Victor entered the gym, not knowing what to expect, feeling his feet falter when he saw Ruth suspended by her wrists from the ceiling. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she was conscious because he could see her leg muscles flex as she stood on her toes.

Rage surged through him at the sight of Marco sitting on a plastic chair looking at the screen of a laptop that sat propped on the bleacher. He quelled the desire to rip his cousin’s throat out by first fisting his hands and taking a deep breath, then slowly releasing the air from his lungs and loosening his fingers. Rage would get them both killed. He had to think, be smarter, and faster than them.

Marco punched a few keys and lit a cigarette. Boris sat in a plastic chair, fingers steepled, eyes closed, looking like a man peacefully meditating.

At the sound of Victor’s sneaker squeak on the polished floor, his eyes shot open. “Well, looks like we found the prodigal,” Boris announced.

“I’ve contacted the Marshals. No matter what you do, you won’t get out of this building a free man,” Victor announced, his eyes on his wife. He watched as her eyes shot open at the sound of his voice. He could see the fear in her eyes. He wanted to run to her and reassure her that everything would be okay, but he couldn’t. First, he had to contend with the darkness of his past.

Boris glanced at his son, who shook his head. “You’re a liar,” he said, standing. “I told you. Marco had your phone cloned. There’s no way you were able to call them.”

Victor shrugged. “That was my father’s biggest problem with you, Boris, and why you never would have succeeded as the boss. You are narrow-minded and unable to see beyond your own shadowed and limited perception.” He pulled the borrowed cell phone out of his pocket and tossed it to Marco. “My cell phone is not the only phone in this city I can use. There are phones, computers, tablets—any number of devices I could have used to silently send the Federal Marshals a signal.”

Without warning, Boris surged to his feet, the chair sliding across the floor behind him. He picked up the baseball bat that had been at his feet and ran at Ruth, pulling back and swinging with all his might. The sound of the wooden bat cracking her ribs echoed through the gymnasium. Even through the gag in her mouth, Victor could hear her scream as tears poured out of her eyes. She looked at the ceiling and closed her eyes, her feet going limp, causing her arms to take the weight of her body. Without thinking about it, Victor dashed forward, tackling Boris and launching him to the ground. He blocked a blow from the bat just before Boris hit him in the temple with it, catching the full force of the blow with his forearm. Though his uncle outweighed him by a good sixty pounds, he had the advantage of youth and the reflexes of a professional boxer. He soon gained the upper hand. Sitting on top of his uncle, he used the handle of the hammer to apply pressure to his neck. His uncle’s face turned purple, and his eyes bugged out. Victor continued to press. He didn’t release the pressure, and his vision turned red with rage. All he could think about was destroying this man who had destroyed so many lives before him.

His wife’s muffled screams preceded the sound of the gunshot by seconds. He felt the bullet enter his back and almost immediately lost the strength in his arms. He rolled off his uncle, putting his hand to his burning side, feeling the blood soaking his shirt. He’d spent most of his life in training, though, learning to fight through the pain, to embrace it, to use it to his advantage in a fight. With a roar, he launched from his knees toward his cousin, swinging with the hammer as he lunged at him.

Clearly thinking the mere presence of the gun would keep him in line, Marco did not react fast enough to defend against the attack. Victor swung the hammer as he surged to his feet, hitting his cousin in the cheekbone. Marco’s head flew back with a sickening crack, and he collapsed at Victor’s feet. With his hand gripping his side, Victor bent down and reached for the pistol. His hand fumbled and slipped on the wooden handle. Finally, he gripped it and raised it just as Marco got to his feet and rushed toward him. Firing twice, Victor watched as his cousin fell to the ground, his eyes staring unblinking at the ceiling. The expended brass cartridges rang against the hardwood gym floor like little choir bells, a sound that fell on his ears in an ironically cheerful way.

Boris made his way to his hands and knees. “I will kill you both,” he rasped, a stream of spittle flying out of his mouth. “You will beg me for your life before you die.”

Losing a lot of blood, Victor felt like the only recourse he had was to incapacitate his uncle. “You’ll be in prison for the rest of your life,” he said as he brought the butt of the pistol down hard on the man’s head. His uncle’s body jerked, then he slumped forward, his face hitting the ground. Victor stumbled over to Ruth and pulled the gag out of her mouth.

“Oh, thank you, God,” she whispered.

Putting a bloody hand on her cheek, he kissed her seconds before he fell to the ground, unable to find the strength to untie his wife. Helpless, limbs not obeying the screaming in his mind to move, to help her, he stared at her panicked face as his eyes fluttered closed.

Ruth lay on the emergency room bed. She knew the doctor wanted to keep her overnight. Since Victor would likely not get out of surgery for another couple of hours, she didn’t mind. She’d sent a friend home to take care of Major for her. Now she lay completely still, willing her broken ribs to heal superhumanly fast so she wouldn’t be hindered when her husband came out of recovery.

She looked toward the door as Marshal Dean Tucker came into her room. “Hello, Esther.”

“How did he find us?” she asked by way of greeting.

“We found the body of your plastic surgeon this afternoon. It looks like Marco Kovalev hacked the doctor’s computer and found the pictures of you the doctor had taken after your surgery. He then searched hospital databases until he matched your face.”

Ruth felt a tear slip out of the corner of her eye. “Will we have to leave here?”

The Marshal kept his face expressionless. “That’s up to you. The doctors don’t know if Boris will regain consciousness. He wasn’t a well man before he suffered such a blow to the head, and he may not even be able to physically come out of it. The doctors have given him about a thirty percent chance of living through the night. His son is dead. We have no idea if any other members of the Kovalev gang know where you are or even, at this point, if they care. Those that evaded arrest in the initial raids have not surfaced in three years.”

Ruth frowned and thought about her father-in-law. “What about Antoly?”

“Antoly Kovalev suffered a massive coronary in prison six months ago. He is an old, weak man who won’t live much longer.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

He shrugged. “I tried, but Isaac told me he didn’t care about news of his family unless it pertained to his mother or directly with your safety.” Even now, in the relative privacy of this hospital room with their covers fully blown and with the Kovalev family itself being openly discussed, Marshal Tucker’s professionalism and training prevented him from referring to his WITSEC charges by their actual names.

Ruth looked at the white blanket covering her legs and considered that information. Finally, she nodded. “I agree with that.” She took a deep breath and winced at the pain that somehow pushed through the haze of pain medication she’d taken. “I cannot imagine going back to being Ruth and Victor again. I will need to talk about it and pray about it with my husband so we can make a decision. We really love this life, and I don’t want to relocate again unless we have to.”

With a nod, he said, “Fair enough. For now, I have plainclothes Marshals guarding you two. Until we ascertain that the threat is over, you two will have no end of our company in this hospital.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Marshal Tucker. And thanks for getting to us so quickly tonight. I’m sure you saved my husband’s life.”