Chapter 5

Five minutes later, Amanda fastened the last button on the white cotton shirt and walked back into the main room, looking for Christina to thank her for the change of clothing. They were still on the sofa, and . . .

She turned away, blushing furiously, and backed into the bedroom. It seemed like they were going to be just fine. But what should she do in the mean time? It was tempting to pick up the phone and call the Agency. So tempting. What were the odds of one of the agents monitoring the switchboard? This was a resort, after all, and even their rather loud search of the building must have drawn attention by now. The Russians were taking chances, maybe she should, too.

She hated to wait and do nothing.

Sitting on the corner of the bed, she stared at the clock on the nightstand. Five more minutes, and she was going after Lee. This was ridiculous, just sitting here waiting. Four minutes now. Maybe she could split the difference.

"Open up. Hotel Security."

Amanda bolted to her feet. They were here.

Ron and Christina were hastily rearranging their silk blankets, and the girl clutched his arm as the young man met Amanda's eyes, then looked away. "She's in here. Help!" He scrambled to his feet and darted to the door.

Even as it swung wide, Amanda was sprinting for the gilt-framed double doors and freedom.

"Oh, Ron, no!" Christina's shrill voice was drowned out by the thunder of footsteps.

She almost made it. Her hand was on the handle, when strong arms wrapped around her from behind and dragged her backward through the bedroom. The click of handcuffs cut through her heart like a knife, and she met Ron's eyes as she was propelled through the room. He looked away again.

Christina's tear-stained face was ghostly white as she watched. "Why?"

Ron shrugged. "The old fart spoke Russian. Do you really think they were our guys?"

Hustled out the door and flanked by two burly KGB agents, Amanda studied her options and sucked in a deep breath. A good loud scream might bring someone running. But the wind rushed out of her lungs with a grunt as the muzzle of a gun jabbed her ribs.

"Be silent or die," said the gun-wielding agent.

Amanda squinted into the dim light. They were heading for the parking lot, and once they were there, who knew where she might end up. She started to hang back, stalling for time, but they towed her along between them. Panic stirred in her stomach, and she went limp, trying to make them lose their grip. A spat of rapid Russian, too fast to make out, rattled over her head, then a cold, damp cloth was pressed over her mouth.

Iron-strong arms held her as she struggled against the sickly smell and the familiar darkness. Her last thought pushed back the fog, and then was buried within it.

Lee . . .

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Ouch!

Amanda gasped and opened her eyes to darkness. The familiar bite of handcuffs sparked a helpless rising panic, and she struggled, writhing to ease the pain in her wrists. She was tied. Trapped. Where was she?

The vibration of tires on a gravel road rumbled through her hip and shoulder, and the smell of exhaust and motor oil stung her nose. It was the trunk of a car--had to be. Why was she here? How? She struggled against the cuffs and worked her jaw against the tape over her mouth.

Rubbing the side of her face against the rough carpet beneath her, she caught the edge of the tape and teased it away from her mouth. A rug burn was nothing, and she ignored the sting as the tape pulled away.

The narrow space closed in around her, squeezing. It was the crate again, cramped and cold, on the way to her first meeting with Zinoniev. The car veered to the left, and then to the right, knocking her against the hard metal sides. A sudden sharp pain in her shoulder brought her back to the present, and she lay gasping, trying to brace her feet and shoulders to ease the thrashing. She had to think, to plan. She'd gotten out of tight spots before. Willing her heart to stop pounding, Amanda counted to ten, and when she felt the panic easing, she did it again.

One . . . two . . . three . . .

As she focused on the numbers, her breathing slowed, and the tight muscles in her chest began to relax. Okay, time to think.

What had happened? It was so fuzzy . . .

A strong arm around her neck, dragging her backward. She'd felt the rough cloth against her nose and mouth and choked on the familiar sweet smell. Chloroform.

She was a hostage, and they needed her alive to force Lee's hand.

It had to be hours, or days. It seemed like forever, trapped in the trunk with little air and dwindling light. It was probably only minutes. But even forever could end. With a kind of sick relief, she felt the slide of the tires as the car jerked to a halt.

Fear pounded back when the car door slammed and the crunch of footsteps circled the car. She needed to run, to fight, to do something. Anything. The trunk popped open and a large figure loomed in the starlight. Huge hands bruised her arms as she was jerked out and tossed over his leather-clad shoulder. She struggled, trying to make him drop her, but a sharp poke in her ribs stole her breath for the few steps it took to reach the building she had glimpsed. The sound of heavy-soled shoes on a hollow wooden porch told her that they had reached their destination.

She tried to croak out a question, which earned her another jab. Seven steps inside the door, and her heart lurched as he yanked her from his shoulder, and she fell back to bounce on--what? A couch? Cot?

"Why am I here? What . . . ?" She tried to sit up, but the weight of a heavy body crushed her backward. She fought madly, using everything she had. Knees flailing, writhing under the bruising weight, she felt his fingers fumble underneath her to unlock the handcuffs that secured her wrists.

A chance! A quick jerk and her hands were free, and she tried to squirm out from under him. Pushing her deeper into the cot, he yanked her left arm over her head, and she felt the sting of the metal around her wrist, and a click as they snapped shut on the frame. Despite her trashing, her right arm followed.

She was trapped.

"What are you going to do?" She knew the answer, but she needed to say something to release the tension. Her voice was pathetic, and she hated it. It was weak, frightened, and angry tears pricked her eyes. Amanda fought them. Spies don't cry.

"It will be a long and lonely wait. Pray that the Scarecrow follows orders." His footsteps tracked across the room and out onto the porch, and she was alone. Wondering why she had seen only the one agent, Amanda began to work at the cuffs, twisting her wrists and wiggling.

One agent here, and one missing. And where was Rostov?

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"What the--" Hands balled into fists, Lee whirled and confronted Zinoniev. Zinoniev shoved him again.

"Get down, you great young fool! It's Rostov."

Lee ducked behind a hedge, a full twenty yards from their target--the rusted metal shed on the edge of the golf course. Rostov was just visible through the leaves, striding back and forth in front of the hotel. A second man darted up the walkway from the direction of the riding stable.

Zinoniev tapped Lee's arm and hissed, "Uri Tarenkhov."

"Look, Zinoniev, why don't you see if you can get to that silver Corvette, three rows over and two from that tree." He pressed his keys into Zinoniev's hands. "Get in and keep your head down. I'll take care of our friend Tarenkhov."

Zinoniev slipped away.

Rostov paused as the other man jogged toward him, and then he pulled the taller man into the shadows.

Two of them accounted for, but where was number three? With both of them in one place, there was no doubt in his mind that he could take them, but the variables were daunting. Lee hesitated and glanced toward the parking lot. Where was Zinoniev? He should have been in the 'Vette by now.

Zinoniev couldn't have gone after them himself, could he? Lee watched and waited. The two agents broke apart--Tarenkhov striding toward the parking lot and Rostov back through the double doors of the hotel. And still no sign of his reluctant charge.

Making up his mind, he sidled along the hedge line, staying out of sight but keeping his gaze on Tarenkhov. Divide and conquer, it wasn't just for war games any more. If he could take the man out quietly, he would increase their odds. And then he was going to find Zinoniev and break his legs.

Five minutes later, he prodded the inert figure with his foot. This was the best the KGB had to offer? Now what was he going to do with him? Lee glanced around the parking lot, until his gaze crossed the metal shed. If Zinoniev wasn't using it, it might be a good place to stash Terankhov.

Lee dragged the man through the parking lot, grimacing as his unwieldy burden thumped up along the curb. That was probably going to hurt later. After rolling the agent across the threshhold, he dragged the door shut behind him and scanned the tiny room. Loops of cord hung from hooks on the walls, and a cabinet yielded a roll of duct tape. By the time the Russian's angry eyes flashed over the gag, he was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. He smiled at his handiwork as he shoved his captive under a workbench and used a little more tape to secure him to the bench's legs. It wouldn't hold him for long, and there was always a chance of discovery, but he just needed to buy a little time.

Dusting off his hands, he left the dark shed and jogged to his car. If Zinoniev wasn't there, he was going to be in trouble; he'd given the Russian his only set of keys. A glitter caught his eye, and he grimaced. Zinoniev had been there all right. His car keys mocked him, placed dead center on the 'Vette's hood.

The phone still beckoned; it would only take a second to call Billy and find out when the Agency couriers would arrive. He reached for the door handle and froze.

The small white note gleamed dully in the moonlight. He plucked it off the driver's side window.

'Bring Vicktor Zinoniev to the cabin. Three miles up the dirt road, turn left at the third dead tree. If you come without him, she dies.'

Lee crumpled the note in his fist and tried to control his breathing. Maybe they didn't have her. Maybe it was a bluff. He glanced at his watch--it had been thirty minutes since he'd left Amanda in the newlywed's room, and she had promised to come after him in fifteen. She was late.

They had her. And he didn't have Zinoniev. He must have seen the note and skipped out. Lee swore and pounded the hood. If they hurt her, there was nowhere in the world that they could hide. And when he was done with them, he would find Vicktor Zinoniev and drag him back, breathing or not.

Think, Stetson, think. He needed an ace in the hole, and he needed it now. There wasn't much to bargain with, and if he couldn't get Zinoniev . . .

Rostov. He was still in the hotel. Lee strode toward the softly glowing facade, ignoring the twinkling lights and fairytale ambiance. If he couldn't lay his hands on Zinoniev, then Rostov was the next best thing. When he went to bring her back, he wouldn't be alone. He tried to ignore the stirrings of fear that threatened to distract him. It worked once, and it could work again.

Trading Rostov for Amanda was getting to be a bad habit.