the Romanov Prophecy (2004) Read Free Page A

vaulted onto the Lada’s hood, his hands clasping the windshield wipers. Thank heaven the damn thing had wipers. He knew most drivers kept them locked in the glove compartment to thwart thieves. The Lada’s driver gave him a startled look but kept rolling forward toward the busy boulevard. Through the rear window Lord saw Droopy, fifty yards behind, crouching to fire and Cro-Magnon scaling the fence. He thought of the taxi driver and decided it wasn’t right to involve this man. As the Lada exited onto the six-lane boulevard, he rolled off the hood and onto the sidewalk.
    Bullets arrived in the next second.
    The Lada whipped left and sped away.
    Lord continued to roll until he was in the street, hoping a slight depression below the curb would be enough to block Droopy’s firing angle.
    The earth and concrete churned as bullets dug in.
    A crowd waiting for a bus scattered.
    He glanced to his left. A bus was no more than fifty feet away and rolling toward him. Air brakes engaged. Tires squealed. The scent of sulfur exhaust was nearly suffocating. He twirled his body into the street as the bus screeched to a stop. The vehicle was now between him and the gunmen. Thank God no cars were using the boulevard’s outermost lane.
    He stood and darted across the six-lane road. Traffic all came one way, from the north. He crisscrossed the lanes and made a point of staying perpendicular with the bus. Halfway, he was forced to pause and wait for a line of cars to pass. There’d only be a few moments more until the gunmen rounded the bus. He took advantage of a break in traffic and ran across the final two lanes, onto the sidewalk, jumping the curb.
    Ahead was a busy construction site. Bare girders rose four stories into a rapidly clouding afternoon sky. He’d still not seen one policeman other than the two on his tail. Over the whirl of traffic came the roar of cranes and cement mixers. Unlike back home in Atlanta, no fences of any kind delineated the unsafe zone.
    He trotted onto the work site and glanced back to see the gunmen starting their own bisection of the crowded boulevard, dodging cars, horns protesting their progress. Workers milled about the construction site, paying him little attention. He wondered how many black men dressed in bloody suits ran onto the job site every day. But it was all part of the new Moscow. The safest course was surely to stay out of the way.
    Behind, the two gunmen found the sidewalk. They were now less than fifty yards away.
    Ahead, a cement mixer churned gray mortar into a steel trough as a helmeted worker monitored the progress. The trough rested on a large wooden platform chained to a cable that ran four stories up to a roof crane. The worker tending the mixture backed away and the entire assembly rose.
    Lord decided up was as good a place as any and raced for the ascending platform, leaping forward, gripping the platform’s bottom edge. Crusted concrete caked on the surface made it difficult to maintain a hold, but thoughts of Droopy and his pal kept his fingers secure.
    The platform rose, and he swung himself upward.
    The unbalanced movement caused a sway, chains groaning from the added weight, but he managed to climb up and flatten his body against the trough. The added weight and movement tipped everything his way, and mortar sloshed onto him.
    He glanced over the side.
    The two gunmen had seen what he did. He was fifty feet in the air and climbing. They stopped their advance and took aim. He felt the mortar-encrusted wood beneath him and stared at the steel trough.
    No choice.
    He quickly rolled into the trough, sending wet mortar oozing over the side. Cold mud enveloped him and sent a chill through his already shaking body.
    Gunfire started.
    Bullets ripped the wooden underside and pelted the trough. He shrank into the cement and heard the recoil of lead off steel.
    Suddenly, sirens.
    Coming closer.
    The shooting stopped.
    He peered out toward the boulevard and saw three police cars