Chapter Twenty

May would be safe at his cabin. Sam clenched his jaw and reminded himself of that fact. There was no reason for this Beridze guy to look there. He didn’t even know who Sam was. Sam’s job was to get Ilya to safety, alert Doc to what was going on, and secure the town. That was it. He had an entire community to take care of, not just one fiery woman.

Even if her eyes had been full of tears for him.

The problem was that George was a wild card. He tightened his grip on the wheel at the thought. Had George kept in touch with the mob this whole time? Had he called or talked to them since they’d hit town?

Could George somehow have let the Russians know where he—and May—were now?

Sam made himself slow as he hit the highway. The snow was building here, slick and compacted. He shifted down, going no more than twenty.

“How many were there?” he asked the silent man beside him.

Ilya’s face was slippery with sweat, his complexion a sickly yellowish white. His chunky glasses sat crookedly on his face, and there was a crack in one lens. “I… I don’t know. There is Beridze and he had the three big black trucks.”

Two SUVs now. Say four men per vehicle, that was twelve men, including Beridze. Of course that was only an estimate. He could have more or less. Some could have been wounded or killed by the crash.

Either way though, the Coot Lake police force was most likely outnumbered. Way outnumbered.

They needed backup.

After half an hour more of crawling along the road, the visibility getting ever poorer, Sam pulled into town. Main Street was practically deserted now. Haley Anne’s little silver hatchback was still outside the Laughing Loon, nearly covered in snow. She’d probably been picked up from work by her mother, who had a four-by-four and lived closer to town—unless Dylan had picked her up. That was another thing: they needed Dylan and Tick back in town. Both were on duty today, but Doc had probably sent them out to deal with the snow and people getting stuck.

There was a little parking lot around back of the cinderblock municipal building, and Sam parked there. No point in advertising their presence if the Russians happened to cruise through town.

He hustled Ilya into the building, one hand on the man’s upper arm, the other holding his drawn Beretta down by his thigh. He let the back door slam shut behind him and locked it.

Inside, was a small reception room with two plastic chairs, a plastic table, and a plastic plant. To the left was a counter. Usually a receptionist sat there. Today, the counter was abandoned. Everyone had probably gone home at noon while they still could. Beside the counter was a set of wide stairs leading to the upper floor and the police department. Sam crossed the room and flipped the lock on the front door before leading Ilya upstairs.

The entire upper floor—what there was of it—was the police station: a big desk for Doc, a couple of smaller ones shared by Sam, Dylan, and Tick, a free-standing barred cell with a toilet and cot in case they had to bring in any drunk-and-disorderlies for the night, and Becky’s dispatch station. There was a row of windows to the north, overlooking Main, and a smaller row to the south, overlooking the municipal parking lot. The entire room could be crossed in five strides.

When he entered the room, Doc was leaning over Becky’s shoulder. Becky was at her dispatch station, muttering under her breath and stabbing buttons like she wanted to disembowel the radio.

“Nothing?” Doc asked.

Their dispatcher scowled. “Lots of static. The storm must’ve knocked down the tower.”

“Well, shit,” Doc said, straightening. “We got no way to communicate with Tick or Dylan. Just have to hope those boys have enough brain cells to realize the situation and come in on their own.” He looked at Sam, eyes narrowing at his drawn gun. “Thought it was your day off, Sam. What’s up?”

“We got a situation. Russian mafiya boss named Jabba Beridze and his goons, three vehicles—black SUVs—though probably one is out of commission. They shot up the Coot Lake motel.” Sam shoved Ilya gently into a chair. “According to Ilya Kasyanov here. Found him and George Johnson in George’s wrecked pickup. Was helping them when we were chased and fired on by one of the SUVs. Lost them up on County W when they skidded out and I shot the grill and their front tires. Put May and George in my cabin and brought Ilya here.”

“Well, heck, Sam,” Doc said. “Good thing you weren’t on duty.”

“Take it the radio’s not working?” Sam nodded at Becky’s station. “I couldn’t get anything from my handheld earlier.”

Becky looked disgusted. “Radio’s kaput.”

“The phones out?” Sam glanced at the old rotary dial sitting on Doc’s desk.

“Yup.” Doc already had his cell out, fiddling with it. “My cell isn’t doing anything. Becky, you have a different carrier. How’s your’s?”

Becky shook her head. “It’s been out since noon.”

“So we’re on our own,” Doc said thoughtfully.

“Oh, God, oh, God,” Ilya moaned quietly, rocking back and forth in his chair.

“Nothing to worry about,” Doc said. He unhooked a bunch of keys from his belt and went to the gun cabinet. “Either those boys are already gone, or if they’re smart at all they’ve gone to ground until the weather clears.”

Sam nodded. “Okay. So we just sit tight, you think?”

“ ’Spect so,” Doc murmured, taking down a shotgun and handing it to Sam. “Ammo’s in the second drawer down, right side, underneath those firecrackers Tick seized last week.”

He tossed the keys and Sam caught them on the way to Doc’s desk. He pulled open the drawer and shoved shotgun shells in his pocket, then took a handful and gave them to Doc. “I’m going to check back on May at my cabin—”

Someone pounded on the front door.

Ilya shrieked and ducked.

Becky looked up, eyes narrowed.

Both Sam and Doc raised their weapons.

“Il-ya!” sang an accented voice from below outside. The wind made the sound faint and eerie. “Il-ya! I’ve come for your testicles.”