chance. The police should have been here already.
A chill swept over Alec. His father had wide-reaching power. Enough power to keep news of his pending prison release from reaching Alec. Enough power to kill a U.S. marshal. Did he have enough power to delay the police in Beaver Falls? Did his money and muscle reach all the way to small-town Wisconsin?
Alec turned away and ran back across the street toward the strip mall. On the edge of the sidewalk, several bicycles stood in a bike rack. He pulled out an unchained touring bike and swung a leg over the seat. Pain shot through his arm and back. He gritted his teeth. Settling on the seat, he pushed off, pedaling as fast as his legs would move.
The wind fanned the cuts and scrapes on his arms, drying the rivulets of blood. Pain burned along his nerves. His lungs screamed for air. He pushed on, piloting the bike along city streets and over hills until the brand-new housing development on the outskirts of town sprawled before him.
It was late April and the trees hadn’t yet sprouted leaves. He could pick out his house among the many similar houses lining the gently curving streets. He could also pick out the dark-colored sedan parked at the curb a half block away in front of a home under construction. Just the kind of nondescript car his father always favored. And in the front seat was the unmistakable shadow of a man.
Alec’s blood turned to ice.
He pumped the pedals harder, racing down the hill. Negotiating streets he knew well, he passed his street and turned up the cul-de-sac backing up to his house. He climbed off the bike and let it fall to the curb. Cutting through the neighbor’s yard, he climbed over the low split-rail fence separating the backyards.
Hunkering down in a copse of trees and bushes, he surveyed his house. Blinds were drawn over windows and patio door. There was no sign of movement. Nothing unusual. Nothing, that is, but the hum of Alec’s nerves.
They were inside. He could feel it.
He scooped in a deep breath. What could he do? How could he fight them? How could he get Laura out of there?
He’d never owned a gun. After escaping his father’s world, he couldn’t stand the thought of owning a weapon of violence. At the moment his protest seemed stupid, naive. What he wouldn’t give to have a gun in his hand right now.
He crept around the edge of the yard, running half-crouched. Reaching the garage, he sidled between the fence and the wall until he drew even with a window barely large enough for a man to slip through. With any luck, his father and his thugs hadn’t thought of anyone coming through the garage. They’d be focused on the street in front.
And on Laura.
He pushed horrible images from his mind. He couldn’t let himself imagine what Sergei Komorov might be doing to his wife—what the bastard might have already done while Alec had been discovering the bodies in the restaurant and evacuating people from the strip mall. Laura had to be all right. If Sergei had touched her, Alec would strangle him with his bare hands.
He punched his fingers through the screen, the nylon ripping with ease. Grasping the bottom edge of the screen’s frame, he pulled it up and pried it from the window. Now he just had the window itself. He couldn’t break it, couldn’t risk the men inside hearing the glass shatter. Instead, he fitted his fingers to the seam between the upper and lower sash of the double-hung window and wiggled until the latch popped. Sliding the lower sash open, he unseated it then the upper and set them on the ground.
Funny how he’d made sure the windows in the rest of the house had double locks but he hadn’t thought about the garage window. It had seemed too small to bother with, too separate from the rest of the house.
He could only hope the men inside hadn’t thought of it, either.
He placed his hands on the window frame. Arm throbbing, he hoisted his body through the little space and lowered himself inside until he stood on the lawnmower. So far, so good. Now for a weapon.
Stepping off the mower, he grabbed a shovel from a wall rack. He crept to the door leading to the kitchen and pressed his ear to the cool steel.
The rumble of male voices filtered through the door—voices colored with Russian flair and cut with a hard Brooklyn edge. Accents he’d hoped never to hear again.
Rage hardened in his gut. He gripped the shovel, knuckles white. He pressed his ear tighter to the door.
“What does Mr. Stanislov want done with her?” a voice he didn’t recognize asked.
Laura. He was talking about Laura. She must still be alive. Relief sucked the strength from Alec’s legs. He leaned on the door and strained to hear more.
“Ivan told me, bring back Nika.” Sergei’s voice boomed through the kitchen.
Alec’s gut tightened. So dear old Dad hadn’t made the trip. He’d sent his thugs to collect Alec. He was getting lazy in his old age.
“You going to take care of her, then? I know you like doing the women.”
Sergei grunted. “I got to find out what Ivan wants us to do. I think he’ll want the baby.”
“You’re not touching my son.” Laura’s voice chimed through the kitchen strong and clear.
Alec’s heart clutched. Tears welled in his eyes. She sounded unhurt, unbowed.
And gloriously alive.
“Son? Ivan will like that. A grandson. Maybe the child will make up for the father.”
“Grandson? What are you talking about? You have the wrong house. My name is Laura Martin, and I don’t know anyone named Ivan.”
“Ah, I see.” Sergei’s voice took on an amused lilt.
Guilt drilled deep into Alec’s chest. He should have told Laura the truth about who he really was from the beginning. He should have known he couldn’t keep his past at bay forever.
He couldn’t think about that right now. There would be time for regrets. Time for the truth to come out. Now he had to focus. Laura’s and the baby’s lives depended on it. The men inside would be armed with guns, and here he stood with nothing but a shovel. He had to even the odds, give himself a fighting chance.
He fingered his cell phone with his free hand. If he could distract at least one of the men, make sure he was out of the kitchen, away from Laura, maybe he could surprise the other before the thug could draw his gun.
Alec unclipped his phone from his belt and entered his home phone number from the speed dial directory.
Inside the kitchen he could hear the phone ring.
He pushed his ear to the door.
“I should get that.” Laura’s voice. “It’s probably Sally from the restaurant. If I don’t answer, she’ll send someone over. Probably the police.”
“She will not be sending anyone,” Sergei growled.
“You don’t know her. She worries about me like she’s my mother.”
“She’s dead. Slit her throat myself.”
Laura gasped.
Alec gripped on the shovel with sweat-slick hands, the image of Sally’s battered and lifeless body sharp in his mind’s eye.
Sergei’s guttural laugh filtered through the door. “Don’t worry. As soon as the baby comes, you’ll be joining her. Unless I get impatient and cut him out of your belly.”
Alec gritted his teeth. It was all he could do to stay where he was. To wait. The bastard wasn’t going to touch his wife, or their baby. He’d see to it.
The phone continued to ring. Finally the answering machine picked up. Moving silently away from the door, Alec ducked down behind Laura’s van, set down the shovel, and cupped his mouth with one hand. When the answering machine’s beep sounded, he talked into the phone in a low voice. “Look out the