“Not with me, you’re not.”
“Sandra, think this through. We can’t outrun a radio. We have to go back, now, and finish the job, or we’ll never make it to the border.”
“They’ll already have called for help.”
“Maybe. But we can’t know for sure. What I do know is that Taras is the closest thing to a brother I have, and I’m not going to leave my family in Russian hands. If you won’t help me, give me the gun and I’ll do it with my men. I’m not afraid.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with fear, Yulia. It has to do with there being no chance of success.”
“Then wait here and we’ll try it alone,” Mikhail sneered. “We don’t need you.”
“Yes, you’re doing a fine job so far,” Jet said. She looked back to Yulia, and Jet’s eyes widened when she spotted the pistol in Yulia’s hand, pointed at her back.
“I can’t leave you here, Sandra. You’re either with us…or against us.”
“You’re going to shoot me?”
“Of course not. But if you’re not going to help, give me the keys.”
“You have no chance.”
Yulia’s voice softened. “Please, Sandra. Help me. It doesn’t have to be like this. We both know if we move fast enough, we might be able to make it.”
Jet closed her eyes for a second, and when she opened them, her jaw was set. “Fine. But we only have two loaded guns. So just you and me.”
Mikhail began to protest, but Yulia cut him off. “Sandra, see if you can get the van further off the road where it won’t be spotted.”
Jet pulled forward and across the hard ground until the van was hidden behind a grove of trees. When she shut off the engine, her pulse was throbbing in her ears. “All right. Let’s do this.” She gave Yulia a dark look. “He’d better be worth it.”
“I don’t leave men behind. Not when there’s a chance.”
Jet didn’t argue, it being more than obvious that Yulia was determined to return regardless of the risk. They crept through the trees, the light of the moon faint through the remnants of the storm, a light ground fog drifting between the trunks, muffling their steps. They moved cautiously through the woods, parallel to the road, pausing occasionally to listen for approaching engines, sticking to the tree line until they saw the SUV lights.
“They’re waiting for backup,” Yulia whispered. “But we’re a decent distance from the nearest town. I figured they’d stay put.”
Jet frowned. “You realize that every second we’re standing here is time we could be using to get to the border, right? That even if by some miracle we’re able to overcome the police and rescue Taras, our chances of making it with a wounded man are somewhere between slim and none?”
“You don’t understand. He knows too much. He can’t remain in Russian hands.”
“He was just in them.”
“That was one of the reasons we had to escape quickly. Before anyone talked.”
Jet fixed her with a hard stare. “How do you know he didn’t?”
She looked away. “Because he’s still alive.”
Yulia inched closer to the SUV and Jet followed her, the trees providing adequate cover but insufficient for them to get within close range. They could just make out the silhouettes of the cops as they neared, and then Yulia drew in a sharp breath.
“They’ve got Taras leaned up against the truck.”
Jet peered at the vehicles and nodded. “I see him. But it’s going to be impossible to sneak up on them unless–”
Yulia was already in motion, making for the two officers. Jet cursed under her breath and moved to provide cover fire, and then a siren’s whoop split the air and emergency lights strobed from around the bend in the road. Yulia stopped, startled by the approaching police vehicle, and retraced her steps, running in a crouch to where Jet lay on the ground, trying to present the smallest possible target.
Yulia reached her as the new arrival screeched to a stop and two more cops leapt from the squad car. Jet leaned into her and hissed a warning. “Yulia, it’s over. Let’s get out of here.”
She glared at Jet as though she was to blame, and then held out her hand. “Give me the gun.”
“No. It’s suicide, Yulia.”
Yulia shook her head. “Not to rush them. I need to finish Taras. He can’t be taken alive. There’s too much at stake.”
Jet studied the Ukrainian woman’s face, the hard line of her jaw, the tear tracing its way down her cheek as she wiped away a wisp of hair. “How good a shot are you?” Jet asked, eyeing the submachine gun. “They’re about at the limit of this thing’s accuracy.”
Yulia didn’t flinch. “Good enough.”
Jet handed her the gun with misgivings and watched her squint down the sights, confirming to Jet that she didn’t have much familiarity with the weapon. Yulia’s finger moved through the trigger guard as she gripped the gun too tightly, and then she lowered the barrel. “It’s too far.”