Present Day

Mara ran the sweeper under the pulpit. For some reason, in the sanctity of this building, even without Major next to her, she never felt afraid, never felt like looking over her shoulder. As the song on her MP3 player changed to the next one, she looked out over the pews and smiled. She had loved every minute of working on this building and would miss it when she left one day.

As she rewound the sweeper cord back in place, the side door opened, and Brenda rushed in. Mara frowned and slipped the earbuds out of her ears. “What’s wrong? Is Jeremy okay?”

Brenda dashed up the steps to the podium. “Oh, Mara, thank God I found you.” She held out yesterday’s newspaper. “Jeremy told me that a reporter came and talked to him, but he didn’t tell me that he’d given her pictures, too!”

Her stomach turned to water, and her pulse pounded in her neck painfully. She stared at a picture of her face taken while she tied the tank top onto Jeremy’s leg, right there on the front page of the lifestyle section of the Gainesville newspaper. How many thousands of people got that newspaper daily? How many online sources ran the headlines?

Brenda said something, but she couldn’t hear her through the roaring in her ears. The safety she had felt moments earlier vanished as if it had never existed. “I have to go,” she whispered, dropping the cord she clutched in her hand. Leaving her friend standing on the stage, she jumped down and ran down the aisle.

When she burst through the doors and into the hot Florida sunshine, she felt the world start spinning around her. “What to do, what to do, what to do?” she whispered over and over again. Seconds later, the phone in her hand vibrated, startling her so that she nearly dropped it. She recognized the number and answered, saying by way of a greeting, “Get me out of here.”

“I’m on my way,” Federal Marshal Dean Tucker replied. “Forty minutes.”

“That’s too long,” she sobbed.

“Do you want me to send local law enforcement?”

“Yes, yes.” Disconnecting the call, she rushed across the street. Bursting into her house, she ran to the bedroom, grabbing a bag from the closet floor. It contained her life. Her entire thirty-year life fit inside one leather satchel. She went into the kitchen and put two days’ worth of dog food in a plastic bowl, sealed the lid, and added that with a couple bottles of water and an empty bowl to the bag.

When she looked at her phone, she saw that only five minutes had gone by. Major followed close at her feet as she went into the living room, whining as he clearly sensed her distress. “We’re okay,” she said to the dog, not even sounding convincing to her own ears. “We’ll be okay.”

At the knock on the door, Mara’s heart stopped, but Major jumped up and ran to the door, wagging his tail frantically. Ben must have seen her run across the street, or Brenda found him and told him what she’d said about hiding from an ex. She opened the door, and Major burst past her, throwing the screen door open with his weight and launching himself at the man standing on her porch.

After meeting Major on the ground and petting him and hugging the dog to him, the man greeted her in an all too familiar voice, simply saying, “Hello, Ruth.”

Her heart stopped beating. It must have. Had he already shot her dead?

Victor Kovalev rubbed Major’s fur and looked up at her. He hadn’t changed in six months. He still wore his black hair cut short to combat the natural curls. While his mouth smiled, his light brown eyes looked at her with a serious, almost cautious expression. She licked her dry lips and looked past him, expecting to see a car full of hitmen unloading onto her lawn.

Clearly, Major offered no protection against her enemy. Feeling betrayed, she stepped out onto the porch. She’d known this day would eventually come, hadn’t she? “Major, down,” she said sternly. Immediately, Major stopped dancing and jumping around Victor, and lowered himself to the ground, his entire body vibrating with excitement. Should she run? Should she wait for the police that Marshal Tucker called to arrive?

She couldn’t outrun him. Instead, she would stay outside, surrounded by neighbors who would hear if she needed help—witnesses to her coming death. She clenched her fists so he wouldn’t notice her hands shaking. “The police are already on the way. They should be here any second.”

“Well then,” he said in his rich baritone voice with a curt nod. “I guess I better get this over with quickly.” He reached into his pocket, and she opened her mouth to scream.

Six Months Ago

Victor stood outside Ruth's apartment and watched the blue lights of the police cars light up the street and buildings all around with an alternating blue and white strobe that made his eyes hurt. His head seemed to beat in rhythm with the strobe. He kept his hands shoved in his coat pockets, and his collar turned up against the wet snow that had started falling an hour ago but felt none of the cold. Instead, rage burned inside his heart that warmed him from the inside out.

If any of the officers swarming around had looked carefully at him, they would have seen the dirty boots and muddy jeans. He hoped they didn’t see or ask about them because his brain had ceased working altogether, and he could not come up with an answer other than, “I spent the last three hours burying the bodies of the men my father ordered killed.”

He had no doubt what such a large contingent of city vehicles meant. An hour ago, the coroner had arrived. He knew better than to hope that this was anything other than his father’s handiwork. Stomach churning, head aching, eyes burning, he watched as the body was carefully brought down the steps and loaded into the back of the van.

When he saw an officer carry the body of faithful Major out of the building, he turned. Tears sliding down his face, he walked away, feeling more purposeful and determined with every step he took. As he walked, he looked up an address on his phone. As soon as he had it memorized, he turned the phone off and removed the battery. No one needed to know where he was going.

Fury fueled his steps as he turned onto Federal Plaza and walked to the glass doors of the Federal building. Without hesitation, he crossed the wide expanse of the lobby and marched up to the man at the duty desk. “My name is Victor Kovalev. I’m here to speak to your Organized Crime division regarding my father, Antoly Kovalev, and his brother, Boris Kovalev.”

The man behind the desk picked up a phone and dialed a three-digit extension. Within seconds, he said, “You need to get down here.”