To Hell in a Handbasket (19 page)

She took a deep breath. “Oh, God. I'll drive it.”

Roger's eyes widened. “You sure?”

“Hell no, but for Judy's life, I'll do anything.”

He gave a firm nod. “Let's go, then.”

“Angela, you'll need to direct the cops up the trail when they arrive.” Claire peered at the woman. “Can you do it?”

“Yes, yes I can do that,” Angela answered breathlessly. “Who was
the man on the snowmobile that Detective Silverstone went after?”

Claire didn't have time to break the news to Angela gently. “A Russian mobster. He plans to kill Judy, maybe even Nick, and we've got to stop him.”

“But—”

Claire didn't wait to hear the next question. She ran for the last snowmobile and straddled it.

Roger hopped on the back seat behind her, cradling the rifle. “It's an Arctic Cat, the same type I rode on a backcountry tour two years ago.” He reached around her and cranked the key.

The engine roared to life and the headlight blazed on. Roger showed her where the throttle and brake were. “It drives a lot like an ATV. You remember riding one awhile back on that vacation in Utah?”

“Yeah. Here goes nothing.” Claire sucked in a deep breath, squeezed the throttle, and took off. She found the tracks of the other machines and followed them into the woods. Approaching the first turn, she leaned into the turn as she would have on an ATV. The snowmobile skidded, and Claire's throat constricted. Gritting her teeth, she goosed the gas, and the machine righted itself.

“That's it. You're getting the hang of it,” Roger shouted in her ear.

Swallowing hard, Claire nodded. She gripped the handlebars and hugged the gas tank with her thighs. Leaning forward, she squeezed
the throttle tighter and shot across the lumpy snow.
Oh, God.

Every bounce jostled her throbbing knee. She grimaced. Maybe the pain would help her banish the raw fear wrapping around her throat and staring her in the eyes, like an anaconda about to swallow its victim.

She scanned the narrow trail arching uphill between black tree trunks. She would need every ounce of concentration to negotiate the turns on this trail, especially in the dark. The last thing she wanted to do was crash.

Don't even think it!

She hooked a tight right turn around a huge lodgepole pine, then increased speed when the trail straightened out.

The snowmobile's right ski hit a rock and launched the sled into the air. It slammed down into the snow, rattling Claire's teeth and shooting a knifing pain through her knee. She managed to hang on until the center tread got a grip on the snow.

Roger bounced behind her and muttered a curse.

When they crested a rise, Claire heard the distant roar of snow-
mobiles ahead of her. She hunkered down and accelerated to her
maximum comfort range, then exceeded it. She and Roger whipped
back and forth as she leaned the machine into turns around the trees.
No time for fear now.

The trail headed downhill, and Claire had to let off on the gas. Other snowmobiles roared below her and off to the left. They sounded closer.

She spied a black surface in a low hollow in front of her and realized one of the other machines had broken through the ice covering a large puddle. “Hold on,” she shouted to Roger.

The snowmobile splashed in, soaking their legs with ice-cold water, but the machine managed to grind its way out on the other side.

Below her the trail opened up into a wide meadow. Two snowmobiles lurched across the middle of the expanse. Probably Petrov followed closely by Owen. The two men hunched over their machines, snow rooster-tailing behind them. Hopefully, Nick and Judy were far ahead.

Owen raised his right hand. A shot rang out. Then another.

Claire slowed her machine, staying hidden in the trees.

Petrov's sled skidded to a stop.

Did Owen get him?
Claire held her breath.

The wind stirred up a snow devil that arced and twisted between the men before heading for Petrov.

The Russian raised his rifle and fired a burst of rounds.

Owen's snowmobile veered out of control, up a hummock, and tipped over onto its back. The detective lay trapped underneath. And he wasn't moving.

“Shit,” Roger hissed in her ear.

God, no! Is Owen dead? If he isn't, will Petrov finish him off ?

Petrov spun off again, disappearing into the trees on the far side.

“Go!” Roger hollered.

Claire squeezed her throttle all the way and raced her snowmobile out of the woods and across the weeds poking through the snow. The machine bucked and jerked like a wild rodeo bronco, but Claire clamped her legs tight and willed herself to stay upright.

She skidded to a stop beside Owen's sled.

Before she finished braking, Roger leapt off and ran to the other machine. He pushed it over, righting it, so it came off of Owen's
legs, and Claire saw they had been in a safe hollow under the snow
mobile.

Owen scrambled backward on his left elbow and butt, leaving a trail of bright red blood in the snow.

Claire ran over and knelt beside him. “Where are you hurt?”

His face a deathly white, Owen panted. “You shouldn't be here, but I'm damn glad you are. Petrov's shot grazed my right forearm. No crash injuries, though. Thank God he left. I thought for sure he would try to finish me off.”

“Maybe he thought you were already finished.” Claire helped Owen remove his jacket from that arm.

“That's why I kept still. My only chance, really.” Owen awkwardly pulled a handkerchief out of his hip pocket and pressed it against his bleeding arm. “Where's my gun? It fell out of my hand in the crash.”

“I'll look for it.” Roger started searching the ground.

Claire took the ends of Owen's handkerchief, wrapped them tightly around his forearm then knotted them. “Sorry if I'm hurting you.”

“It's not bad,” Owen said through gritted teeth. He tried to make a fist with his right hand, but failed. “I can't drive a snowmobile with this arm. Or shoot.”

“Found it.” Roger returned with Owen's gun.

Owen held out his left hand for the gun. “I never could get the hang of left-handed shooting, but I'll do my best to protect us until my backup arrives. I'll radio in an update and see how close the backup is.”

Instead of handing over the weapon, Roger pulled Claire to her feet. “We've got to go on. We're the only ones left who can get Petrov before he kills the kids.”

Owen looked up at Roger. “You'll only succeed in getting yourselves killed, too.”

“Do you think we'd be able to keep on living,” Claire asked, “if Petrov killed Judy and we didn't do everything in our power to save her?”

“Take this.” Roger handed her Owen's gun.

“Give me that,” Owen shouted.

Claire stepped back. “Sorry, Owen. One rifle won't cut it against
Petrov.”

A shadow passed over Owen's face, no doubt as he imagined his own daughter in such danger. He scowled and his shoulders sagged. “Damn it! I know I can't stop you. Hell, I don't want to stop you.”

Claire glanced at Roger, who gave a grim nod, then the two of them dashed to their machine. “Should we take both snowmobiles?” Claire shouted.

“No.” Roger straddled the back seat. “If you drive, maybe I can get a clear shot off while we're still moving.”

Claire shoved Owen's gun into the side pocket of her jacket and zipped it shut. As soon as she reseated herself, she roared off again after Petrov.

At the other side of the meadow, they plunged into pine and fir forest again. Claire followed the trail as it wound up another ridge, then cut across the hill.

How far had Angela said the miner's cabin was? A few miles? Do
Nick and Judy know Petrov's behind them? Do they have any
weapons?

There were too many unknowns to make any kind of plan. All Claire could do was drive as fast as she could, hope they closed the distance between themselves and Petrov before he reached the kids, and hope Roger could get a clear shot off before the expert marksman returned fire.

The odds didn't look good.

The machine screamed around a turn and, before Claire could react, slammed into a pile of loose snow clods and rocks—the aftermath of a small avalanche slide down a chute between the trees. She and Roger were launched out of their seats into the pile.

She landed on her side. All her breath came out in a whoosh. Stabbing pains shot through her shoulder and thigh. She rolled onto her back and spied two boulders where the pains had begun. After a few pants through gritted teeth, the pain dulled. She sat up.

“You all right?” Roger called out.

Claire rotated her shoulder and moved her thigh. “I think so. Just bruised.” And big ones at that.

She saw Roger stumbling toward her. “What about you?”

“No broken bones, I think.” He gave her a hand up.

They hurried over to the snowmobile idling on its side. One side of the windshield had torn free, and it hung loosely from the bolt on the other side. Roger ripped the windshield the rest of the way off and flung it to the side of the trail. “Let's get back on the horse.”

They righted the snowmobile and pushed it across the pile, with Claire squeezing the throttle some to help get the sled over. She searched the slide for signs someone else had fallen there, but the snow was too jumbled.

Had Judy and Nick or Petrov hit the pile, too, and fallen? If Judy and Nick didn't know they were being followed, then they wouldn't have been in a hurry and probably avoided the slide. Petrov, however, was in a hurry.

Claire hoped he had tumbled. Otherwise, he had a big lead on them and would reach the kids before Claire and Roger could catch him. Her mouth went dry as an image popped into her mind of Petrov pointing that semiautomatic rifle at Judy.
God, no.

Once on the other side of the slide, she and Roger quickly mounted the machine and took off again. Now three parts of her body complained at every bump and jangle, but Claire told them to shut up.

She gripped the handlebars, her palms sweating inside her gloves, and wished she had taken shooting lessons. She was hopelessly outmatched by the Russian enforcer. And Roger wasn't much better, with just some rusty hunting practice. Their only hope was surprise and the fact that it was two of them against one of him. So, if he shot at one, the other might be able to shoot back. But that meant the one he shot could—

Claire shouted over her shoulder. “I love you.”

Roger squeezed her shoulder. “We'll get him, Claire.” He paused.
“Love you, too.”

So he's reached the same conclusion.

Eighteen: The Captive

Claire motored on without
speaking for another half mile, with only her desperate thoughts and an occasional “oof” from Roger for company.

The forest opened before her. A small, dilapidated log cabin squatted in the right side of a small clearing, its windows tar-papered over and a square of blue plastic tarp nailed onto a portion of the roof. One snowmobile sat parked alongside. A dark shape in the woods to the left of the clearing transformed into a figure hunched over a second snowmobile, its motor still running.

“Kill the engine,” Roger hissed into her ear.

Claire cut the ignition, which turned off the headlight, and coasted toward the edge of the clearing.

As they watched, Petrov turned off his engine and clambered off his machine.

Roger bumped Claire's back as he readied his rifle. She leaned to one side, unzipping her pocket to retrieve Owen's handgun with a shaky, slippery hand. She prayed that if she had to use the gun, she could, and would hit her target.

Because if I don't, Petrov will surely kill Roger or Judy. Or both.

Crouching with his rifle at the ready, Petrov duck-walked to the cabin, seemingly unaware of Claire and Roger's presence.

Claire gripped Owen's handgun, the cold metal pressing against
her palm.
Give me courage.

“Get down,” Roger whispered.

Keeping watch on Petrov, she slid off the snowmobile seat into deep snow.

Roger aimed his rifle and fired.

Missed!

Petrov pivoted. Ducking and weaving, he began a steady fusillade of fire.

Claire rolled onto her stomach, raised her handgun, and thumbed
off the safety.

Roger fell off the snowmobile on the opposite side.

He's been shot!
Anger and fear pumping her full of adrenaline, she aimed at Petrov's bobbing chest and squeezed the trigger. The handgun recoiled, threatening to leap out of her fingers, but she held tight.

She squeezed again. And again.

Finally, Petrov reeled back.

A shot rang out from the other side of their snowmobile, but the bullet plowed into the tree next to the Russian.

Roger's alive!

Petrov fell with a thud.

Roger ran over to the gunman, post-holing in the knee-deep snow.

Petrov rolled and reached behind him as Claire tromped up, panting with the exertion of pushing through the snow.

“Look out,” Roger yelled.

Petrov pulled out a handgun, but before he could raise his arm to fire, Roger stomped on his wrist.

The man sucked in a breath between clenched teeth, and the gun fell out of his hand.

Claire grabbed the handgun and tossed it into the woods, then aimed Owen's gun at Petrov's chest.

Nick came running around the corner of the cabin, buttoning his jeans. “We heard the snowmobiles, then shots, but we were afraid to come out until the shooting stopped. What's going on?”

“Get back,” Claire shouted. “Wait until we disarm him, and keep Judy inside.”

At the same time, Roger shoved his rifle into the struggling
man's face. “Don't move!” He kicked the scoped rifle out of Petrov's
reach.

With two guns pointed at him, the mob enforcer seemed to finally concede defeat. He writhed on the packed snow, moaning and clutching his shot knee with his free hand, while a spreading pool of steaming red blood stained the pristine snow by his leg. A string of what must have been Russian curses erupted with clouds of condensed breath from his clenched jaw.

Roger eyed Claire. “You okay?”

Keeping her gaze on Petrov's hands, Claire tried to steady her own. “Yeah. What about you? I thought he'd shot you.”

Roger handed her his rifle, then yanked Petrov's jacket down to his elbows to immobilize the man's arms. He ran his hands over Petrov's body, dug a cell phone out of the Russian's coat and pocketed it. He glanced up at Claire. “I thought the same thing about you.”

A silent message passed between them before she returned her attention to Petrov.

Roger jerked off the man's boots, eliciting a howl of pain, and dumped a knife out of one of them. “Thank God you got him before he could draw a good bead on us. Why'd you aim for his knee?”

“I didn't. I aimed all three shots at his chest.” Struggling to focus over Petrov's unnerving moans and her own jangly nerves, Claire kept her handgun trained on the enforcer while she laid Roger's rifle on the snow next to her. “Check his back, too.”

Roger stuffed the knife he found into one of his coat pockets. He rolled Petrov onto his side and patted his back. With a triumphant grin, Roger extracted another knife and held it up. “Aren't you smart.”

Petrov lunged for the knife in Roger's pocket, but Roger slammed his knee down on that arm, unsheathed the knife he held, and shoved it against Petrov's throat. Another string of garbled curses erupted from the Russian.

“Shut up.” Claire yelled. “What other weapons are you hiding?”

When she got no response, she pushed the muzzle of her handgun against his forehead. One very dangerous part of her wanted to shoot him then and there, get it over with. She willed her trigger finger to stay right where it was and took a deep breath through flared nostrils.

As if sensing how close she was to losing it, Petrov stilled. He slowly opened his right hand, his left still clutching his bloody knee.

Roger pushed up Petrov's sleeve, exposing a wrist harness with a third knife. He extracted that knife as well.

Claire glared at Petrov. “Anything else?”

He shook his head.

“Okay, Nick,” Claire shouted.

Nick ran over and skidded to a halt beside Claire. He looked down at Petrov, his eyes wide. “Ohmigod, was he after Judy?”

“Goddamn right.” Claire's fury at the young man's stupidity boiled over. “You idiot! How could you expose her to him like this? She was safe with us before you two ran off.”

“No, she wasn't,” Nick shot back. “Ivanov asked Mom where your family was staying, and not knowing what he was, she told him. I had to get Judy out of there before this guy came around. Nothing stops a Russian enforcer. He would've picked off that rookie cop, no problem.”

Roger pushed himself off his knees to stand. “How the hell is a deserted cabin in the woods any better?”

“If they don't know about it, infinitely better. And we weren't going to stay here longer than tonight. I was going to keep us moving until I knew Petrov had been captured.” Nick's face sobered as he stared down at Petrov. “But he was a lot closer on her trail than I thought.”

He looked at Roger and Claire. “I'm sorry. I was trying to protect Judy. If anything had happened to her, I never would've forgiven myself.”

Claire could see the young man's love for her daughter in that look. She shivered.

“We wouldn't have forgiven you either,” Roger snapped.

“I understand, sir,” Nick said solemnly.

“And what about your mother?” Roger asked. “You led the Russians to your house, then left her alone in there.”

Nick bristled. “I didn't
know
I was leading them there. Besides, she serves Ivanov lunch and tea all the time. When he visits, he brings her flowers. And she doesn't know anything. He has no reason to hurt her.”

“Just like he had no reason to hurt Stephanie?”

“He wasn't trying to hurt Stephanie, just to scare her, to send a warning to Dad, so Dad would relent and bring me into the business. But this idiot botched the assignment. Instead of just bumping into her and giving her a message for Dad, he sent her careening off into the woods and killed her instead. When you met Ivanov Thursday, he was leaving after apologizing to Dad. Fat lot of good that did.”

Nick distractedly ran his hand through his hair, mussing it, and scanned the weapons on the ground. “How'd you do this?”

“Believe me, it wasn't easy.” Roger handed Petrov's third knife to Claire, picked up the man's rifle and handgun, and joined her in aiming the handgun at the Russian. “You got any rope in that cabin?”

“Yeah, I do.” Nick hurried back around the cabin.

When he returned with a coil of rope, Judy came with him, her hair disheveled and her coat open and flapping as if she had just thrown it on. She ran over to her mother and gripped Claire in a tight hug.

“Careful, honey, I'm holding a loaded gun.” Claire put the safety on, slid it into her pocket then clamped her arms around Judy. Tears sprang to her eyes as she thought of how easily the situation could have ended in disaster.

Nick began looping the rope around Petrov's wrists.

Judy stepped back. She eyed the handgun Roger still held trained on the injured Russian. “Did you shoot him?”

“Your mother did.”

With her mouth hanging open, Judy stared at Claire.

To hide her flustered state, Claire knelt on the icy ground to assess Petrov's knee. She used his knife to cut away the pants material. A shard of shattered kneecap poked out of the wound, which was bleeding profusely. The bleeding would have to be stopped if he was going to live long enough to give the police any information.

Claire turned to Judy. “Fetch some cloth from the cabin. Rags, anything.”

As Judy raced away, Claire studied the tortured Russian's face closely for the first time. She couldn't feel sorry she had shot him, but she had to stifle an instinctive jolt of sympathy for the man's pain.

“Cooperate and I'll bind this wound. Otherwise, you'll bleed to death. Understand?”

He muttered something in Russian and looked away.

Returning from the cabin, Judy gave a handful of rags to Claire. Nick rose and took Judy into his arms.

Claire picked through the rags, searching for the cleanest one, then peered at Petrov. “Prepare yourself. This will hurt.”

Petrov gritted his teeth.

Working as quickly as she could, she wrapped the rag tightly around Petrov's knee as he moaned with pain. She grabbed another rag and wrapped it over the first then leaned back to check her work. She cinched a tight knot in the second rag, eliciting a howl of pain from the man.

She quickly tied two more rags around the wound then glanced up at Roger. “We need to get him to a hospital fast.”

Roger scooped up his rifle, trotted over to Petrov's snowmobile, fired it up, and drove it into the clearing. He and Claire lifted the injured man into the passenger seat then tied his bound hands to the rear safety bar. From his slumped shoulders, dejected expression, and pain-whitened face, the Russian looked like he would offer little resistance, but Claire wasn't going to take any chances.

“We have to get Petrov out of here,” Claire said to Judy and Nick. “And Detective Silverstone's been hurt. We need to pick him up on the way back.” She peered at Judy. “You feel confident driving one of these?”

“I think so. Nick taught me how before, and I drove one on an easy trail.”

“Good. You ride with Nick until we get to Owen. Then Nick should take Owen as a passenger. You can drive Owen's snowmobile back.”

Roger straddled Petrov's snowmobile, Claire ran to hers, and Judy and Nick climbed aboard theirs. Now that Claire's adrenaline rush was dissipating, the cold was seeping into her bones. With a violent shiver, she slapped her gloved hands together to get the blood moving in them, then started the engine.

The return trip to where Owen lay wounded was slower and less bumpy, but Petrov still moaned each time his snowmobile was jostled. By the time they reached the detective, Petrov's head was nodding with exhaustion from fighting the pain.

Owen struggled to his feet when he heard them approach. “You got him. Good work!”

“Did you reach anyone on your radio?” Claire shouted over the roar of the engines.

“Yes, an ambulance should be at the house by the time we get there.” Owen pointed his chin at the injured Russian. “Looks like he'll need it more than me. I'll call on the way back to tell them not to send someone out here for me. Now, about my gun . . .”

“Oh, sorry.” Claire fished it out of her pocket and handed it to Owen.

Owen opened the magazine. “Hell, it's been fired. That means paperwork, and I'll be the laughingstock of the station for letting you take it.”

“You really had no choice,” Roger said.

Owen scanned Petrov. “Whose bullet is in his leg?”

“Yours,” Claire replied. “I mean from your gun. The rest of the bullets I fired missed.”

Owen holstered the weapon. “I'm impressed, but I'll have to get the full story later. We need to get back.” He pointed a finger at Nick. “And you, young man, are in a heap of trouble.”

“Well, he'll be driving you back,” Claire said, “so you can yell at him on the way.”

Judy leapt off the seat behind Nick, ran to Owen's snowmobile and started it up. Roger and Nick helped Owen to the back of Nick's sled, then they all roared off again.

When they pulled into the Continos' backyard, Claire spotted Officer Ramstead pacing the patio, shoulders hunched against the cold. As they cut the engines, Ramstead hurried over to Owen.

Nick and Judy ran inside the house, presumably to find Angela.

Two ambulance crewmen lugging a stretcher followed Ram
stead, but Owen pointed them toward Petrov.

Two other police officers, presumably Owen's backup, stepped out of a cruiser and joined them. The taller one said, “Sorry we didn't get here sooner, sir. We were in the middle of breaking up a drunken brawl when we got the call. We had to drop the combatants at the jail first.”

Owen clamped his gloved hand on the officer's shoulder. “It's okay. These civilians did your job for you. But I'll need one of you to accompany this guy to the hospital. He's being charged with murder.”