VOLOVOI PUSHED HIMSELF to his feet. Surveyed the empty lot. His shoulder hurt like hell where the idiot Bogdan Urzica had shot him, but he supposed he should be thankful. He was alive, wasn’t he?
Volovoi didn’t feel thankful. He felt angry. Disgusted.
He’d let Bogdan escape. Worse, he’d let him take the girl. Worst, he’d taken the Escalade, too, leaving Volovoi marooned at this gas station in the middle of nowhere, with no ride and no girl, and Nikolai Kirilenko’s body rotting in a pile of his own shit.
Volovoi had been stupid. He’d been careless. He was exhausted, he realized, had been awake for days, couldn’t sleep for the stress over the Dragon and the New York expansion, over Bogdan and Nikolai and the girl. He’d put Nikolai down easily. He’d expected Bogdan would be the same. He’d grown complacent, and lazy, and Bogdan had figured him out.
Shit.
Volovoi tore a strip off his jacket. Tied it around the bullet wound in his shoulder, fumbled in the gravel until he found his gun. It was dark out, barely a sliver of light left on the western horizon. Volovoi could just make out the low gas station building, the dim hulk of the Peterbilt and its trailer. Slowly, he made his way to the truck. Opened the driver’s-side door and searched inside.
No keys anywhere. Damn it.
Someone would drive past soon enough. Someone would happen along this road and see the truck. Maybe they would get curious. Maybe they would want a closer look.
Maybe they would find Nikolai Kirilenko’s body.
He had to get out of there.
Volovoi wiped his fingerprints from the Peterbilt’s door. Scanned the parking lot one more time, saw absolutely nothing that could help him. He pressed the strip of torn cloth tighter against his bloody shoulder. Then, wincing from the pain, he walked to the road.
It was a two-lane country highway. If Volovoi thought hard, he could remember Bogdan Urzica driving the Cadillac out of the lot. He’d turned left, not that it meant anything. Given their head start, Bogdan and the girl could be anywhere by now.
Volovoi went left anyway. Hobbled along the shoulder in darkness and silence. Tried Bogdan’s number on his cell phone and got nothing—no surprise. He wondered what the dumb asshole would do to the girl.
A noise behind him. Volovoi turned, saw headlights in the distance, getting closer. He hid the pistol in his waistband. Stepped out onto the road. Let the headlights find him, let the driver get a good look. The car slowed to the shoulder. A door opened. A woman’s voice.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
Volovoi hobbled around to the driver’s side. The driver was a young woman, her eyes wide. Her car was a Subaru, a station wagon.
“Do you need help?” the woman asked.
Volovoi took out his pistol and shot her. The woman stared at him as she fell out of the car and to the ground. Volovoi kicked her body out of the way and slid into the driver’s seat. Pulled the door closed and drove.