Ekaterina Read Free

a father. The difference meant he learned more about how to read people in a flash than how to build a relationship—a lesson he’d taken to heart and practiced well as his stint as a Red Beret in the new Russian Army. He could count his close friends on his closed fist, and he liked it that way.
    He’d learned at the sturdy age of eight the high cost of friendship and had veered an unwavering course around it ever since. Ryslan, his partner of three weeks, was the closest thing he had to a buddy, and even that thought wasn’t appetizing when he had to choose between an unscheduled Saturday afternoon hike through Moscow’s Gregarin Park or stacking shots of vodka at the local FSB night dive with Ryslan and his COBRA pals.
    Not that belonging to the elite group of COBRAs didn’t have its merits. With the right moves, he could have any number of women lining up to melt his cold exterior. But they only saw a man whose physique reflected familiarity with the rigors of a regular PT schedule. And their brand of friendship left his gut pinging with emptiness. He’d pass on the ladies, the buddies, and, as for the COBRAs, well maybe a high-profile arrest would do what the vodka shots and false camaraderie couldn’t—earn their respect.
    “Just keep your eyes on him.” Vadeem shrugged out of his leather jacket, reached over, and pulled a militia uniform jacket off a coat tree. Grabbing the hat off the corporal, he snuggled it down over his head. “If she is involved, I’ll know.”
    Ryslan harrumphed as he left the militia booth.
    Vadeem buttoned the jacket over his black pullover as he thumped down the stairs, hoping Grazovich didn’t notice his black jeans and loafers instead of the standard issue military grays and black boots.
    The American’s confused voice lifted over the cluster of officers as she gestured to something in her hand. He approached the tallest officer, who stood a few feet back. “What’s up?”
    “An American. She set off the alarm with some sort of souvenir she had in her coat pocket.”
    “What is it?”
    “Looks like a key.” The official moved away, and Vadeem got a full view of the hapless arms dealer. She looked about as sinister as his grandmother, if he had one. Her tousled hair, the color of caramel, fell over her face in thick strands, and a button on her white blouse had come undone. Her jacket, a glaring red affair that screamed “tourist!” hung off her shoulders, weighted down on one side by a bulging backpack that skimmed the carry-on limit. Fear filled those big amber eyes, and for a moment they looked up, and caught him staring at her.
    Her expression was so desperate it rattled his resolve to hike her back to one of the dusty offices and put her thumbs to the screws.
    “Please, gentlemen, return this woman’s key and let her be.” Ivan Grazovich, smuggler and terrorist to the rescue.
    Vadeem’s eyes narrowed, seeing the way the gangster moved close and tucked an arm around the lady’s waist. “She’s with me,” Grazovich said.
    A tall soldier with gray eyes gave Grazovich a hard look. “And who are you?” Vadeem stepped closer, gaze pinned to the woman, and watched the way her blue eyes widened in shock? Or relief?
    Oh, she was about as innocent as Comrade Stalin.
    “Leave the woman alone, gentlemen. Haven’t you terrified her enough for one day?” Grazovich smiled. Mr. Good Will.
    Vadeem repulsed the urge to grab the smuggler by the cuff of his starched white dress shirt, or his black trench coat, and wrestle the truth out of him with the blunt end of his Makarov.
    Instead Vadeem strode forward and hooked a hand around the woman’s arm. “You can wait for her past customs,” he clipped at Grazovich. Then, ignoring the man’s glower, he towed Miss Arms Dealer through the crowd and into the inner sanctum of Militia Border Control.
    -
    Ilyitch stood in the shadows and watched the FSB agent tow the American into his custody. A sick feeling welled in his gut.