Private Moscow

Chapter 40

Dinara glanced over her shoulder to see a female driver yelling at other onlookers.

“Stop them! What’s the matter with you? Help her!”

“He’s got a gun,” a nearby motorist shouted back.

No one was going to help her and Dinara couldn’t blame them. There were two masked men waiting by the back of the truck and three hauling her toward them. There was a driver and an accomplice in the cab, and then there was the shooter, the man who’d killed Leonid. This was a formidable, organized group. If she was to escape, she would have to save herself.

Dinara lashed out, kicking the man immediately to her left. She caught him in the shin and he let go of her. She swung her fist at the man to her right, but he dodged it, and she heard rapid footsteps crunching in the snow, and felt the muzzle of a gun pressed against her temple.

“Be good,” the gunman said.

The man she’d kicked slapped her, and took hold of her arm. She looked at him defiantly, memorizing another set of eyes that would one day look upon her revenge.

The gunman took the muzzle away, and the men continued pulling her toward the truck. She wanted to scream with grief and anger, but she refused to give her assailants the satisfaction of seeing how much they’d hurt her, so she stayed grimly silent.

The gunshot shocked Dinara and startled the men holding her. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing when the gunman went down with a bullet wound in his leg. Then she looked round to see Leonid standing there, seemingly back from the dead, with gun drawn. Dinara was astonished, but this grim-faced Lazarus seemed unaffected by his journey to the other side, and carried on with his dirty work.

Leonid shot the man to Dinara’s left, and the bullet hit him in the leg, almost exactly where she’d kicked him. He fell away, moaning and clutching the wound. Another shot hit the man to her right in his left arm, and Dinara pulled free of him as he cried out in pain.

The gunman was hauling himself up, and Dinara lunged for him and wrestled him for his weapon. As they struggled, Leonid rushed over and delivered a heavy pistol blow to the head, knocking the gunman out cold.

Leonid grabbed Dinara. “Come on!”

They started running as one of the masked men retrieved the pistol from the unconscious gunman and opened fire. The bullets hit the wreckage of Leonid’s Lada as he and Dinara dashed behind it.

“Keep going,” Leonid said, dragging Dinara on toward the safety barrier.

They jumped the metal rail, sailed through the air and hit a steep snow-covered bank. Dinara couldn’t stop herself; she tumbled forward and rolled down the steep slope. She was dimly aware of a mass of arms and legs falling beside her.

Dizzy and disorientated, she finally came to a halt near a copse of trees and helped Leonid to his feet. They ran for cover as bullets chewed the trunks of the surrounding trees. They ducked behind a large elm and peered up at the slip road.

A couple of the masked men were eying the tree line.

“We have to go after them,” Dinara heard one of them say.

“Are you crazy?” the other replied. “The cops are almost here. Help get the guys into the truck.”

The speaker withdrew from sight, and a moment later, so did his gun-toting companion.

Dinara took the opportunity to catch her breath.

“How?” she asked between lungfuls of freezing air.

Leonid opened his jacket and pulled his shirt apart to reveal a concealed layer of body armor.

“Some call it paranoia,” he said. “I call it common sense.”

Dinara stared at him in awe.

“Come on,” he said. “We’d better get moving, or we’ll be late.”

He ran into the trees, and a moment later a bemused but jubilant Dinara followed.