on the back step of the ambulance, neither of them saying anything.

     She had no grasp of the concept of time, had no real idea how long they had been sitting there, but she was sure it had been a long time. Emergency equipment that had filled the street not long after the shooting had thinned out, leaving only several police cars and the ambulance they were in. Yellow tape blocked off the area around them but that didn't stop the people gathered around, gawking.

     Statements had been given, pictures had been taken. The body had been removed. And still people were gathered around, trying to get a glimpse of tragedy. And the media...

     It seemed as if the entire media population of Baltimore had shown up to cover what they were already calling another drug-related shooting. But the media wasn't interested in that, not really. No, their attention had been largely focused on the local celebrity that had almost been caught in the cross-fire.

     Another chill went through her, longer this time, hard enough that her teeth chattered. Nikolai rubbed her arms through the blanket, trying to warm her, and she laid her head back against his chest and closed her eyes, trying to block out everything but knowing she couldn't.

     They had both given their statements to the police, separately and together, trying to shed some light on the shooting. Nikolai had hauled her to the ambulance when it arrived and she had been forced to endure poking and prodding and bandaging before she had convinced everyone that she was fine, adamant that she was
not
going to the hospital. She had a gash on the side of her temple that had bled profusely, a knot on the back of her head that she was sure would give her a headache for several days, and scrapes and scratches on her hands and knees. Other than that, she was fine.

     Yeah. Fine.

     She just wanted to go home and forget about everything.

     But they couldn't leave yet; they had been asked to stay so they could give their statements to a group of detectives who were on their way. Bobbi didn't want to wait. She knew they had already talked to the homicide detectives; she knew exactly who was coming.

     And they weren't detectives.

     She snuggled closer against Nikolai, thankful at least that the reporters were gone now. Thankful they were no longer bothering Nikolai, shouting questions at him, demanding answers as he refused to even acknowledge them. Several of his teammates had shown up, blocking their access more effectively than the police had.

     Then she almost laughed. She was thankful about the reporters being gone? My God, that was the absolute last thing she was thankful for. Something could have happened to Nikolai. It could have been his bloody, sheet-covered body being taken away in the nondescript white Medical Examiner's van.

     Nausea rolled through her and she ripped herself out of Nikolai's arms, rushing to the side of the ambulance where she leaned over and wretched, dry heaves wracking her body, her head throbbing painfully. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shut out the vision of something that hadn't even happened.

     Strong arms closed around her, and she blindly turned into them, burying herself in Nikolai's hold, losing herself in his warmth, his vibrant, whole and solid, living, breathing warmth.

     "Is she all right?" A deep voice asked from behind her. She stiffened but otherwise didn't move, needing to feel Nikolai's beating heart under her ear, not caring about anything else right now.

     His arms tightened even further around her, his lips gentle against the top of her head, as he spoke to the man behind her. She paid no attention to the words, just focused on the feel of Nikolai's voice rumbling through his warm and solid chest, holding onto him, unable to let go just yet.

     She felt him pull away, just a fraction of an inch, and she finally loosened her death grip on him enough that he could look down at her. "
Moe krasivejshee
, these men wish to speak with us. Will you be okay?"

     His eyes were dark with concern, his hands gentle on the sides of her face as he stroked her cheeks and pushed the hair behind her ears, careful of the bandage. And she knew that if she said no, if she told him she
wasn'
t
alright, that she didn't want to talk to anyone, Nikolai would make sure she wasn't bothered, that he would protect her and keep everyone else away.

     And even though that's what she wanted, she knew it would do no good, and that she would only be putting off the inevitable. So she nodded, unable to even try mustering a reassuring smile. Nikolai dropped a tender kiss on her lips and turned her around, his arms still wrapped around her from behind, supporting her, protecting her.

     Denny, Howard, and a third man she recognized from the practice rink stood in front of them, dressed in suits and ties, badges clipped to their belts. They looked just like the homicide detectives from earlier, except their faces were harder, grimmer.

     Denny's eyes locked on hers, his expression flat and cold as his gaze dropped to Nikolai's arms holding her. She stiffened but refused to pull away. He finally nodded, a small, barely perceptible motion of his head.

     "Ma'am. If we could ask you some questions...?" It was phrased as a polite request, but Bobbi heard the steel underneath. She took a deep breath and finally straightened, knowing that his questions were going to be asked in private.

     Howard and the third man led Nikolai a little distance away as Denny motioned her toward the back of the ambulance, reaching for her elbow to help her climb the step. She brushed off his help and stepped up on her own, settling on the bench seat as he climbed in behind her and closed the door, locking them in privacy.

     He remained standing, his head and shoulders stooped slightly to accommodate the low ceiling, and watched her for several minutes.

     "Are you really okay, Bobbi? Do you need to go to the hospital?"

     She pulled the blanket higher around her shoulders and shook her head as another chill racked her body. "I'm fine."

     "Dammit, you don't look fine!" The outburst caught her by surprise and she turned to look up at him. Denny ran one hand through his hair then down over his face, blowing out a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell."

     "No problem." Bobbi felt like yelling herself but she was afraid that if she did, she wouldn't stop. She shifted on the bench, lifting her legs up and propping her feet against the stretcher across from her, and adjusted the blanket again. Denny continued watching her, then let out another deep breath.

     "What happened?"

     Bobbi took a deep breath, her gaze focused on her feet as the scene replayed in her mind. But she didn't start from when the chaos had erupted in the street. Instead, she went back further, before she and Nikolai had met with his agent. She closed her eyes and paused, bringing each detail to mind, and left out nothing. She didn't know how much was relevant, didn't even know if the events were connected, but she didn't trust her instincts right now, was afraid to leave anything out for fear that it might matter down the road.

     Denny took notes throughout, not asking questions, not prodding, just letting her get through it all. Bobbi sagged against the back of the bench when she was finished, exhaustion swamping her.

     "Denny, his agent...there's definitely something there. And Nikolai knows it. God, if you could have seen him." She took a deep breath and paused, recalling the feral change in Nikolai at Walter Jacobs' implied threat. "He
knew
the threat was real, and it shook him up. I thought..." she paused, then shook her head. There was no need to explain something so personal, no need to expose any private thoughts and emotions. She could tell Denny wanted to ask more, could see it in the tilt of his head as he studied her. But for some reason he didn't push her, and she was glad for it.

     She closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the bench seat, her breathing deep and even in the silence. A long minute went by before she straightened and turned to look back up at Denny. "Do you think there's any connection to that and the shooting?"

     His dark eyes bore into her, holding her gaze, studying her. "It was our guy in the car who did the shooting. The vic on the street had been aiming for you."

     An icy fear exploded inside her, racking her body with chills. She leaned forward and put her head between her knees, taking deep gulps of air, drawing them into lungs seized with fear. She heard Denny call her name, felt a hand come to rest on her shoulder. She shook her head, shook the hand away, and drew a deep breath before sitting up. Her knuckles were white from clutching the blanket so tightly around her, and she had to force her grip to loosen. She shook her head again.

     "I'm fine, sorry. Just...give me a minute." Bobbi closed her eyes, took another few deep breaths, then sat up straighter. "Sorry. You said me. Do you mean me, or us?"

     The silence stretched around them, broken only when Denny snapped his notebook closed and dropped it into his front pocket. "We don't know. We don't know if it was random, or if it was connected to anything. We don't know if the target was you or Petrovich. Or both of you. Or neither. We don't know anything right now, and we may never know."

     The words did nothing to soothe her, uttered as they were in Denny's harsh, clipped tones. His voice had been gaining volume as he spoke, a sign of his frustration, a sign that added to her increased worry. "It seems too coincidental, doesn't it?"

     She didn't expect an answer, not when she already knew what it was. The entire scene had been too coincidental, too easy. She remembered the look on Jacobs' face when they had come out of his office, remembered he had been talking on the cell phone. Could he really have been arranging this? But why?

     She was just thankful that neither one of them had been hurt. Not really. She reached up and gingerly touched the bandage on her head. The gash and bump she suffered had come from her head hitting the ground as Nikolai threw himself over her. No, she didn't consider this being hurt—not compared to what could have happened.

     There was a knock on the ambulance door and they both turned. She could see Howard through the window, and behind him, Nikolai. She pushed herself to the edge of the bench, her fingers clenched around the edge. Bobbi bit the inside of her cheek, looking between Denny and Nikolai, thinking. It could be nothing.

     But it could be something.

     "Denny...you mentioned the Ruskov Orphanage. Can you look into it some more? Find out if there were any adoptions around the time you have Nikolai visiting there. I haven't said anything yet but something he said earlier..." Her voice trailed off. No, it hadn't been anything he said, not really. It had been the shadows in his eyes when she had asked if he had any kids, the deep sorrow she had sensed in him when he told her his family was gone. But she couldn't tell Denny that, couldn't let him know she was asking for more information based on nothing more than a feeling.

     She stood up from the bench and swayed slightly, but she wasn't sure if it was from her exhaustion, or from the feeling of guilty betrayal that went through her. Denny reached out to steady her and she knew he was getting ready to say something, but she pushed past him as the door of the ambulance opened. Nikolai stood at the back step, concern and worry etched on his face as he offered her his hand. She reached out for it, grateful for the warmth of his touch as he helped her down.

     "You are okay?"

     She nodded, stepping into his arms and holding him tightly. "Yes. Just...take me home now."

**

     The room was dim, the only light coming from the oversized television, the change of scenes from the muted show casting a crazy dance of light and shadow on the walls. Nikolai sat on the edge of the sofa, his hands hanging loosely between his knees, seeing nothing around him. He took a deep breath and clenched his hands tighter together, willing them to stop shaking with the tremors of one much older.

     With the tremors of one much terrified.

     A harsh sound echoed around him, a screech of whimpered fear, and Nicolai was surprised to realize the sound had come from him.

     Or was he?

     He took another deep breath then reached for the bottle on the table in front of him, quickly unscrewing the cap and pouring the clear liquid into an empty glass. The glass clattered together, echoing in the stillness around him. The clear liquid splashed over the side and spilled onto the table, forming a small puddle. He ignored it and placed the bottle back on the table with a heavy thud of glass against wood. His hand was unsteady and nearly toppled the bottle over but he quickly righted it.

     And wished he could blame his unsteady hands on the vodka.

     He brought the glass to his lips and drained the contents in one gulp, feeling the warm fire spill down his throat. Yes, he wished with everything he had, with everything he didn't have, that his shaking hands were the result of the vodka; wished the fire of the clear liquid would spread through him, would numb him from the inside out.