A kiss. A betrayal. An escape?

A Rocky Mountain Justice page-turner

Searching for her missing sister leads Madelyn Thompkins straight into the path of danger...and Roman DeMarco. Wounded physically and emotionally, the undercover agent hardly needs this distraction. When the two collide with a Russian gang, they go on the run—and are drawn together. Their priorities don’t align, but when Madelyn falls victim to a murderous criminal, will Roman sacrifice everything to save her?

JENNIFER D. BOKAL is the author of the bestselling ancient-world historical romance The Gladiator’s Mistress and the second book in the Champions of Rome series, The Gladiator’s Temptation. Happily married to her own alpha male for twenty years, she enjoys writing stories that explore the wonders of love in many genres. Jen and her husband live in upstate New York with their three beautiful daughters, two aloof cats and two very spoiled dogs.

Also by Jennifer D. Bokal

Her Rocky Mountain Defender

Her Rocky Mountain Hero

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Her Rocky Mountain Defender

Jennifer D. Bokal

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07883-2

HER ROCKY MOUNTAIN DEFENDER

© 2018 Jennifer D. Bokal

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

As always, this book is dedicated to John.

Twenty years of marriage has taught me to hope, to laugh and, most important—to love.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

Roman DeMarco sat at the table in the kitchen of a cramped studio apartment. Like an ever-present fog, the smell of overcooked eggs crept in from the hallway. In the distance, a baby’s wail pierced the still afternoon. He lifted his weary gaze to the window. The view was of the stained brick building next door. Roman had lived under an alias—Roman Black—paying rent and sleeping in this apartment for almost half of a year, yet this place wasn’t his home.

Turning his gaze back to the table, Roman held up his latest creation. It was a powerful ELD, or electronic listening device. He hit the power button. A small rectangular screen glowed and filled with boxy script. It held two words: Signal Obtained.

During his years as an intelligence officer with Delta Force, Roman had bugged many rooms. But this next target had proved to be uniquely difficult.

As far as Roman was concerned, he loved the challenge. The targeted room—underground and made of concrete—was the first problem. Any signal coming from the room needed to be strong, and using an easily hidden, thumb-size ELD was impossible. It left Roman to fashion his own device. The bug might be larger than he wanted, but the battery should be powerful enough to last fourteen days. Or so he hoped.

“Testing. Testing. One. Two. Three,” he said.

He pressed a small button on the side. His words were replayed. “Testing. Testing. One. Two. Three.”

He turned the device over and examined the back. Two powerful magnets lined each side of the ELD. He moved to his refrigerator and held out the black box. Like a live thing, the magnets pulled, and the ELD wiggled in his grasp. He let go and it sailed an inch from his hand, connecting with the appliance’s metal casing. He smiled to himself. If things went as planned, Roman was about to reclaim his former life.

It couldn’t come a day too soon.

Chapter 1

Boulder, Colorado.

9:45 PM

May 5

“There you go,” Roman DeMarco said. He poured whiskey into a shot glass and slid the drink to a customer. Moving to the next person, he cast his gaze at the room. It was still early in the evening, but more than two dozen patrons filled The Prow.

No, patron wasn’t the right word; it gave the bar an air of respectability it didn’t deserve. This place was the last stop on a person’s long, downhill slide to the gutter. Only a few recessed lights over the bar illuminated the windowless room. The smell of stale beer, body odor and desperation hung in the air. The constant thump, thump, thump of a rock song pounded through the stereo system, the bass so deep that the sticky floor reverberated with the chords. The occasional cackle of drunken laughter cut through the music—the sound more manic than merry.

Singles hunched protectively over their drinks, while couples cast furtive glances at each other and moved toward darkened corners. The words, The Prow—spelled out in neon letters three feet high—were superimposed on the front of an illuminated sailing ship as it cut through a glowing wave. The sign hung on the back wall and cast a bloody light on a motorcycle club shooting a game of pool.

It would have been easy for Roman to feel disdain for these people, the forgotten of the world. But he didn’t, not at all.

He wasn’t your average bartender. No, as an employee of Rocky Mountain Justice, a private security firm, Roman was at The Prow to gather information about the bar’s owner, Oleg Zavalov.

Five months prior, RMJ had gained information about Nikolai Mateev, a Russian drug lord who was wanted all over the world. The recent intel suggested that Zavalov not only laundered money for Mateev, but employed his great-nephew, as well. But what RMJ needed was proof—and that meant putting one of their people on the inside. With dual specialties in electronic surveillance and languages, Roman was the perfect man for the job.

It was hard to break through, though. Zavalov, mistrustful by nature, kept a tightly knit duo of two Russian nationals with him all the time. One of them was indeed Nikolai Mateev’s great-nephew. Beyond that, in five months Roman had gleaned woefully little information about the suspected money laundering. Yet, he hoped that once he planted that ELD in Oleg Zavalov’s office, all of that would change.

Now all he needed was an excuse to get into the locked basement and plant the bug.

A regular, a cop who drank for free, approached and slammed down an empty glass. “Another beer,” he said, running a hand through his thick blond hair. Worse than anyone else was the cop who turned a blind eye to the rampant crime in this place for free beer.

Roman faked a smile.

“Sure,” he said, grabbing the glass. He turned to the tap and pulled down the handle. Foam spit and gurgled from the tap. An empty keg was the perfect reason to get into the basement.

“This one’s spent, Jackson,” he said to the cop. Jackson. Roman could never figure out if it was a first or last name. “Give me a minute. I need to get a new keg from the basement,” Roman said, turning to the manager as Jackson shifted his attention to a group of women nearby.

The manager held out a ring with three keys and Roman took them with a nod. He unlocked the basement door marked as private, and flipped on the light switch. The golden glow of a single bulb illuminated a set of dilapidated wooden stairs, cinder block walls and a patch of gunmetal-gray concrete of the basement floor.

A hallway with four doors was laid out at the bottom of the stairs. The back door, controlled with an electronic lock, led to the alley behind the bar. On the left there was a locked door to the beer cooler and next door, a storage room filled with cheap liquor and stale snacks. The final door, the one that led to Oleg Zavalov’s office, was on the right.

Roman didn’t waste any time. He quickly unlocked Zavalov’s office door and slipped inside. Using the penlight he kept in his back pocket, he withdrew the ELD and powered up the device. A small green screen began to glow. One word appeared: Acquiring.

“Damn.” He moved closer to the door. Still no connection. He glanced at his watch. He’d been gone less than two minutes, but how much longer before his absence was noticed upstairs?

The inset screen still glowed green as one word scrolled across its face.

Acquiring.

Acquiring.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs drew his attention. He glanced at the screen one last time. Signal Obtained. Roman placed the ELD under the top of Zavalov’s desk, an imperfect place, but the best option he had. The door creaked open, giving Roman a split second to think up an excuse for being in a room that was unquestionably off-limits.

* * *

Madelyn Thompkins wasn’t in the habit of sneaking down rickety staircases in dive bars. But this was the opposite of habit: according to social media, her sister, Ava had been at The Prow less than an hour before.

No one had heard from Ava since she checked out of rehab in their hometown of Cheyenne, Wyoming, four months ago. So to have her turn up in Boulder, where Madelyn was enrolled in med school? It was an opportunity she couldn’t squander.

Despite the crummy neighborhood and the sketchy bar, Madelyn came straightaway. A quick search of both the main bar and the bathroom turned up nothing. It left her with two choices: give up on her first chance in months to find her sister, or explore the entire building—even the parts that were off-limits, like the basement hallway she was standing in. Then again, when she thought of it that way, Madelyn didn’t have a choice at all.

She pushed the slightly ajar door fully open and peered into the room. A figure, shrouded with the dark, moved. She wasn’t alone. Her pulse spiked and she bit her bottom lip to keep it from quivering.

“Hello,” she called out. The room swallowed her words. “I’m looking for Ava Thompkins. Do you know her?”

“You aren’t supposed to be here. This place is for employees only,” a man said. “The sign on the door says ‘Private.’ Can’t you read?”

She hadn’t come this way for nothing. She fished her phone from her cross-body purse and pulled up her sister’s latest picture and post. Turning the screen to the room, she asked, “Do you recognize this woman?”

Suddenly the man was in front of her. He had short, dark hair, and was clad in a form-fitting black T-shirt and snug jeans. He was big—well over six feet tall with broad shoulders and muscular arms. The outline of his pecs and abs were unmistakable.

“I’m the bartender, so I see a lot of people,” he said, giving a noncommittal answer. “What’s she to you?”

“My sister.” Holding the phone at arm’s length, Madelyn continued, “She was here less than an hour ago. You must’ve seen her.”

“Why do you care?”

“Besides her being my sister? Isn’t that enough?”

“Not always.”

Madelyn hesitated only a little before sharing Ava’s history. “She checked out of rehab and we haven’t heard from her since.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found,” the bartender said.

“I doubt she does,” said Madelyn. “But I’m desperate to find her.”

“Like I said, lots of folks come and go.” He gave a useless shrug. “I don’t remember them all.”

“Are you sure?” Even to her own ears, Madelyn’s voice was tight and thin, like a string about to break. She wasn’t going to let Ava slip away again, not when this man might be able to help. “You’ve never seen her before?”

“You seem like a nice lady, so I’m going to be honest with you. This isn’t a nice bar. Just go home. It’s safer for you there.”

“If it’s not safe for me, then it’s not safe for my sister.”

“Go.” The man pointed toward the stairs.

“Why are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Why are you being so difficult to get rid of?” The man grabbed her elbow. “Let me walk you to your car,” he said. “If your sister stops in, I’ll let her know that you’re looking for her.”

Madelyn’s joy soared, taking her to a dizzying height. While he might not be the key to finding her sister, the bartender was a link in the chain that led to Ava.

“You know her?” Madelyn asked.

“She’s been around.”

Standing on the threshold, it occurred to Madelyn that the man hadn’t bothered to turn on the light in the darkened room behind him. Was he trying to hide something? She eased around him, entering the room. “Where is she?”

The man stepped in Madelyn’s way, blocking her from gaining further access. “I don’t know where your sister is now,” he said. “But I do know that she’s not in this office.”

Madelyn narrowed her eyes.

He held up two fingers and said, “Scout’s honor.”

“You? A Boy Scout? I thought you said that nobody nice came to The Prow.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that I made Eagle Scout by the time I turned sixteen years old?”

For an inexplicable reason, Madelyn did. “So, Boy Scout, why won’t you help a hardworking doctor find her ill sister?”

“You’re a doctor?”

She corrected herself, “Well, I’m not a doctor—not yet, anyway. But I am a medical school student at the University of Colorado.” A flush crept from her chest to her cheeks as Madelyn realized she’d rambled.

Maybe it would be for the best if she just went home.

The bartender closed the space between them. His spicy scent surrounded her and she drew in a deep breath.

Her eyes had adjusted to the light and for the first time she looked at his large frame closely. His short hair had lighter streaks throughout and Madelyn wondered if he spent time in the sun. Dark stubble covered his cheeks, and still she could see the cleft in his chin. The collar of his black T-shirt was frayed.

“So, what kind of doctor are you?” he asked.

Madelyn didn’t want the flirtation to continue, yet she found herself saying, “I’m thinking of specializing in psychiatry.”

“Because of your sister?” he asked. “And her addiction.”

“Who sounds like a shrink now?” Madelyn joked.

“Listen.”

Madelyn tried to think of something charming, or at least witty, to retort. But she stopped. The bartender held himself as if he were forged from iron and not flesh and blood. He had not been teasing, he truly wanted her to listen. Then she heard them—male voices speaking, but not English. Ukrainian? Or Russian, maybe?

The man placed his mouth next to her ear, his breath hot on her skin. “Those men are going to walk through that door in one minute and neither one of us should be in this office. I want to protect you, but to do that I need to give them a reason why we’re trespassing.”

“Protect me?” His words were more confusing than menacing. “What do you mean?”

“I’m on your side,” he assured her, “but what’s your name?”

“Madelyn,” she said. “My name is Madelyn Thompkins.”

“Madelyn,” the man said, pulling her closer still, “I’m Roman.”

“Why do I need to know who you are?”

“Because as an Eagle Scout, I’m honor bound to introduce myself to any distressed damsels that I kiss.”

* * *

Roman wrapped his arms around Madelyn’s waist and pulled her to him. She gave a little mew of surprise. The kiss was for show and at the same time, blood pounded at the base of Roman’s skull with his desire for more. He didn’t mind all the hours spent alone, but damn—holding Madelyn felt good, like he truly had come home.

Even though it hadn’t been part of his plan, Roman slid his tongue into her mouth. She pushed at him, her hands splayed against his chest. Yet as the kiss deepened and she returned the ardor, the tension in her arms relaxed and her body formed to his.

Overhead, the light blazed to life.

“Roman Black.” The alias always sounded foreign to his ears, yet he recognized the person who spoke as The Prow’s owner, Oleg Zavalov. “What the hell’s going on here?”

Roman broke away from the kiss. He did so reluctantly—as if forced to stop something he enjoyed—and it wasn’t exactly an act.

Oleg Zavalov stood in the doorway. Hair slicked back, he wore a tailored suit, along with a button-down shirt, open at the throat. He was flanked by his two underlings from Russia, Anton and Serge. Both men were tall and broad and stupid, a complete contrast to Oleg. And Roman was certain that one of them was Nikolai’s great-nephew.

“Oleg.” Roman pulled Madelyn into his chest. “Sorry about using your office. We just needed a moment of privacy and the beer cooler didn’t seem like a classy place to take a lady.”

Oleg always had a beautiful woman or two hanging off his arm. So Roman knew that he’d never begrudge anyone a quick hookup.

With a shake of his head, Oleg clapped Roman on the shoulder. “I knew you’d eventually find someone you liked. Next time use the stockroom like everyone else.”

“Sure,” said Roman. His eye went to the place where he’d hastily planted the ELD. He forced himself to look away. Grabbing Madelyn’s hand, he led her to the door and into the hallway.

“Hey, Black,” Oleg called.

He turned. Oleg sat on the edge of his desk. His leg swung lazily back and forth and his rear was settled right above the ELD.

Roman began to sweat. “Yeah?”

“They need a keg upstairs. Get the beer to the bar and then if you want a break, take one.”

Silently, Anton and Serge slipped into the office. Like twin pillars of brute force, they took up positions at opposite sides of the door.

“Sure,” Roman said. “I’ll take care of the beer right away.”

Roman’s hand remained on Madelyn’s back. Her muscles tensed under his touch. He assumed she was sensitive to the implication of what a break entailed and he hated that she might see him as creep.

For the first time in months, Roman wanted to explain himself to someone—to Madelyn, specifically. To hell with his undercover work, he needed her to see him as the good guy and not a part of all this, the criminal underbelly of Boulder.

His hand still on Madelyn’s back, he led her to the stairs. That ELD wasn’t going to stay hidden for long and the best Roman could hope for was another chance to reposition it later in the night.

But first, he needed to get Madelyn out of the bar and make sure she was safe. She ascended the stairs. One. Two. Three. He followed close behind. As her foot landed on the fourth step, a metallic thunk filed from the office and swept into the corridor.

The ELD really hadn’t stayed hidden for long.

“Run,” he whispered into Madelyn’s ear.

She took the remaining steps two at a time, Roman on her heels.

“What the hell?” There was a moment of silence and then Oleg began to curse. “Roman!” he bellowed.

Roman didn’t bother to slow his stride or answer.

“Get back here.”

Roman felt an invisible target between his shoulder blades. He imagined one on Madelyn’s, as well.

“Roman!”

Roman had very few options. Run, and get shot in the back. Or stay, and be murdered in Oleg’s office. Neither appealed, but he refused to be taken down without a fight.

With the door just two steps away, Roman reached around Madelyn to grip the handle. A familiar click resounded through the hallway. Such a small noise, insignificant and yet so momentous that it reverberated in his chest. It was the unmistakable sound of a gun’s safety being released.

* * *

Madelyn’s thoughts were disjointed and jumbled all at once. She could barely comprehend what had just happened. The men. Their guns. Icy terror clawing at her throat. A strong arm pushing open the door. Rushing into the bar, she stumbled on the last step. The same strong arm lifted her and ushered her forward. She ran, stumbling again as she heard a crack, the whiff of sulfur, followed by buzzing in her ears.

She looked over her shoulder, and the continuum of time began to flow again. The men with the guns were right behind her. One stood, his weapon drawn, a tendril of smoke swirling from the barrel. Roman, the man who’d kissed her—warned her about this bar—turned back. He lifted a bar stool and brought it around. It crashed into the man with a gun. He teetered. The firearm flew from his grasp. The second man lifted his arm, gun in hand. Roman delivered a kick to his knee and the shooter crumpled to the floor. Frightened bar patrons scattered to the corners of the room.

“Roman,” she screamed.

The first man had risen to his knees and was reaching for his gun. Roman planted one foot on the outstretched hand. His other foot connected with the man’s chin. Blood sprayed from his mouth as his head snapped back. The second man was unsteady, but up. He leveled his gun with Roman’s chest. Without thought, Madelyn lifted a glass from the bar and threw. It hit the man in the shoulder. There wasn’t adequate force to knock him down, just enough to ruin his aim.

“Get the hell out of here,” Roman said to her.

Madelyn didn’t need to be told twice. Pivoting, she sprinted to the door. She pushed it open and took in one gulping breath of clean, fresh air. But then...

An arm encircled her waist. Her lungs emptied in a gasp and her feet dangled above the floor.

“Hold on there. You aren’t going anywhere.” The stench of beer breath and cologne washed over her. Acidic fear rose in the back of her throat.

Madelyn grabbed the hand that held her, wrenching back the fingers. They didn’t budge. She bucked and kicked, swinging out legs and arms. Sweat trickled down her back. The grip around her middle tightened.

“Let me go,” she said. “You can’t do this. I’ll call the police.”

“Police?” The man who held her snorted. “I am the police.”

The door was still so close. If she reached out, she could graze the handle. But even if she did, it would do her no good. Like a pinprick in a balloon, the fight leaked out of Madelyn.

“Let her go,” said another man. Madelyn recognized Oleg, the guy who found them in the basement.

The arm around her middle released and Madelyn fell to the floor. She looked over her shoulder. Roman, bloodied and bruised, knelt a few feet away. One of the thugs held his shoulder. The other pointed a gun at Roman’s head. The rest of the people in the bar only stared, not bothering to offer aid or even turn their impassive gazes away.

“Just a little misunderstanding,” said Oleg with a wave and smile. “We’re going to go downstairs and clear it all up. Until then, the next round is on the house.”

This pronouncement was greeted with a weak cheer.

The man who had caught her, grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the basement door. Madelyn searched every face in the bar for one person who would help—do something, anything. Speak up or call the police. Then she remembered, the person who now held her was a cop. Dear God, this could not be happening. All she wanted to do was find her sister.

Oleg stopped at the door and placed his hand on the middle of the cop’s chest. “Thanks for your help, Jackson,” he said. “I’ve got it from here.”

“Sure,” said Jackson, “no problem. I’m on duty soon, anyway.”

Jackson. Madelyn would never forget his name. She studied his face and memorized every detail—his height, six feet three inches, or maybe six foot four, athletic build, the exact shade of his blond hair. How his right eye was slightly bigger than his left, and one tooth on the bottom leaned a little on its neighbor. The more information she had, the better a description she could give later.

Oleg grabbed her arm, his fingers dug into her flesh. He pulled Madelyn across the threshold and the door closed with a crack. A thought snapped into place and her mouth went dry. None of these men had hidden their appearance. They weren’t worried about what she might say, because as far as they were concerned—she wasn’t leaving The Prow alive.

Madelyn yanked her arm free. Escape. Escape. Escape. Her fingertips brushed the cold, metal handle. Oleg grabbed her arm again, pulling her away. She pitched back. Her skull slammed into the stairs, turning everything dark and then filling her head with light and pain. Her feet flew up, sending her somersaulting downward. Her shoulder hit the concrete floor and her vision flashed with red. Her body ached with each beat of her heart.

“Madelyn.” Roman placed a strong hand under her elbow, helping her to sit up. “Madelyn, are you okay?”

She was as far away from okay as she could get. “What’s happening? Why is this happening?”

Roman lightly rubbed his hand over her shoulder. “She’s got nothing to do with us, Oleg. Let her go.”

“Nothing? She shows up and I find this.” Oleg reached into the interior pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small, plastic box. He knelt in front of Madelyn. “Who do you work for? How’d you get him to betray me?”

“I’ve never seen that thing before in my life. I don’t even know what that is. Roman?”

“She’s nobody, just a girl,” said Roman. “It’s me, all along, it’s been me.”

“Search them both.”

One of the thugs pawed through Madelyn’s purse and patted her roughly from shoulders to feet. From Roman, they got a set of keys from his pocket.

Oleg held the keys in his palm. “So, you use my own business to betray me? After I brought you in and gave you a job.” He threw the keys to one of the thugs. “Who turned you, Roman? It’s not the cops. Jackson would’ve told me.”

Roman helped Madelyn to her feet. She felt light-headed and sick to her stomach. She leaned into Roman for support.

“I’m not going to say anything until you let her go,” Roman said.

Oleg snorted. “I’m going to ask you once more—who got you to plant this thing?”

Roman wrapped his arm around Madelyn’s shoulder. “Let her go and I’ll tell you everything. She’s innocent, man. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Wrong place? Wrong time? Isn’t that the truth. She’s not leaving here, but I bet you’ll talk to make her death quick and painless.” Then to the thugs, he muttered, “Bring them into the office.”

“No. No. No. Please, let me go,” she begged. Like a mouthful of spoiled fruit, humiliation for having to plead left a rotten taste in her mouth. Yet what other choice did she have? She knew little of self-defense, and doubted that jabbing one of these men with her keys would do anything to change events. “I swear, I won’t say anything.”

“Go,” said Oleg.

“I’m not going into that office,” said Roman. “Neither is Madelyn.”

His words gave her enough resolve to disregard Oleg’s order.

Oleg hitched his chin to one of the thugs. He withdrew his gun and pressed the barrel into Madelyn’s temple. The metal was cold and hard.

Oleg said, “I’m tired of playing games. If her well-being matters to you, tell me what I want to know and she’ll die quickly. You have my word of honor.”

The thug released the safety of his gun with a click that was deafening.

“No, no, no,” she wept. There were so many things Madelyn had yet to do. She needed to finish med school. She needed to say goodbye to her parents. Her sister. “Please, Roman, help me.”

“Okay.” Roman held up his hands. “We’ll negotiate.”

“Call it what you want. Get into the room.”

The barrel bore a hole into Madelyn’s temple and she was shoved forward by the pressure of the gun.

A metal chair sat in the middle of the room. The thug pressed on her shoulder. “Sit.”

Her knees buckled and she sank to the chair. Fear made her useless, paralyzing her mind, her spirit and her body.

For a single second Madelyn was five and standing on the curb in front of her house, watching Ava run across the street as she headed to the park.

“Come on, Maddie,” Ava called.

Madelyn hesitated and looked toward the house. Her mother wasn’t there to either give her permission or forbid that Madelyn leave the yard. Without another thought, she bolted into the usually quiet street. Suddenly, there was the blare of a horn. The grille of an old pickup truck filled her vision and she froze with fear.

Madelyn tumbled to the pavement, landing on her back. The pickup truck screeched to a halt, the bumper well beyond where she’d been standing. Madelyn was in Ava’s grasp. In that moment, she knew that her sister had saved her life.

Yet as she felt the cold steel of the gun against her skull, she knew there was nobody to save her this time.

Chapter 2

Roman didn’t like the odds. Three armed men against one. A locked room with no chance of bringing in backup and top that off with a terrified woman, for whom he was now responsible. If he were a betting man, he’d place his money on Oleg Zavalov winning. Thank goodness Roman had never wagered in his life.

“One last time before I get medieval on your girlfriend,” Oleg said. “Who do you work for?”

A fiery sense of self-loathing filled Roman. This whole situation was his fault. He should’ve marched Madelyn up the stairs as soon as she walked into Oleg’s office, to hell with her stubbornness. Instead he had what? Flirted? It was an amateur move, but at the same time, a little of the world’s ugliness had melted away during their exchange.

To top it all off, he was about to lose five months of work. And more than that, Oleg would know that he was being investigated and have time to dispose of any evidence. Roman opened his mouth, ready to confess all. He couldn’t find the words.

What he could find was a lie. “I don’t know what you have, Oleg. But it’s not mine.”

“It’s an ELD, a bug, a listening device.”

“How am I supposed to know about those things?” Roman asked, a little regretful that he couldn’t claim his latest creation. “I’m just the bartender.”

“I don’t think you do. I think she does.”

“But I don’t,” Madelyn said.

“If it wasn’t you, why’d you run?”

Roman answered for her. “Because I’m standing at the top of the stairs and when I turn around, there’s Serge and Anton with their guns. I told her to run. It’s what you do when someone threatens to shoot.”

Oleg’s mouth hung open for a minute, then like it was controlled by a puppeteer’s string, it snapped shut.

Fighting the urge to smile, Roman took in a deep breath. A pain shot through his side from a kick or punch he didn’t recall receiving. Madelyn looked at him. She was beautiful in a delicate way. She wore a navy blazer and white T-shirt that fitted her pert breasts and trim waist perfectly. Her dark hair was cut short and her brown eyes were large. Her skin was creamy and smooth. To him, she looked perfect, almost magical, and he wished like hell that magic was real and she could simply disappear. Small gold hoops dangled from each ear and a gold chain hung around her neck. Funny how small details became important when you were standing next to the thin line that separated life from death.

Oleg tossed the ELD in the air and caught it. “There’s one thing I do know, is that one of you two planted this bug. So, I’ll ask again—how’d this get in my office?”

“I don’t know,” Roman said.

“What about you?” Oleg turned to Madelyn. “How’d this get in my office?”

Madelyn quietly wept and shook her head.

“Nothing to say?” Oleg leaned his hip onto the corner of his desk. “Maybe you need the right motivation to talk. Make her sorry, Serge.”

Serge cracked his knuckles, a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He brought back his arm and slammed his fist into Madelyn’s face. She toppled from the chair. A bright red mark bloomed to life on her cheek.

To hell with the work or the loss of the investigation. Roman wouldn’t let Oleg hurt Madelyn any more. Although if they made it out of this alive, Roman would take great pleasure in bringing Oleg Zavalov to justice. It wasn’t professional anymore. It was personal.

“Okay. Okay.” Roman held his palms up and stepped between Serge and Madelyn. “I’ll tell you everything.”

“Everything?”

Roman swallowed. His side burned. “Yes.”

A phone rang and Serge pulled a cell from his pocket. “Da.”

While with Delta Force, Roman had studied over a dozen languages. He was fluent in Farsi, German, Spanish, French and Russian. Even if he hadn’t, the single Russian word was easy to translate. Yes.

“Oleg.” Serge held out the phone. “Vy khotite, chtoby prinyat eto.” Oleg, you want to take this.

“Ne seychas,” Oleg said. Not now.

“Seychas,” Serge insisted. “Eto moy dyadya Nikolay.”

Serge’s uncle Nikolai was on the phone? Nikolai Mateev?

Oleg sat taller and reached for the phone. He met Roman’s gaze and his eyes narrowed. Had Oleg guessed that Roman understood the short conversation? Roman looked away.

“Lock these two in the beer cooler,” said Oleg, “but stand guard. We’ll deal with them later.”

Serge pulled Madelyn to her feet. Anton withdrew his gun and motioned to the door. “Go,” he said.

Serge worked both locks on the outside of the beer cooler’s thick, white door. Madelyn was shoved in first. She stumbled over the doorjamb and fell to the metal floor with a hollow thump. Roman calmly stepped inside and turned to face Serge—the man he now knew for sure to be Nikolai Mateev’s great-nephew. “I’m going to get out of here and then, I’m going to kill you for hitting Madelyn.”

“Is that a wager, you stupid American?” he asked in halting English.

“I never make bets. It’s a pledge.”

Serge snorted. “Your promises bore me.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Roman and Madelyn in complete darkness.

* * *

Madelyn skidded across the cold metal floor and crashed into the wall. Every part of her body ached, throbbed or pained her. She didn’t care. She fumbled with the purse’s clasp and pulled out her phone. She hit the home button and the screen glowed.

“That won’t work in here,” Roman said. His voice came out of nowhere. “If it did, one of Oleg’s men would’ve taken your phone before they threw us in.”

She ignored him and dialed 9-1-1. The phone icon tumbled across the screen.

“We’re underground. The walls are cinder block, which makes the signal weak at best. Then you throw in these.” He wrapped his knuckles on the door. The metal walls echoed. “There’s no way for a signal to get through.”

She didn’t listen, staring instead at the cartwheeling phone icon.

“Madelyn, it’s not going to work.”

Roman knelt next to her, light from the phone illuminated his face. His lip was split and, for a moment, she recalled the feel of his mouth on hers. Was that to be her final joy in life? A kiss from a stranger?

“How can you be so calm, while we’re sitting here waiting to die?”

Roman gently rested his hand on her wrist. “We aren’t going to die,” he said.

“Yes, we are. Those men will be back. They said so.”

“I don’t care who’s coming. I’m not going to let a turd like Oleg Zavalov end my life—yours, either. But to get out of here, I need you to work with me. Can you do that?”

The next call failed. It looked as though her only option was Roman. She took in a fortifying breath. “Okay, what do we do?”

“Bring your phone over here. I need a light on this lock.”

Madelyn used the screen to light their way. He knelt before the door and she illuminated the catch.

“Do you have a credit card?”

“For what?”

“If the dead bolt isn’t engaged, I can slip a credit card between the jamb and the door and disengage the first lock.”

Madelyn’s pulse began to race, but this time she felt hope and not dread. She reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. The open end tipped over, scattering the contents of her handbag. Seeing the debris of her normal life on the floor brought tears to her eyes. The keys to her apartment and car. Her ID for the University of Colorado Hospital. Lipstick. Nail clippers. Two peppermints and a lint-covered bobby pin.

Would she ever need any of it again?

“Here.” She handed him a card and repositioned the phone to shine on Roman and the door.

He worked in silence for a moment before muttering a curse. “It was too much to hope that they’d be careless and not use both locks. I can open the bottom lock. To get out, I need to unlock the dead bolt, too.”

“So that’s it? We can’t do anything else.”

“I’m not giving up. Shine your phone on the walls, there has to be something we can use.”

Madelyn illuminated the walls from right to left. She saw nothing helpful, but then again—she didn’t know what he wanted to find.

“Bingo,” said Roman.

Her sweep stopped and the light shone on a thermometer.

Roman pried the face of the thermostat free, exposing the guts of the device. “It’s not as good as piano wire.” He worked a thin piece of metal free. “But it’ll do.”

Holding it up to the light, Roman continued. “I need you to shine your phone’s light on the door and keep your credit card steady at the same time.”

She slipped her wallet back into the bag and knelt next to Roman. His body heat enveloped her, warming her, reassuring her that he would do everything possible to save both of their lives.

Roman reached for Madelyn. His hand was large, with smooth calluses, and strong. He led her fingers to the card. “Hold it steady, just like that.”

She felt the tension in the thin plastic as it was held between the door and the jamb. “Got it,” she said.

He regarded her. In the light of the phone, his green eyes blazed. She moved closer to him, his breath brushed over her cheek. Madelyn never used the word brave to describe herself, nor adventurous. Yet as Roman moved forward, erasing the space between them, Madelyn took the lead and placed her lips on his. “In case we don’t make it out of here alive,” she said.

“We’ll make it.” He turned back to the door.

She smiled, not daring to hope and yet not able to fathom what would happen to her if they didn’t.

Roman’s breath stilled, and Madelyn held her own. Even in the freezing cooler, sweat damped Roman’s hair. He had a tattoo on his forearm. A screaming eagle with a banner in its talons.

“Hoc defendam,” she said. “This we’ll defend?”

“It’s the army’s motto.”

He’d been in the military. It explained a little—like how he knew how to handle himself in a fight and maybe even how he’d learned how to pick a lock. What it didn’t explain was why he was planting a listening device in Oleg’s office and what he hoped to overhear. Before she had time to wonder anymore, the lock clicked.

“Got it,” Roman said.

The door opened a fraction of an inch. Warm air and light leaked into the cooler. Madelyn didn’t have time for the tears of relief she wanted to shed. Sitting back on her heels, she collected her belongings. After shoving everything into her purse, she rose to her feet.

Roman peered into the hallway. Madelyn, at his back, looked over his shoulder. The door to Oleg’s office was closed. The man who’d been ordered to stand guard was nowhere in sight.

“There’s a door at the end of the hall that leads to a set of stairs and then an alleyway. We’re going out that way. Stay by my side and don’t make a sound.”

Madelyn held her breath and stepped into the hall. Roman carefully clicked the door shut behind them. Holding Roman’s hand, she quietly moved down the corridor. The door at the end was locked, but an electronic keypad clung to the wall. She waited while Roman entered a set of four numbers, certain that the pounding of her heart would give them away.

Two things happened in the same instant. A light atop the gray, metal box changed from red to green. One of the thugs came out of an adjacent room.

“Chuto, chert voz mi, ty delayesh?”

Madelyn had no idea what he’d said, but then again, she didn’t need to. The gun in his hand spoke volumes.

* * *

Glaring at Roman, Serge switched to English. “What the hell are you doing?”

One person. One gun. Roman’s odds were getting better and better. He stepped in front of Madelyn, shielding her with his body. The need to protect her was more of an instinct than a thought and he held his hands up, as if he intended to surrender.

Wordlessly, Serge jerked the gun toward the cooler.

Roman nodded, hands still lifted, and moved from the door. His focus sharpened to a razor’s edge. He kept his gaze connected with the thug’s, yet his concentration was on Serge’s hand, his arm, his gun.

Back to the wall, Roman inched toward the cooler—and Serge. Five feet away. Four feet. Three feet. Strike. Roman grabbed the gun’s barrel and wrenched it to the side. He twisted the firearm toward Serge’s thumb and at the same time, chopped down on the thug’s wrist. Roman righted the firearm, placing Serge into his sights.

Not sure of his next best play, Roman paused. In Russian, he said, “Opustoshit vashi karmany.” Empty your pockets.

Nikolai’s nephew gave a wry smile and shook his head. “Ty govorish’ po-russki?” You speak Russian?

“Da, chert voz’ mi, teperi’ opushoshit’ vashi karmany.” Damn right, now empty your pockets.

“Da, da, da,” said Serge. He withdrew his cell phone, wallet and a package of cigarettes from his blazer. He tossed them on the floor. From the pocket of his slim trousers, he pulled out the set of keys and threw those into the pile, as well.

“Walk,” Roman said, his voice little more than a whisper. “And if you make a sound I’ll blow your brains all over this hallway.”

Serge sauntered toward the cooler. He reached for the handle and then he swung out. Roman dodged back, but not far enough and the blow hit the gun’s barrel, knocking it from Roman’s grasp. The gun skittered down the hall, stopping next to where Madelyn huddled by the door. Roman wanted to tell her to run, but he could hear Oleg’s voice behind his closed office door, which meant that Oleg would be able to hear into the hallway, as well.

Serge bolted forward. Roman held out his arm, catching the other man midchest with a clothesline and knocking him back. Roman pounced before Serge had a chance to rise. He drove his fist down again and again. Roman’s arms ached, a stitch in his side burned and throbbed. His sweat-damp shirt clung to his torso like a second, gritty skin.

Nikolai’s nephew held up his arms to block the blows. His hands and wrists took more punishment than his face. Serge brought up his legs, hooking them over Roman’s shoulders. Shifting his weight, the thug knocked Roman onto his back. Then Serge crawled to stand and Roman grabbed him by the foot. He came down hard and Roman pressed down on his back. As Serge began to scream, Roman clamped his hand on the other man’s mouth and nose. His arms swung out wildly with ineffectual punches. His hits slowed and then stopped altogether.

The body went limp. There was no breath. Roman felt for a pulse that he knew he’d never find.

“Damn it,” he cursed.

In the silent hallway, he heard Madelyn’s stifled sobs and Oleg’s voice from behind the door. “Konechon, Otets, ya ozhidal uvidet’ vas poslezavtra.” Of course, Father, I will see you here tomorrow.

Otets. Father. Sire. It was a code name often used with Nikolai Mateev. Was the head of the Russian Mafia coming to Boulder? It was the information that Roman had been waiting five months to gather. He needed to contact the team from Rocky Mountain Justice right away, but first he had to hide Serge’s body.

He grabbed all of Serge’s personal effects and dropped everything, except for the keys to The Prow, on the dead man’s chest. Roman opened the cooler door and then dragged the body inside. He locked both locks and returned to Madelyn.

“Is he...?” She hiccupped as tears ran down her face. “Is he dead?”

Neither of them had time to mourn. “It was him or us,” he said as he entered the back door’s code. The lock disengaged with a click and Roman pushed the door open. He peered outside and saw nothing more than a set of metal stairs ascending to the alley and the backside of a Dumpster.

He opened the door further and reached for Madelyn’s hand. They’d done it. They’d escaped. But then from behind came an all-too-familiar voice. “Black!”

Oleg stood in the corridor. “Anton,” he screamed. “Serge! After them.”

Anton rushed out of the office.

“Get the car,” Oleg said. “Chase them down.”

Roman didn’t wait to see if Anton followed the orders. He pushed Madelyn into the night and pulled the door shut. Gripping Madelyn’s hand again, he sprinted up the stairs. His feet hit the pavement as a large raindrop fell on his forehead and the back door to The Prow burst open.

He held tight to Madelyn and willed his legs to move faster. The stitch in his side had returned, turning every breath into a fiery torture. He fixed his gaze on the intersecting street and ran faster still. Rain fell, wetting his skin and blurring his vision.

“My car’s two blocks up and one over,” Madelyn said, her voice breathless with exertion.

He liked that she was thinking. All they needed to do was outrun Oleg and Anton for three blocks. Or better yet, lose them. Roman pushed on. The end of the alley grew larger with each step. He ran through the intersection. On the other side, he kept close to the buildings and let the shadows hide his movements.

Still running, he began to scan the alleyway. The recessed doorway ahead was deep enough to surround them in complete darkness. Rudimentary, sure. But simple plans were often the best.

He ducked in and drew Madelyn in behind him. Together, they huddled in a corner. Her chest rose and fell with each labored breath. Her heartbeat resonated within his flesh. Maybe it was all those months of undercover work, but he was getting a little too used to holding her.

In the darkened alleyway, her skin took on a luminescent quality. Her lips turned a deep shade of burgundy, like a sultry and smoky wine. Her nose was small and straight and the hollow on her neck looked as if it had been meant to be kissed—by him. Next to her, Roman felt too large and at the same time, protective. It was because he blamed himself for getting her involved with Oleg.

Oleg. His footfalls echoed off the buildings while he ran past. The sound died away as he continued to run.

“Is he gone?” Madelyn whispered.

Roman held one finger to his lips. He peered down the alley, Oleg’s retreating silhouette was nothing more than mist in the increasing rain.

“He’s gone,” Roman said. “Let’s get out of here. It won’t take long for him to figure out that we’ve given him the slip.”

Together, they ran to Madelyn’s car. The pace was slower, but still Roman ached. One block up and one block over, but to Roman it felt like miles.

“What is that thing? It looks like a toy.”

“That,” said Madelyn, “is my car.”

“That thing?” The powder blue auto came up to his chest. He’d never fit inside, or at least he’d never be comfortable. “Does it have a motor?”

Madelyn opened the driver’s side door. “If you want a ride, get in.”

For Roman, many things had gone wrong over the last few hours. But having to fold himself into some kind of origami figure just to ride in this car might actually be the worst part.

* * *

Putting the gearshift into Drive, Madelyn pulled on to the deserted street. The road was dark, the streetlights all broken. Buildings, soaked and dripping, were covered with graffiti. Rain pelted the windshield.

“The nearest police precinct is on Canyon Boulevard. Go north seven blocks and then turn left,” Roman said.

“The police,” she breathed. Thank God. Soon this nightmare would be over. She thought of Jackson, the man who’d captured her and insisted he was a cop, but that couldn’t have been true.

She accelerated, the world outside her window becoming a blur.

“Wow,” Roman said. “The gerbil in your engine can run fast.”

“I’ll have you know that this car has a TwinPower turbo engine,” she said. She wasn’t really in a joking mood, but the teasing helped to release some of the tension she held in her shoulders.

“Me, I’m an American muscle car kind of guy. Give me a Ford Mustang or a Chevy Camaro any day. So, I don’t even know what a TwinPower turbo engine means.”

“It means that I feed the gerbil in my engine really well,” she said.

He laughed and winced, gripping his side. “This is your turn,” he said.

Madelyn eased around the corner and a tall building of glass and brick came into view. It sat behind a wide lawn. A sign, illuminated by a spotlight on the ground, read Boulder Police Department. Madelyn felt warm and exhausted, as if she’d been wrapped up in a blanket, fresh out of the dryer, on a snowy winter’s night. She slowed as she neared the curb. The double doors of the police station opened and two men stepped out. Madelyn’s heart ceased to beat. A pair of blue jeans and sweatshirt had been traded for a police uniform, but the face was the same.

“Jackson’s here,” she said. “I’d hoped he was lying about being a cop.”

Heads ducked in the rain, the men strode down the walkway.

“Just drive away,” said Roman. “We’ll think of something else. Maybe we can keep watch and come back after he’s gone.”

Madelyn stomped on the accelerator and her car shot down the street. She headed up the block. The back of the car filled with light as another car approached fast from the rear.

Roman said, “Looks like we have company.”

She stepped on the accelerator, urging her small car to go faster. The other auto, a bigger sedan, gained more ground.

Turning in his seat, Roman said, “It’s Anton.”

Before she could ask how he knew, they were hit from behind. Madelyn’s car lurched forward, skidding sideways on the wet pavement.

* * *

Roman watched Madelyn as she drove. Shoulders hunched forward, she gripped the steering wheel and stared wide-eyed at the road. The speedometer climbed. If only Jackson hadn’t been at the police station, this whole episode would be over. But, now they were on the run again.

“We have to lose Anton,” said Roman.

“Not a helpful suggestion,” said Madelyn, “especially since I don’t know this neighborhood.”

He did. “There’s an alleyway half a block up and on the left. Turn at the last minute and hopefully Anton will pass us by.”

She nodded, her jaw tight.

Roman counted. “One. Two. Turn.”

Madelyn whipped the steering wheel. The car hit the curb, sending them airborne. They landed and she aimed for the small alley. As he hoped, the other car didn’t make the turn. “Turn right at the end of this alley and then take the next left.” He gave her another half a dozen directions that led them down side streets and into another alley.

“Pull up behind this Dumpster and kill the lights.”

Without comment, Madelyn followed Roman’s instructions and they sat silently in the darkened car. Rain pelted the windows and filled the tiny space with constant noise. Madelyn’s breath came in short and ragged gasps. Even in the dim light, Roman could see her pulse thrumming at the base of her throat. Up until now, she’d been brave and levelheaded. But everyone had a limit for what they could endure. Had Madelyn reached hers?

“Look at me,” he said.

Her head snapped to him, her eyes were wide.

“I need you to breathe.”

“Breathe? I’m freaking out, here. There’s no place for me to go. Nobody I can trust.”

Roman knew that she hadn’t meant to injure him with her words, but the fact that he hadn’t earned her trust made his cheeks sting.

Yet, why did he care? What was it with his reaction to this woman?

“You can trust me,” Roman said.

“Can I? I don’t even know you.”

Roman didn’t dignify her comment with one of his own. Instead, he said the only thing that might help her gain control. “You’re a doctor, right? Every day you face all sorts of distressing scenarios, but I bet you don’t freak out—” he made air quotes “—with your patients.”

“Of course not,” she said. “I’m trained to handle a variety of medical emergencies.”

“Well, I’m trained to handle this kind of emergency. So, whether you think that you can trust me or not, you can.”

Madelyn exhaled fully. “Okay. What do we do next?”

“Anton’s not going to give up. There’s too much at stake,” he said.

“Then we are going to die,” Madelyn said. The resolve of her statement was a blade to the heart, the first tiny cut of a thousand.

Roman brought up a map of Boulder in his mind. “We’ll only get one shot to shake Anton off our tail, but first, we have to find him and get him to chase us.”

Madelyn took in a shaking breath. “I think I like staying hidden better.”

He wanted to say something to give her courage or at least comfort, like a pep talk, but after months of living a lie, he’d forgotten how to be inspiring. “Can I drive?” he asked instead.

She hesitated. “I guess.”

Roman glanced out the side window. The building next to them was so near that he couldn’t open the passenger door.

Her gaze followed his. Roman turned to look at Madelyn. She gave a little shrug. “Sorry,” she said. “I can move the car.”

“Don’t bother,” said Roman. “We’ll just trade places.”

She moved to hover above him, his hands on her waist. Sure, they were being chased by a murderous gangster but the fact that her nice butt was right above his lap didn’t escape Roman. And it wasn’t simply her body that he appreciated, either. As far as working with a civilian—Madelyn Thompkins wasn’t half bad.

He moved across the cramped console and into the ridiculously small seat. Every muscle in his abdomen ached. He found the lever that controlled distance from the steering wheel and eased back, the pain in his middle lessening. With the headlights still off, Roman maneuvered out of the alley. He pulled onto a deserted street. Ahead, he saw the black sedan driving slowly in the opposite direction.

“Buckle your seat belt.” Roman dropped his foot on the gas. The little car shot forward with more force than he would have imagined. TwinPower turbo, indeed. He closed in on Anton. Bumper swiping bumper, he rocketed past in a deadly game of tag.

Anton followed, as Roman knew he would. Left. Right. Left and left again. Left again and another right. He headed south, toward the interstate entrance ramp nearest the warehouses on the outskirts of town.

Anton stayed close behind. Ahead, a light changed from green to yellow. It was exactly what Roman needed. He stepped on the gas, rocketing through the intersection as the light turned red. Anton followed. The blare of car horns trailing him like a ship’s wake.

Roman’s foot lifted from the gas as the interstate drew near.

Madelyn swiveled in her seat. The headlights from behind surrounded her in a golden halo. “He’s gaining on us,” she said.

He knew. He smiled. Wait. Wait. Wait. There was a hairbreadth between Anton’s car and the one that Roman drove. The road began to travel upward, the incline leading to the interstate. Nose up, Roman jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, the side scraping on a concrete barrier as it pulled onto the adjacent service road. Anton sped past, his red taillight glowing as he stepped on the brakes. From behind came the piercing scream of an air horn. A big rig, loaded with two trailers, lumbered up the entrance ramp—forcing Anton to drive on.

“He won’t be able to get off until the next exit,” Roman said, verbalizing the last bit of his plan. “That’s five minutes from here, which means we have ten minutes to disappear.”

* * *

Rain hit Oleg’s face, mixing with his sweat and leaving him chilled. He stood at the end of the alleyway and looked left, then right, then left again. The street was empty. His pulse raced.

“They’re gone,” he said to nobody in particular. “Just disappeared...”

His phone rang and he pulled it from his coat pocket. Anton’s name appeared on the screen and Oleg swiped the call open. “You better have good news for me,” he said.

“Not so much,” Anton said. “They tricked me into getting on the interstate.”

Oleg ground his teeth together. “Tricked you?”

“I have a license plate, though. That should help, yes?”

“No, as a matter of fact, it won’t help.”

“Prosti,” said Anton. Sorry.

“I’m not in the mood for your apologies. Just get your sorry butt back to the bar.” Oleg ended the call with a stab of his finger and slid the phone back into his pocket.

Oleg was surrounded by idiots. The only one with half a brain was Roman. How had they gotten out of the beer cooler? Serge must have unlocked the door. But why? Oleg wasn’t about to discover the truth while standing in a downpour with the stench of rotten cabbage thick in the damp night.

Turning on his heel, Oleg took a step. His foot landed in a shallow puddle. Cold water seeped into his shoe, turning his $1,200 designer loafers into garbage. Oleg clenched his teeth, biting off a string of curses. Once he caught Roman, the traitor and his little girlfriend, he was going to make them exquisitely sorry.

In the distance, lightning split the sky in two. A springtime thunderstorm in Boulder? For a city that saw sun more than three hundred and thirty days each year, a passing cloudburst was a rarity. But a full-blown rainstorm? Never. Yet here one was. It was almost as unbelievable as someone escaping from The Prow.

He quickened his pace. Roman’s car, a crappy Pontiac from the 1970s, sat in front of the bar. The handle was stuck fast, but it was still here—which meant they’d gotten away in the girl’s car. He thought of going directly to Roman’s apartment, but discarded the idea as soon as it came. Roman’s place was an obvious choice, and he knew that the bartender wasn’t that stupid.

He needed time to regroup, but Oleg wasn’t about to let himself be seen like this—wet, dirty and rumpled. He jogged around the corner and let himself in the back door. Dripping, he went to his office to dry off and come up with a plan.

Oleg jerked his desk drawers open and slammed them closed. No towel. No dry shirt. Not even a used tissue.

“Serge,” he called out.

Never mind that the guy was the nephew of Nikolai Mateev. He was a moron, and in Oleg’s opinion, he liked hurting people a little too much. Look at that chair in the middle of his office. It was bolted to the floor—done by Serge without asking for permission, never mind getting it—so he could tie adversaries to it and beat them bloody.

Oleg was supposed to be teaching Serge about business, and not just how to run a bar, either. Nikolai’s great-nephew needed to learn how ill-gotten money could be infused into a legitimate business and make any drug profits seem legally gained. But it was clear that Serge had no interest in that kind of education. Hell, he’d barely learned any English. With him, it was all about the violence.

Using his shirt’s damp sleeve, Oleg buffed his face dry. He slumped into his seat. The godfather of Russian organized crime was due in Boulder tomorrow evening. Then Serge would become Nikolai Mateev’s problem, and Oleg expected a generous reward for all the housekeeping he’d done. Babysitting and laundering—money, of course.

And speaking of babysitting... “Serge!” he bellowed.

Nothing.

Oleg stood and slammed his seat beneath his desk. He stomped up the stairs and entered the bar. Rock music pulsed through the speakers, thrumming into the soles of Oleg’s feet and pounding out the beat in his chest. As the night had grown late, more customers had arrived and crammed into the room. They stood three deep at the bar. Now working alone, the bar manager bounced back and forth, like a frenzied ping-pong ball. He expected to see Serge having a drink. Nothing. Nor was he in the back shooting pool.

“You seen Serge?” Oleg asked the bar manager.

The withered old man shook his head. “Not since he left with you.”

Oleg nodded and returned to the basement. Not only was Serge an idiot, he was also proving to be a mystery. The stockroom door stood ajar and Oleg opened it slowly. Empty. But maybe Serge had just been there. Oleg returned to the office. Empty, as well.

That left one final option, and one that didn’t amuse Oleg in the least. Obviously, Roman had convinced Serge to open the beer cooler. Then had he overpowered Serge, making him a prisoner in the cell he was supposed to be guarding?

One more day and no more Serge. For Oleg, it couldn’t come soon enough. He used his keys on both locks and pulled the door open. Oleg stepped up to the threshold and stopped.

Serge, obviously dead, stared at the ceiling. His gaze was already milky.

Oleg began to tremble and it wasn’t from the cold. He had let Serge die. Nikolai Mateev would see it no other way.

The only thing Oleg knew to do to save his life was to disappear. He hated leaving everything he’d built up from the ground. The bar. The drug trade. His car. His women. All of it would vanish, like a candle flame that had been snuffed out. From the pit of his soul, fury rose. Oleg’s head throbbed. His shoulders ached. He drew back his foot and kicked Serge again and again and again.

As a small boy growing up outside of Fort Collins, Colorado, Oleg had spent hour upon hour in the company of his paternal grandmother. As she cooked, she told Oleg stories of their family. His favorite was how Oleg was a direct descendent of the Romanov czars. In another time, he would have been Count Oleg.

Because of those stories, Oleg had known he was destined for greatness. And this—taking care of Serge the Stupid, laundering money for the Russian mob—was to be his way. But Serge had been too moronic to stay alive and in death had ruined everything. Everything. Oleg brought down his heel on Serge’s nose.

He wiped his sole on the back of Serge’s jacket. His heel caught on something, and he worked it free. Attached was a lanyard with an ID card for the University of Colorado Hospital. The picture was of a petite brunette. Name: Madelyn Thompkins. The seed of a new plan took root in Oleg’s mind, flowering into the only chance he had at saving his legacy and his life.

Certainly, Nikolai Mateev would be furious that his heir apparent had been killed. And while Serge could never be brought back to life, Oleg could make sure that a recompense was paid to the murderers—Roman and Madelyn. And look, the degenerates even beat poor Serge’s corpse.

All Oleg needed now was to find Roman Black and Madelyn Thompkins. While he imagined that Roman knew enough to get out of town, Madelyn had ties that kept her in Boulder. Besides, if given a computer and ten minutes, Oleg would know everything there was about Madelyn’s life—or what was left of it, that is.

* * *

“Slow down,” Roman said to Madelyn. “It won’t do us any good if we get pulled over by Jackson.”

Madelyn licked her lips and nodded, letting up on the gas. After Roman had lost Anton, she’d taken back control of her car. She slowed down a little, the headlights shining on a puddle. An oily rainbow floated on the surface. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, it was the only thing that felt real.

Roman said, “We’re alive and in one piece. Just remember that.”

“Alive and one piece,” she echoed.

“I need to get in touch with my employer in Denver. Can I use your phone?”

She pulled it from her purse and handed it over. Roman entered a number, the phone’s volume so loud that Madelyn heard the ringing.

Voice mail picked up. “You’ve reached Ian Wallace. Leave your message at the sound of the beep and I’ll return your call promptly.” The accent was British and educated. It reminded Madelyn of a blindingly white shirt, freshly pressed.

“Ian, it’s DeMarco. Big happenings but I don’t want to get in to too many details on an unsecured phone. I’m on my way to you and will fill you in when I get there.” Roman ended the call. “Thanks,” he said.

On a night that had too many questions and not enough answers, Madelyn needed to know who she was with and why. “I thought Oleg said your name was Roman Black. Now you’re DeMarco?”

“I’ve been working undercover for months.” He handed her the phone. “My alias is Roman Black.”

It seemed like the only answer he was willing to give and she set the phone on the console between the seats. He’d spoken about leaving Boulder. What was Madelyn supposed to do? Drive herself to another police precinct? She needed to report what happened, but without Roman?

Roman gripped her arm. “I need a favor. My car is parked in front of The Prow. I can’t go back for obvious reasons. Can you drive me to Denver?”

She could, but to her the real question was, did she want to? Sure, she wanted to help, but she also just wanted to be safe. She stared forward, indecision a rock in her belly. Madelyn switched her gaze to Roman. His palm remained on her wrist. Sweat dotted his upper lip. His hand slipped away. A bloody streak stained her flesh.

“Roman. You’re bleeding.”

“What? No, I’m not...” He touched his side and brought his hand up to examine by the light of the dashboard. His fingertips were crimson and wet.

“I need to look at your abdomen. You’re wounded,” she said. Her medical training clicked into place like a puzzle piece, and Madelyn now had a clear picture of what needed to be done.

“Sure,” said Roman.

Madelyn pulled next to the curb and turned on the dome light. She reached around Roman and pulled up his soaked shirt. A neat furrow had been dug out of his skin. “You were grazed by the bullet, so there isn’t any internal damage,” she said. “But you’ll need stitches.”

“I can get those in Denver.”

“Denver is thirty minutes away, even without bad weather. Don’t be the hero. Let’s get you to CU’s hospital and you can make another call from there.”

“I’m not waiting around all night in an emergency room. I need to get to Denver now.”

Roman’s lips were pale, a sure sign of blood loss. She didn’t have time to argue. Madelyn reached into her purse for her badge from the University of Colorado Hospital. It was proof that she, and therefore he, would get into the hospital’s trauma center upon arrival. Wallet. Lipstick. Apartment keys. Three quarters and a nickel. She looked again. And again. “Where is it?” Madelyn searched through the console. Nothing.

“Where is what?”

“My hospital ID. I always put it in my purse and now it’s gone.”

Then she remembered those harrowing few minutes in the beer cooler. She’d accidentally dumped the contents of her handbag and then hurriedly collected everything once the door had been unlocked. Had she been too hasty?

“The Prow?” Roman asked.

The sour taste of bile rose in the back of Madelyn’s throat. “It has to be there.”

“We have to get you out of Boulder.”

“I can’t abandon my life. I have rounds at the hospital, classes. Besides, you need to see a doctor.”

“I thought you said that you were a doctor.”

“I’m a medical school student.”

“Can you sew me up?”

“If I had the proper equipment, of course.”

“Then drive. I’ll keep pressure on my wound and give you directions as we go. Get onto the interstate and head west.”

“West? Why not south and toward Denver? I thought you wanted to talk to your employer?” Whoever that was. She turned off the dome light.

“We have to assume two things,” Roman said.

“Yeah? What?”

“First, is that Oleg Zavalov will find your ID. Soon, he’ll know everything about you. Anton already has the make and model of your car along with your license plate. It’s only a matter of time before Oleg has your address. Then Oleg will get people, like Jackson, out looking for you in all the obvious places—your apartment, the hospital and even the interstate to Denver.”

“That’s not reassuring.” Rain fell heavily, a seemingly solid wall and not thousands upon thousands of individual water molecules. The wet road reflected lights, creating a world of reality and a wavering mirror image in the water. Madelyn pulled away from the curb.

“I wish I had better news,” Roman said. “Because the second thing we have to assume will be worse.”

“How can it be worse than Oleg Zavalov knowing everything about me?”

“As long as Oleg is out there, your life is in danger.”

Chapter 3

The desolate road followed the profile of the mountain and Madelyn steered into the curve. Rain beat down on the car, the swish of the windshield wipers echoing the beat of her heart. Roman sat silently in the seat next to her. He pressed the bullet wound at his side, but was still losing blood. He was weak and the pressure to his side was lessening, which allowed for further bleeding. More even than the blood loss, she worried about shock. To counteract that, she needed him to stay alert. “Where are we going?” she asked. Forcing him to think and talk was the best way to keep Roman awake.

“Someplace Oleg will never find us.”

His cryptic answer brought up another set of problems. She’d been foolish to chase after her sister, even though The Prow was a public place. Now she was all but lost on a mountainous road and in the middle of a storm, no less. To make matters worse, her navigator was a man about whom she knew next to nothing.

“I’m trusting that you’re on the right side of the law, but you’ve never really explained anything to me. What is it that you do, exactly?” Madelyn asked.

“Private security,” he said. “I work for an outfit out of Denver called Rocky Mountain Justice. My most recent assignment was to collect evidence about Oleg Zavalov.” His voice was hoarse and raspy.

“Private security?” Madelyn’s gaze widened. “You mean...you’re a mercenary?”

Roman stared at her. “If that’s what you want to call it, fine. Do we have to talk about this now?” He looked at the blood seeping from the wound, and her eyes followed his movement.

“I don’t like that you aren’t getting checked out by a doctor.”

“Aren’t you a doctor?”

“As I’ve mentioned before, no. I’m a med school student.” She continued, “Which means that I know enough to know that you need more help than I can give you.”

“You’ll have to do for now,” said Roman. “Besides, I’ve been in worse shape than this and survived.”

Madelyn wasn’t sure what to make of his comment. Macho bravado? Or was he telling the truth—had he been seriously injured before? For some reason, she thought that the second possibility was right. She turned her attention back to driving as a bank of fog rolled in, enveloping the world in a robe of gray and black, obscuring the road beyond. She slowed to a creeping pace.

“See that left up there?” Roman asked. “Take that.”

Madelyn slowed even further and peered into the night. A dirt track wound up the side of a mountain, disappearing into oblivion. She stopped, her mouth went dry. This was bad. Very bad. Sure, Roman had been the only reason she escaped from The Prow and was alive now. And true, giving a ride to someone who happened to be running from the same madman as she was made sense. But this?

“Where does this road go?”

“It’s a safe house owned by RMJ. It isn’t used much, and as far as I can remember, there isn’t much to it. But it’ll hide you away for now. There’s also a radio I can use to contact Denver.”

The fog lifted, yet the conditions only improved a little. This far into the mountains the darkness was complete. Because of the higher elevation, rain now mixed with snow, decreasing visibility even more. The headlights spilled across the wet pavement and Madelyn couldn’t help but wonder: If I drive off this road, will I ever get back?

At the same time, she realized another important truth. While she didn’t know exactly what to expect from Roman DeMarco, she did know what fate awaited with Oleg Zavalov. She’d die a horrible death. Roman had kept her safe until now, so maybe she could trust him a little while longer.

She took the turn. Nose down, the undercarriage hit a rut and bounced upward. Engine whining, the car trudged up the mountain. The tires chewed through the muddy ground. The trail leveled off and they rumbled over a rickety wooden bridge. Even in the dark, the muddy water buffeting the bridge was visible.

Upward again, Roman turned to Madelyn. “It isn’t too far now.” He raised his voice to be heard over the wail of the engine. “Two miles from the bridge.”

Her eyes darted to the instrument panel. The temperature gauge had climbed to the top. “Good,” she said. “I’m not sure how much more of this road my car can handle.”

As if she had just given the small car permission to give up, the engine coughed, shuddered and stopped.

She turned off the ignition and waited a moment before trying to start the car once more. It screeched with protest.

“The engine needs to cool,” Roman said. “It’ll take a few hours, maybe more. We can wait here, or walk. It’s your choice.”

Roman was hurt and needed medical attention, not a two-mile hike. Then again, she couldn’t treat him in the car. Neither option was good.

“Let’s walk, but only if you feel that you’re able,” she said.

“I’m able.”

Roman opened the door and slipped into the storm. Immediately soaked by the rain, he folded his arms across his chest, trying to retain some of his warmth. It wouldn’t work well, Madelyn knew. She got out of the car, feeling that—in the very least—she could share his misery.

The cold and wet took her breath away. Gooseflesh covered her arms. She took a step. The sodden ground crumbled underneath and she slipped. Roman was at her side. With his hand under her arm, he kept her from falling.

“Thanks,” she said, his breath was warm on her wet flesh.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

She gazed at him. Rain trickled from the stubble that clung to his cheeks and chin. Madelyn caught a drop on the tip of her finger. Roman moved closer. Never had she been more keenly aware of what the word alive meant. It was to drink in every experience, to embrace each moment and never allow fear to take away desires. Roman’s body heat was now a flame that both drew Madelyn to the warmth and left her certain that she would be consumed by the fire.

Then again, hadn’t she been burned before? Hadn’t that been the turning point that made her decide that her studies and career were more important than a relationship?

She wiped her wet hand on the leg of her wetter jeans. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have touched you. This whole night is the stuff of nightmares, I just wanted to make sure you were real.”

That wasn’t it at all. Madelyn’s flesh had acted of its own accord, seeking out her deepest longing—propriety be damned.

Roman smiled, and she couldn’t decide if he had believed her lie.

“Let’s go,” he said. At least he seemed willing to let the moment pass. “This hill isn’t going to climb itself.”

“And isn’t that a shame,” said Madelyn.

“I’m glad you have a sense of humor,” he said with a small laugh. “Because you’re right, tonight has been the stuff of nightmares. Only now, waking up won’t solve anything.”

They walked silently, neither bothering to waste breath on small talk. Yet, what else was there to say? Madelyn refused to ask how much farther, turning herself into a whiny two-year-old. At the same time, complaining held a certain appeal.

“See that tree?” Roman asked, just as Madelyn’s resolve to not grumble began to weaken. “The safe house is just beyond.”

There were too many trees to count, yet she narrowed her eyes and strained to see through the dark. Atop a rise, she made out the shape of a dwelling. Even from the muddy track, Madelyn could see it was little more than a single room and yet, it was the best sight she could hope for.

Roman limped ahead, his breathing labored. “Walls, roof, a fireplace. It even has a well for water.”

“It’s great.” Madelyn hurried to catch up to Roman, anxious to feel warm, dry and safe. “Perfect, really.”

Roman unlocked the front door and held it open for Madelyn. She crossed the threshold. The air was thick and musty, and the room black as tar, leaving her feeling as if she’d walked into a cobweb. Reflexively, she brushed the back of her neck.

“No electricity this far into the mountains.” Roman’s voice came from further into the room. A quick hiss was followed by a whiff of sulfur. A match’s yellow spark sprang to life, illuminating Roman’s face from below. His cupped hand kept the flame alive as he touched the fire to the wick of an oil lamp. Light spilled around the room as Roman replaced a fluted globe.

With light, Madelyn could see around the single room. A set of cabinets lined one wall, cut in half by a counter with a sink. A sofa and armchair sat in front of a stone fireplace. A large table filled with electronic equipment that she could hardly name, huddled in the far corner.

“The bathroom’s back there,” said Roman. He pointed to the other door. “There should be some dry clothes in the cabinets if you want to change.”

Madelyn was about to accept the offer, when she looked back at Roman. His complexion was pale, almost ghostly. The lantern in his hand trembled and shadows danced. Even more than from an odd casting of the lantern’s light and his injury, it was obvious to Madelyn that Roman was quickly becoming ill.

She moved to him. Taking the lantern, she set it on the table with the electronic equipment. Her fingertips brushed the back of his hand. His skin was cold. “I’m fine for now,” she said. She took off her purse and tossed it next to the lantern. “It’s you who needs to get out of your wet clothes and I need to stitch up your side.”

“I told you before, I’m tough. All I need to do is get a fire started.” He took a step and rocked back and forth, his footing unsure.

“You might be tough—” Madelyn looped her arm around his waist and led him to the sofa “—but you are also stubborn.” A throw blanket hung over the back of the sofa and Madelyn draped it over Roman’s shoulders.

“I’m going to lift your shirt and look at your wound,” she said, preparing him to be touched and asking for permission at the same time.

“Go ahead.”

Madelyn peeled the cloth from Roman’s side and he grimaced. Bright red skin surrounded an inch-long darkened furrow in his flesh. Blood no longer seeped from the wound, but still the skin had not yet begun to knit back together. She sat back on her heels. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

“In the bathroom.” He pushed to stand. The wound began weeping blood.

“Just stay here.” Madelyn patted his knee. “I’ll be back.”

The bathroom was small. Just a sink and toilet alongside a set of shelves. A white metal case with a red cross emblazoned on the lid sat front and center on the first shelf. The offerings were basic, but serviceable. She returned to the living space, ready to work.

Roman stood over the electronic equipment, swaying like a drunk.

“What are you doing?”

“This radio has its own solar generator and I can’t get it working.”

“Don’t worry about the radio. Sit back down.”

“I need to get in contact with my employer. I have information that an international fugitive is expected in Boulder tomorrow. They need to know.”

His mission sounded important, and yet he also needed medical attention. To put it off longer could have serious consequences. “Use my cell phone,” she suggested.

“It doesn’t have a connection out here,” he said. “I tried.”

She wasn’t sure how upset she should be that he’d pawed through her things without asking. Yet, not much of what had happened tonight was nice or polite, so she let her anger go. “Let me get you patched up. You can fix the generator in a minute.”

“I’ll keep.” He bent, examining a black, plastic box.

“No,” said Madelyn. She reached for his hand and led him back to the sofa. “Sit.” He remained standing. “Please,” she added.

With a sigh, Roman sank down. Madelyn laid out all she needed—alcohol pad, sterile needle and thread, antibiotic ointment, gauze and tape. Roman sat, stone-faced, as she cleaned, stitched and bandaged the wound. She gathered all the used supplies and discarded wrappers. “You’re all set,” she said, and brushed her fingers over his arms. His skin was cool, cold really. She handed him the blanket. “I’ll get the fire started, just point me in the direction of the woodpile.”

Roman clutched the ends of the blanket together. His teeth chattered. “I can’t let a lady get firewood. Just give me a minute. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s okay to let me help you and I promise not to think less of you for accepting assistance.”

He hesitated.

“The woodpile?” she asked.

“Around the left corner, about ten yards away,” he said. “You can’t miss it. There’s also a flashlight in the cabinet under the sink. You’ll want that, too.”

Madelyn grabbed the flashlight and turned it on. The beam was weak, but enough that she should be able to see thirty feet in any direction. “Thanks,” she said as she left the safety of the little cabin.

In the few minutes that they had been inside, the temperature had dropped. The rain had ceased, replaced with snow and ice. The wind blew, freezing Madelyn’s damp clothes and hair. The woodpile was exactly where Roman had told her. Madelyn reached for a small log and her heart sank. The wood was wet, soaked through by the recent storm. They’d never get a fire started with this wood. At least not now. Disheartened, she quickly grabbed several small logs and one larger one. Balancing it all, she hurried back to the cabin.

“This has to dry before we can use it for a fire,” she said as she made a pile next to the hearth.

Her comment went unanswered.

Brushing her hands on the seat of her jeans, Madelyn turned to Roman. He sat on the sofa. He no longer shivered. Far from feeling confident at the absence of trembling, Madelyn began to worry about hypothermia.

She bent to him, her face mere inches from his. His eyes were half-open. “Roman.”

He started, his eyes opening wide for a fraction of a second before slowly closing again.

“Roman, I need you to look at me and focus.”

He regarded her through slits.

She recognized all the signs of a body temperature dropped dangerously low—extreme drowsiness, confusion, loss of coordination.

“Roman, look at me.” Madelyn held up the flashlight. “Take this from my hand.”

Roman swung out, his swipe well short of where she held the flashlight.

Her clear diagnosis—hypothermia. His resistance to the cold had been compromised by the trauma of being shot and the subsequent blood loss. If she didn’t act soon Roman’s pulse could slow so dramatically that he would go into cardiac arrest.

“Roman,” she said as she stripped away the blanket. “You’re suffering from hypothermia. I need to get you out of your clothes. They’re wet and stealing your body’s heat.”

“Leave the shoes on.”

Roman was far more confused than she guessed. His shirt was already off, so his pants needed to be removed next. Without question, Roman was a singularly fit man. His pecs were perfectly carved and led to a set of abs for which the term six-pack was created. His jeans hung low, the muscles between abdomen and pelvis a well-defined V, like an arrow pointing to his... Good heavens.

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