THERE WAS A loud crack. Shattered glass. Svetlana spun around as the front tables near the window burst into flame.
Outside, three black SUVs idled in front of the club. A hand reached out from one of the drivers’ windows and lobbed a flaming bottle through the decimated pane.
People started screaming and running toward the door, the grabby man and his wife at the front of the pack. Someone blocked the exit and threw down another flaming bottle. The two caught the brunt. They lit up, engulfed by fire, human torches.
Behind her, someone screamed. A waiter burst from the back hallway, a fireball at his back.
Svetlana grabbed the fire extinguisher and vaulted over the bar. Her stiletto heel cracked as she landed. Grabbing Anya, she limped away from the bar with its collection of flammable bottles. She pulled her toward the fires near the front door, the most likely route to safety.
Before them, the flames rose higher, feeding off of the accelerant from the bottles, creating a wall of fire between them and the exit. The heat licked at her. The air took on a wavy quality, as if reality were melting.
Determined to open an exit for them, Svetlana pulled the pin on the extinguisher and sprayed the worst of the flames. Through the raging fire, she watched the fire bomber, eyes intent on the bar, reach into his trench coat. How she wished for her gun!
He pulled out yet another Molotov cocktail and flicked his lighter. If the fire hit the liquor, the whole place would go up like a bomb had hit. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as he raised his lighter to the Molotov cocktail.
Svetlana didn’t have a gun. The only thing she had on hand was the fire extinguisher. The foreign patron from the bar stood behind her. She couldn’t waste time wondering whether he had a gun and would use it. She needed to act.
With all of her strength, she hurled the extinguisher at the bomber. The red projectile caught him square in the chest. His eyes flashed with surprise as he stumbled backward and dropped the bottle.
The Molotov cocktail rolled toward the fire. Accelerant leaked out and fed the flames fanning all around them while the bomber scrambled to his feet and then raced for the door.
Now what? The small opening Svetlana had managed to create closed with flame. There was no exit this way. They were trapped.
She heard a hissing sound. The sprinklers! The fire hissed and spat as the spray from the ceiling doused the fire.
The mob in the bar pushed forward toward the door with Svetlana now at the lead, limping in her broken shoe.
Her foot slipped in the wetness on the floor. Her ankle turned painfully, and she flailed as she fell. She had a fleeting image of what would inevitably happen next: the panicked crowd would trample her.
Strong arms caught her, righted her, lifted her. The patron who earlier hadn’t deigned to glance in her direction swept her into his arms, one hand at her back, the other under her knees, as if she were the heroine in a tawdry romance novel.
She wasn’t too proud to accept his help. With grudging respect, she noticed that he didn’t seem to lose stride with the horde, despite how heavy she must be.
He crossed the threshold where the door used to be. The evening air was raw and wet with a steady drizzle. She couldn’t suppress a shiver.
He dumped her unceremoniously on the sidewalk. Leaving her hopping on one foot, he strode away as if he couldn’t put distance between them fast enough. She hadn’t even had the chance to thank him.
Sirens surrounded them. Fire trucks and police cars crowded in front of the club.
Svetlana scanned the throng for Anya.
“She is there. With her friends,” an accented voice said. She turned to see the patron, returning to her, a full-length sable coat in his hands. He draped the fur over her shoulders like a cape.
“What’s this?”
“A coat,” he said. His full lips twitched with humor.
“Whose?”
“Yours.”
The heavy coat held her like a hug, folding her in immediate warmth. The satin lining stuck to her wet skin.
“What’s your name?” he asked as he came to face her.
“Svetlana.”
“Svetlana. Krasivaya. I’m Gennady.” The syllables rolled off his tongue with a melodic cadence. He straightened the collar on the coat and fastened the clasp at the neck. The scent of expensive cologne tickled her nose. Was the coat his?
Gennady regarded her steadily, his blue eyes almost hypnotic. The sudden solicitousness and the naked interest in his eyes contradicted his earlier dismissive attitude toward her.
Had she given herself away? Was that the reason for his sudden intense interest in her? Brighton Beach wouldn’t be a safe place for her if someone here figured out her true identity.
She wouldn’t second-guess herself. The sight of those human torches would haunt her for a long time. What if it had been Anya or one of the girls or Jack? A few more minutes, and it could have been any of them, all of them. She had done the right thing by springing into action at the bar.
He smoothed the wet hair out of her face. His brief touch sent a wave of heat through her body. “You saved everyone in the bar.”
“No. I didn’t…” She began to protest, but he pressed his finger to her lips and said, “You saved me.”
Ah, so that was it. He felt grateful. She almost sighed with relief and disappointment. Gratitude wouldn’t bust her cover. It also wasn’t the same as interest in her. Not by a mile.
The last thing she needed right now was any kind of personal entanglement. Someone had tried to blow up the club. She should be focused on that, on solving this latest puzzle and how it related to the Koslovskys and her scheme with Vlad.
Yet, standing in the shadow of death, all she could think about for the moment was how it would feel to drop the subterfuge and gnawing worry, grab onto life with both hands, and kiss Gennady with his cold good looks and warm skin.
Even if all he felt was gratitude.