Night Magic (20 page)

But Bigfoot apparently had an ear in Camp Lejeune as well. McClain told himself that he should have suspected it, should have known that the
KGB
wouldn’t be shaken off so easily. That Rostov might take him from his escort before Ramsey’s men could liberate him had occurred to nobody. The only comfort was that the Soviets apparently didn’t know that he had passed the microfilm on to Ramsey. If they had, he and Clara would already be dead. Even Rostov, sadist that he was, would not go through this charade if he already knew that McClain could not give him what he wanted.

A rattle sounded outside the trailer’s garage-type door. Speak of the devil, McClain thought, tensing as he was
brought back to the present with a start. But apparently one of the thugs who had stayed with the truck just wanted to make sure that the door was still securely locked. If Rostov were back he would have burst in, murderously angry at having failed to find Puff. But the door stayed closed.

When Rostov returned, they would have just one chance to take the bastard off guard, and a slim one at that. And it was all they would have. McClain knew suddenly that he wanted it to work. Wanted it with a desperation he hadn’t felt about anything in years. And the reason he wanted it to work so badly was for Clara far more than himself. He had been playing Russian roulette with death for years. Dying wasn’t anything he courted, but it came with the territory. But Clara—he couldn’t stand watching Clara suffer. He thought of how Rostov had had her finger broken, of how he’d burned her, of how he’d humiliated and terrorized her, and he felt a fierce anger burn in his gut. Rostov would pay for that.

Talking to Clara earlier had been a mistake. It had opened him up to emotions he’d kept buried for four years, buried deep beneath carefully built layers of indifference. Natalia’s face swam in his mind’s eye. He didn’t want to remember Natalia, whose dark hair and pretty smiles had blinded him to a murderous bitch. Deliberately he banished her image. Gloria’s face immediately rose to replace it. He hadn’t loved Gloria, just lusted after her body, but he had never meant to get her killed. But he had thought she was safe enough. When he had started seeing her he had been a desk jockey, for God’s sake. He’d had no idea that he would get mixed up in something that would cost her her life. Always assuming Rostov was telling the truth about that, of course. The KGB was a past master at playing head games.

Now there was Clara, sleeping warmly at his side. She
trusted him, more fool she. He had an idea she still thought he could get her out of this in one piece. She had more confidence in him than he did in himself. But he would do his damnedest to succeed—for her sake.

Damn the woman, she appealed to him! He liked everything about her, from her sassy mouth to her gentle blue eyes to her Southern belle manner to her sexy body. He liked the way she smiled, her fierce loyalty to her cat, the way she said Oh my God like it was the worst epithet ever invented when she thought she was in trouble. He liked her femininity and her courage under fire. In a pinch, she had never once let him down. He’d discovered that there was an awful lot of steel in this particular magnolia.

And he liked making love to her. In fact, he loved making love to her. And that worried him, now that he thought about it. His taste usually ran to what his mother would call fast women. And Clara was far from that. Clara was a lady. At least until he got her in the sack. Then she was as hot as any female he’d had. And she got him hot, too. Randy as a ram. Horny as a goat. In bed, that lady was no lady. His mind boggled at the saying that brought to mind. And there was another one, too. One about the ideal wife being a lady in the parlor and a whore in the bedroom. In that respect, Clara would certainly make a hell of a wife.

The very notion of himself with a wife appalled him. All right, he liked Clara. More than liked her if he was honest. And she turned him on. But that was a far cry from marriage. Marriage wasn’t in his game plan. Since Natalia’s betrayal, he’d never met a woman he could imagine himself living with for the rest of his life. He’d decided that he just wasn’t cut out for marriage, for a normal family life. He had to live free.

But she felt good nestling against him, her body soft and
trusting. He felt good holding her. And she’d been very sweet when he’d confessed to her the darkest secret of his life, which was something he’d never talked about to anyone but the shrinks at the hospital. Only God never makes a mistake, she’d said. He hadn’t answered her then. Now the words came back to lodge in his mind. Was it possible, that after all these years, he could let the dead go? Write it all off as exactly what it had been, a misjudgment on his part, a tragic mistake?

Maybe, just maybe, if he got out of this alive, he’d think about that some more. Right now there didn’t seem much point in forgiving himself. It was far more important to figure out a plan that would give them at least a chance of getting out of this mess alive. He was no Superman; hell, he wasn’t even close. He’d have to outmaneuver five
KGB
agents armed with Kalashnikov rifles, Skorpion machine pistols, and God only knew what else, all in the confines of a ten-by-thirty-foot trailer. Completely impossible. The odds were maybe five billion to one against success, If he were smart he’d probably give up the fight right now, strangle Clara in her sleep to save her from what Rostov and his apes would do to her when they returned, and then hang himself from that hook in the ceiling. Death wasn’t so horrible, he knew. It was the dying that was the bad part.

Clara stirred beside him. He looked down at her, at her lovely face flushed with sleep, her tousled blonde hair, her voluptuous body that turned him on even now, just looking at it His eyes touched on the small circular burn beneath her ear and then traveled to the ridiculous bandage on her hand. He remembered how sick and helpless and at the same time blindingly furious he’d felt when they’d hurt her and she’d cried. …

A rush of protectiveness so strong that it amazed him
flooded his veins. She did not deserve this. He had gotten her into this mess and it was up to him to rescue her—if he could. Easing his shoulder out from under her head, McClain shook his head at himself. Lost cause or not, he would put everything he had into saving her life.

Who had ever said he was smart?

XX

“Clara. Wake up!”

The urgency of the whisper penetrated her warm, cozy fog of sleep. Clara surfaced reluctantly. For some reason she wasn’t yet aware of, her mind did not want to rouse itself.

“Clara!”

The voice that was whispering in her ear was male, and familiar. Its deep rasp sent an anticipatory tingle down her nerve endings. She associated pleasure with that voice … Her eyes blinked open to find brilliant green eyes not more than six inches away. Jack. Of course, Jack. She smiled with sleepy invitation into those eyes, noticing with purely female satisfaction how they darkened to emerald. Of its own accord, her hand rose to touch his stubbled cheek. Not much more than twelve hours after he had shaved, he already had a thick growth of black bristles covering his cheeks and jaw. Stroking lightly over the sandpaper roughness, Clara decided that the Miami Vice look became him. It enhanced the rugged, vibrant maleness that was as much a part of him as the green eyes.

“What are you trying to do, turn me on?” He caught her
hand as it dreamily stroked his face and carried it to his mouth. His lips were warm on her palm; Clara felt the sweep of his tongue against her skin and shivered. Never had she dreamed that a man’s slightest touch could do that to her. Never had she dreamed that her whole body could be set to trembling by one long, sexy look out of a pair of male eyes.

“Kiss me, Jack.” Her eyes closed as her lips yearned upwards. She felt heat shoot down to her toes as he obliged, his mouth hot and hard on hers. Then his mouth was withdrawn, and at the same time she felt the sting of a hard slap on her silk covered bottom. Yelping, she started into a sitting position, rubbing the injured portion of her anatomy as she glared at him.

“Get up, sleepyhead. We’ve got things to do.” He was standing over her now, fully dressed even to his sneakers, his fists balled on his hips. Clara looked around, suddenly remembering where they were and what had happened. Had Rostov returned? Of course not. Jack would not be standing there like that if he had.

“Is Rostov back?” The words were wrenched out of her. Maybe he was outside, even now on his way in. Maybe that was why Jack had awakened her.

“Not yet. But we have to get ready for when he does get here. We shouldn’t have long to wait.”

“Oh my God.” Clara moaned. She had been so comfortably asleep, lulled by Jack’s solid warmth and reassuring presence, made pleasantly tipsy by the beer. Now she had been dragged awake to face an aching hand, a throbbing burn, a growing sense of embarrassment as she remembered just how she had come to be cuddling so intimately with Jack—good Lord, had she practically raped the man?—and
overriding all, the realization that nothing had changed: their lives were still in the deadliest peril.

“Come on, baby, get dressed. I have a plan.” Jack reached down and grabbed her good hand. Clara allowed herself to be hauled upright.

“What time is it?”

Jack shook his head. The goons had smashed his watch when they searched him, hoping, she supposed, that the microfilm might be hidden inside it.

“I don’t know. But Rostov’s been gone about six hours. Which means that it should be about two
A.M
.”

Unspoken between them was the thought that he shouldn’t be gone much longer. Clara felt her chest tighten as she picked up her jeans. With her injured finger dressing was awkward, but she managed to struggle into the jeans and boat shoes that Jack had placed beside their makeshift bed. Sliding into one shoe and hopping sideways to put the other on her foot, she discovered Jack’s eyes on her. From the expression on his face, he had been watching her dress.

“Nice ass,” he said with an exaggerated leer. Clara got her foot in her shoe at last and straightened, eyeing him. He was grinning a little, waiting for her reaction. So he thought he’d put her out of countenance with chauvinistic remarks, did he? She walked over to him, patted the tight little masculine rear she really did admire tremendously, and said gravely, “You too.”

He looked so surprised that she had to grin. He grinned back at her, leaned over to kiss her, quick and hard, then straightened.

“Remind me to do something about that smart mouth of yours when we get out of this mess,” he said, and then he was all business. As Clara listened to his plan her eyes widened. She couldn’t do what he asked—could she?

“Just don’t forget how to operate the damned thing. And for God’s sake, don’t shoot me.”

Clara eyed her weapon with strong misgivings. She was supposed to shoot Rostov with
that?
Her heart sank at the very idea. But she had to admit, when pressed by Jack, that she couldn’t come up with a better plan. So, heart pounding, she sat back down on the floor of the trailer, furniture pad over her lap to conceal the weapon, a roll of furniture pads next to her in the hope that, for a moment anyway, Rostov might mistake them for Jack. The only thing in their favor was that Rostov would suppose them still to be handcuffed, and the assault Jack had in mind would take him totally by surprise. The details of it even surprised her, and she was rapidly learning the way his mind worked.

Once in position all there was to do was wait. Clara felt herself get more and more frightened, too frightened even to talk. If Jack’s plan didn’t succeed, the consequences were too terrifying to contemplate. Rostov would be livid, ripe for vengeance. At the thought of what he could do to her Clara felt the familiar nausea start to churn in her stomach. Then she thought of what he had done to her previously. And she realized that whatever happened, unless this plan worked, she would die. And what death could Rostov dream up in vengeance for their attack on him that would be more horrifying than being burned to death by a rubber tire?

Finally, icy calm descended. Her shattered nerves flatly refused to feel. She would do what she had to do, just as Jack would do what he had to do. Both their roles were vital to the operation’s success. Operation. The word stuck in the track of her mind and was repeated. She was even starting to think like Jack.

‘Clara get ready.” The soft warning was hissed from
where Jack was perched high up on the steel door guides. He gave her a quick thumbs up sign.

Clara knew that the showdown was about to begin. The flickering light from the bulb cast eerie shadows on the metal walls. A tremendous tension charged the air.

The click of the door being unlocked shot along her nerve endings like electricity. She was more alert than she had ever been in her life, but still the icy calm held. She would do her part. Her life as well as Jack’s was on the line.

The door rumbled open. Rostov heaved himself up, rifle in hand, silhouetted against the deep gray of the moonlit night outside as he straightened, looking around for his prisoners.

“You play a game with me, Dragon.” His icy blue eyes found Clara huddled beneath the furniture pad as he spoke They narrowed. Orlov came up behind him, still on the ground outside, head and upper trunk shadowy but visible as he laid his hand on the floor of the van to heave himself inside.

Overhead there was a crash as McClain’s feet slammed into the top of the door. The heavy metal door shot for home with a furious rumble. Orlov jumped back, cursing in Russian as the door clanged shut. Rostov whirled, looking up and shouldering his rifle at the same time. Clara came up off the floor with the fire extinguisher in her hand. She ran toward Rostov, squeezing the lever. Rostov heard her footsteps rushing across the floor and started to swing back around, rifle zeroing in on Clara. Overhead, McClain shouted. Rostov automatically flinched and looked up. White foam spewed over his face. McClain dropped from above, landing square on the Soviet’s back. The two went down in a flurry of blows and curses. The rifle went skittering across the metal floor, throwing up a shower of sparks as it went.

Clara scrambled after it. The sounds of a furious fight spurred her on. It was impossible to know who was doing what to whom with her back turned, but Clara knew that it would be a fight to the death. She had to help Jack—and herself. All her life she had thought of herself as a coward; well, here was the true test.

The sounds of blows accompanied by grunts and groans punctuated her desperate search for the rifle. Where had the damned thing gone? A furious banging on the door from the goons outside told her that Jack’s plan to lock the door by snapping a handcuff through one of the holes on the guide after kicking the door closed had worked. Orlov and Malik and the others could not get in—for the moment.

She found the rifle at last, its barrel protruding from beneath the generator. Fishing it out, she lifted it, surprised at its weight and the cold solidity of it in her hand, and turned. The men were flopping around on the floor like landed fish. Rostov had Jack in a headlock; Jack was punching Rostov’s kidneys. Blood spattered both distorted faces. Their expressions were murderous. Each was out to kill. She had to do something; there was no one else. Jack might win or he might not. It would be foolish to take that chance. Lifting the rifle to her shoulder, pointing its ugly black mouth at the twisting, grunting, gouging pair on the floor, she walked forward until she was only a few feet away. Then she stopped. It occurred to her that Rostov might seize the chance to try to grab the rifle away from her, and that would be disastrous. For a moment she stood irresolute. What should she do? They paid her not the least attention, fighting in deadly earnest and a frightening silence punctuated only by the sound of blows and pained grunts. Rostov once again got Jack in a headlock.

For a split second Clara considered firing the rifle. It
would give her tremendous pleasure to shoot Rostov point-blank in the head. But she wasn’t sure exactly how to fire it, and even she knew better than to shoot off a gun in a metal enclosure. The ricochet could very easily kill any one or all of them. Besides, she had never fired a gun in her life. As entwined as Jack and Rostov were, there was every possibility she might shoot the wrong man.

There was, it seemed, only one thing to do. Taking a deep breath, Clara lowered the rifle, grasped it firmly with both hands around the barrel, lifted it high overhead and brought the heavy metal butt crashing down onto Rostov’s blond head.