Bobbie
I can’t stop glaring at him as we’re speeding away from what has been my reluctant home for the past couple of months.
I’m without a coat, wearing my house slippers, and am so cold I have full-body shivers. Not that he’d notice, he’s been on the phone nonstop since he shoved me into the vehicle. First to get backup and an ambulance to the house, and since then he’s been trying to chase down some guy by the name of Max Briarwood, who apparently is out of the country.
“This is an emergency,” he tells the person on the other end. “Fine. I get you can’t give me his number, but you can call him and let him know it’s urgent I speak to him.”
He curses under his breath when the call ends and slams the heel of his hand on the steering wheel.
Why, of all people, did he have to show up? Not that I’m not grateful he got me out of there, but so far, he hasn’t done much more than bark orders and manhandle me. I rub my hand over my upper arm where he had a hold of me. I can still feel the imprint of his fingers.
Then I remember Mike—imagine him lying bleeding in the backyard—and a wave of bile burns my throat.
“We c-could’ve at least ch-checked on him,” I manage through chattering teeth.
He doesn’t even bother looking at me but cranks up the heat as he responds. Asshole.
“Just following protocol.”
“P-protocol?”
My disbelief must’ve been obvious in my voice because this time he flits a glance at me and I hear him sigh deeply.
“Yes. Your safety is first priority at all times. Mike knows that, which is why he called and asked for backup to get you out of there. I just happened to be on my way already.”
Oh God, if he dies it’s because of me.
Suddenly I feel sick to my stomach and clench my eyes shut as I breathe in and out through my nose.
“Hey…” I feel a warm hand land on my knee. “Are you okay?”
He stops at a turn, shrugs out of his jacket, and tucks it around my shoulders.
“Better?”
I’m afraid if I speak, I’ll puke all over his front seat so I nod instead, my eyes fixed on the road.
This area doesn’t look familiar and I realize I have no idea where he’s taking me.
“Where are w-we going?”
His ice-blue eyes—normally cool and detached—seem warmer when he glances my way.
“Working on that, but first we’re gonna pick up some other wheels.”
I immediately turn around and look behind us to see if someone is following.
“No tail, but I don’t want to chance someone may have spotted this one.”
I’m surprised when twenty minutes later he turns onto a dirt road, heading into the mountains. About a mile down the road he stops in front of a log cabin. It’s a good size, with a separate double garage to the left of it.
“We have to be fast,” he orders as he gets out and rounds the hood.
Then he pulls open the door for me but his eyes stay focused on the road behind us.
“What is this place?”
“My house.”
Wow. I take it he really doesn’t like people too much, living this remote. No neighbors, at least none that I saw coming up the road.
He swiftly gets us inside and locks the door behind us.
“Is this where we’re gonna stay?”
“No. It’s not safe. We’re just grabbing a few supplies and switching cars.”
I barely have a chance to take in my surroundings when I’m guided into a bedroom. Not his, judging by the giant poster of Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow on the wall.
“My youngest daughter’s room. She’s about your size, grab what clothes you think you’ll need for a couple of days. Toiletries in her bathroom.” He points at a door. “Make sure to grab the boots from the bottom of her closet. You’ve got five minutes.”
Before I have a chance to object to going through someone else’s drawers, he leaves me standing there. Great. Now what?
A minute later he comes back in.
“Time’s ticking,” he grumbles, handing me a duffel bag.
“I can’t just go through your daughter’s things without her permission.”
He tilts his head back and blows out a sharp breath before lowering his eyes to me.
“Britt is on a plane to Costa Rica so we can’t ask her. You either grab what you need or you’ll be wearing what you have on indefinitely. We need to move. Get going.”
Fine, he can have it his way. I’m just glad I won’t be the one on the receiving end when she comes home to find her room plundered. I know I wouldn’t take too kindly to a stranger rummaging through my stuff. I just hope skinny jeans and miniskirts isn’t all she has in there.
Since the US Marshal’s Office whisked me into hiding, I’ve been dependent on the men to provide me with clothes and toiletries. I’m not sure who does the actual shopping but their sense of fashion leaves a lot to be desired. Oversized men’s T-shirts, elastic-waisted pants, granny underwear, and these godawful slippers are what they got me. Not that it really mattered, since I wasn’t going anywhere anyway.
To my relief, Marshal Toland was right when he said I looked the same size as his daughter. Size sixteen pants and large tops. I grab two pairs of jeans, a pair of yoga pants, and a few T-shirts, along with a long vest and a hoodie.
But when I look through her underwear drawer all I can find are thongs. Jesus. I gave up on those about twenty years ago. I couldn’t stand the feeling of something stuck between my butt cheeks. Guess I don’t have much choice unless I want to go commando. I’m also striking out on bras. It’s clear my girls won’t be contained by those little bits of fabric she wears. I’ll have to wash out the utilitarian contraption I happened to be wearing every night.
“Ready?”
I swing around to find him standing in the doorway, a backpack slung over his shoulder.
“I just need to hit up the bathroom.”
He gives me a displeased grunt.
“Hurry,” he urges me, as his phone starts ringing.
It doesn’t take long for me to grab shampoo, and in the vanity I find a fresh bar of soap, a new toothbrush, and an unused razor. Now I just hope wherever we end up we’ll have running water.
Tucking my slippers into the duffel as well, I shove my feet into the fur-lined boots I find in the bottom of the closet and make my way down the hall.
“Here. Wear this.”
He’s already waiting by the front door—apparently done with his phone call—and hands me a puffy jacket, while removing his coat I still have hanging around my shoulders.
Five minutes later, I’m buckled in beside him in an old, ratty pickup truck he says belongs to his daughter.
“Ever been to Aspen?”
* * *
Dag
“I don’t ski.”
I sneak a glance at the woman beside me.
“Afraid this isn’t that kind of winter getaway, Ms. Strada.”
I’m still trying to maintain that personal distance by using her last name, but catch her narrowing her eyes at me.
“Look, I’m well aware you don’t like me much—you’ve made that abundantly clear—but if we’re going to be in this truck for three-plus hours, you may as well call me by my given name, Doug,” she challenges.
To my recollection, I’ve never introduced myself with my first name but she could’ve overheard one of the other guys on my team.
I realize I may be in trouble. She just went through what likely was yet another attempt on her life, but instead of being an emotional mess—as I would’ve expected—she comes out swinging. The fire only makes her more attractive. Facing an undetermined length of time spent in the presence of this woman and maintaining a professional distance is definitely going to be a challenge.
Shit.
“My name’s Dag, not Doug,” I return coolly. “And I’d be happy to call you Roberta, if you prefer.”
“Bobbie. The only one who ever called me Roberta was my father.”
She raises a defiant eyebrow and I can barely contain a grin.
“Bobbie it is.”
Oh yeah, little Ms. Strada is going to be a challenge.
“So…” she drawls, not staying quiet for long. “What’s in Aspen?”
“A place for us to lay low.”
“Another safe house?”
“Of sorts. Until we know who or what compromised our last location, we’re staying under the radar. The guy calling me back earlier is an old buddy of mine. He runs a resort in Aspen. He’s got a place we can use.”
I don’t bother telling her it’s not one of the fancy chalets, but an old staff cabin up in the mountains Max told me I could use. Works better for my purposes anyway. The more remote the better, and according to Max, it hasn’t been used since the new staff residence went up closer to town. He thinks the power is still hooked up but isn’t sure. He offered to get maintenance to take a run up there and check, but I told him we’d manage one way or another. I’d rather not have anyone else know we’re up there. The more people know, the higher the risk.
We’re going off the grid. I already informed my supervisor of that fact and left my regular phone back at home. Too easy to track. There’s an all-night Walmart in Frisco, just up the road, I hope will have everything we need. Including a prepaid phone for emergencies.
Bobbie is quiet the twenty minutes it takes me to get there, giving me a chance to compile a mental list of supplies to last us at least a week or two. Hopefully, that’ll be long enough for my team to figure out how the hell the Russians were able to find the safe house. Because I have no doubt the Gurin OPG was behind the attack.
I don’t have all the details of the FBI investigation into Zola Gurin, and her group of organized criminals, but enough to know they’ve been on their watch list for years, suspected in a variety of crimes covering everything from racketeering to human trafficking and even murder.
Roberta Strada was supremely unfortunate the night she happened to witness a murder committed by none other than Zola herself.
A chef at a popular Denver restaurant, she had no idea the accountant’s office next door to The Olive Press was managing the finances for the Russian Bratva. The feds had recently upped the pressure on Egor Belov, and from what I hear he’d been on the verge of handing over all Zola Gurin’s secrets in return for immunity. Guess Zola kept a closer eye on her employees than Belov realized. It cost him his life and as a result put Bobbie square in the Russian woman’s crosshairs.
I read up a little on the Gurin OPG when we first were assigned to protect the one witness who could put its leader behind bars. Zoya Gurin is the forty-five-year-old daughter of the late Iliya Gurin, who came to the US in 1978, toward the end of the Brezhnev Era. During those last years the Russian economy went from booming to an almost standstill. A large number of business leaders saw their once flourishing investments diminish dramatically and left Russia in search of fortune elsewhere.
Gurin, who’s rumored to have been involved in criminal activities back in the motherland, made the USA his new home, and by 1990 his name was popping up on law enforcement radar. When he died in 2012, his only child, Zola, took the helm. A woman who, by all accounts, is even more ruthless than her father was and not afraid to get her own hands dirty.
“I need you to lay down in the back seat and stay down.”
“What? Now?” I catch her glancing over her shoulder nervously. “Did they find us?”
“No, but I have to run into Walmart up ahead and I don’t want your face on any security feeds.”
She checks the narrow back bench before looking back at me.
“For real?”
“Trying to keep you safe, Ms.…” An annoyed flare of her nostrils has me change my word choice. “…Bobbie. There’s a blanket you can cover yourself with.”
With jerky movements she unbuckles her belt, and turns around with her knees on the seat, while pinning me with a dirty look.
“If I get stuck, I’m holding you responsible,” she mutters under her breath.
I try not to run off the road when her generous ass fills my rearview mirror.
Damn, the woman is built.
With a grunt, she lands behind me on the seat and I check over my shoulder to see her tugging the old quilt over herself. Then I focus on the turnoff ahead.
“Can you at least pick me up something?” she asks when I pull into a parking spot as far away as possible from any cameras and tug a ball cap down over my eyes.
“What do you need?”
I glance in the rearview mirror and see her peeking out from under the cover. Something sparkles in her deep brown eyes.
“A package of Hanes French-cut panties.”