Chapter Thirty-One

A truck engine revved somewhere, and all Maisa could think inside the Laughing Loon Café was that Beridze must really be insane. Everyone knew you couldn’t drive on snow like this. It was simple common sense.

But there was something about a man disregarding the laws of nature—of common sense—that sent a shiver of dread down her spine. That SUV—if that was what it was—shouldn’t be able to move in knee-deep snow, and yet it seemed to be getting nearer.

Dear God, Sam couldn’t outrun a truck, no matter how slow the snow made it.

For a moment, she wavered. She’d watched him get Dylan into the sled, seen Sam run off afterward, and breathed a sigh of relief. He was no longer in the line of fire. But if the mafiya could get that truck moving, that wasn’t necessarily true, was it? He might be killed as she stood here, dithering.

No.

She actually reached out to catch one of the booths. No. She couldn’t think about that right now. Sam was trusting her—above Karl and Stu and Doug and even Molly, trusting her to get the diamonds. And she wasn’t going to let him down, damn it. All she had to do was pocket them and leave.

He was the one trying to out-ski a truck.

She inhaled and blew out a breath forcefully and then continued methodically looking under the booths. A minute more and she found the suitcase, shoved way to the back under a booth. She hauled it out and unzipped it. There, twinkling among the awful men’s briefs was the ziplock bag with the pink gems.

Maisa pocketed the bag and stood, listening.

A shadow crossed in front of the big front window. A man, silhouetted against the outside sunlight, a gun in his hands.

Maisa froze. She was in the middle back of the Laughing Loon and, yes, the lights were off, but all the gunman had to do was turn his head and maybe squint.

She was standing right out in the open.

Carefully, moving slowly, inch by inch, she eased her right hand into her parka pocket, closing her fingers over the cold grip of the little revolver Sam had given her. She could do this. If he turned, if he lifted the gun, she’d have to be quick and act without hesitating. She had a revolver.

He had an automatic weapon.

And then he simply walked past.

She swallowed, nearly choking on the dryness of her throat. Oh, God, that had been close. Too close.

Maisa turned and walked quickly to the back of the café. Her ski boots tapped against the black-and-white linoleum floor—they weren’t made for stealth—and she winced at the sound. If anyone entered the kitchens in back, they’d know at once that she was in here.

She almost couldn’t open the door to the kitchen. She’d seen too many horror movies in which the monster lurked behind the closed door. But that was silly. She was a grown woman and she had to get out of here.

So she shoved through quickly, scanning the room, her hand still on the revolver in her pocket.

Empty.

A burst of gunfire out front nearly made her shriek.

She gulped again and scurried across the kitchen. Outside it was so cold the warm air in her nostrils caught. Her skis were just outside the back door. Dark clouds had begun to gather in the sky, and she glanced at them anxiously as she put her skis flat on the ground. The very last thing they needed was more snow.

She was about to step into the skis when she heard it: the crunch of boots in snow. Had Sam come back for her? Or maybe Molly was on the ground?

Or of course it might be someone entirely different.

Maisa felt herself panting as she picked up her skis and looked around. There was a Dumpster beside the back door, but anywhere she went she’d be trailed by telltale footprints in the fresh snow.

The crunch of snow was coming closer.

Maisa thrust the skis behind the Dumpster and slipped back into the Laughing Loon.