With a cry Gina went stumbling backward. Off balance, trying to keep herself from falling, she stared in wide-eyed horror at the opening door.
Her heart almost stopped as Ivanov stepped into the room.
Chapter Seventeen
Gina heard a distant roar through the rush of cold air that burst into the room with Ivanov. Someone had started up the tractor, she realized, identifying the sound using the part of her mind that wasn’t transfixed by fear. The tractor was what the team had termed the big trucklike vehicle with the tank treads that was used for heavy hauling or other chores around camp.
Ivanov stopped abruptly just inside the doorway as he spotted her.
“Hel-lo,” he said with a note of recognition as she barely saved herself from falling by grabbing on to the edge of a washing machine. There was satisfaction in his tone and in his face as his eyes ran over her. Gina barely noticed. Her attention was entirely focused on his gun.
Closing the door behind him, Ivanov raised the compact black pistol, aiming it at her almost casually.
Gina’s throat closed up. She couldn’t have said a word if she’d wanted to. Hideous visions of what bullets had done to Mary and Jorge sent icy spicules of fear racing through her bloodstream.
“You were hiding, yes?” he asked in a conversational tone.
Her heart and her pulse and her adrenal system all blasted into full freak-out mode at the same time.
Gina turned and ran.
“Stop!” He leaped into pursuit. Flying across the kitchen like her life depended on it, which it did, Gina heard him yell something in Russian, heard the pounding of his boots on the linoleum and the harsh pant of his breathing as he came after her.
Swallowing the scream that ripped into her throat—the last thing she wanted to do was summon more killers—she threw a terrified glance over her shoulder to find him no more than a couple of strides behind. If he lunged, could he reach her? Yes. Run. Run. She knew she wasn’t going to make it, wasn’t going to be able to escape him. There was nowhere to go.
“Stop or I will kill you,” he barked. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the gun coming up—
Her heart leaped. Her shoulder blades tightened in instinctive defense: He’s going to shoot me in the back.
Her hood was down. Its fur-lined thickness must have made it extend a few inches behind her back, because with his free hand he was able to grab it. He yanked brutally, jerking her back toward him, sending her feet flying out from under her.
The jarring pain that shot through her as she crashed down on her back on the floor was nothing compared to the consuming horror of looking up through the haze of jumbled images brought on by the shock of the fall to find that one particular image—Ivanov—stood threateningly over her.
Even as he came into complete and total focus, panic galvanized her. Her heart beat so frantically that it felt as if it were going to burst.
There was absolutely nothing she could do.
She knew she was facing death, and every cell in her body went freezing cold even as her mind rebelled.
Getting an elbow beneath her, Gina forced her head and shoulders up off the floor. She met his gaze: his eyes were blue, and merciless. The eyes of a killer.
“IT WAS you,” he said, looking her over with interest. He seemed in no hurry. She remembered that he’d apparently talked to Mary before killing her. Clearly he wanted information from Gina: otherwise, she would already be dead.
He continued, “Who saw the plane—”
Gina jumped as a dark shape exploded from behind the island, behind Ivanov. Roaring something in Russian, Ivanov whipped around to face the threat. A big man in a black coat—that was Gina’s initial, blurred impression of the attacker—leaped on him before he could even complete the turn. For a moment the two grappled—she heard a couple of solid thuds and grunts as if blows were being landed—and then Ivanov froze.
By that time he was facing her. Over the other man’s shoulder, Gina watched Ivanov’s eyes widen, watched his face contort. His gun clattered to the floor, skidded toward her.
Get the gun.
It was the only thought in her mind.
Diving for the gun as the men continued to tussle, she grabbed it and came up into a crouch, clutching it. She hated guns, but she knew how to use one.
And she wouldn’t hesitate to demonstrate that knowledge, if the situation called for it.
Ivanov was staggering back, away from the gun that Gina now pointed in his direction, away from the other man. He was gasping, blinking rapidly, looking down at himself. Both of his hands came up to wrap around the handle of a large knife that protruded from his chest. His puffy green coat started to darken around the knife as Gina watched in horror. She knew it was from blood. More blood started to trickle from the corner of his mouth.
Gina shuddered.