TWENTY
I remained frozen with indecision when the sound of male voices had me backing into my hiding place once again.
Russian words caught my ear and I vowed to learn the damn language if I got out of here alive.
The men passed my position and headed to the elevator.
They stood, nonchalantly waiting for it to come, as if they hadn’t just possibly left a body bleeding out behind them.
One began speaking. I couldn’t see, but since it was a one sided conversation I assumed he was talking on a comm or cell phone. I seriously hoped he wasn’t reporting to his superior the successful elimination of whoever their target was.
That I didn’t hear anything else was extremely odd. No screams. No sirens. No voices at all except for the two Russians by the elevator.
I was deciding if that was comforting or disturbing when the elevator opened and the men stepped inside.
The doors slid shut and the sound of the voices faded.
That was it. I’d had enough of hiding and staying put. I needed to find out what had happened.
I popped my head out of the doorway. With a glance at the elevator to make sure the coast was clear I took off down the hall toward where I’d heard the sound.
My hope was to find the rest of my team—upright and breathing.
Dress shoes were not made for running, but I made progress, sprinting past closed doors that looked more office than storage until I reached the end of the hall.
There I skidded to a stop at what I saw. The doorknob was mangled, as if someone had shot the lock.
That explained the sound I’d heard but didn’t answer the more pressing question—where was everyone?
I should call or text Zane. I could also head back to the party and wait for Tristan and Alex to come out of hiding. I did neither.
Instead I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Silence greeted me. I decided I’d had enough of the silence and enough of being in the dark, both figuratively and literally. I flipped on the lights.
“Tristan!” I had no patience as I waited for a reply. “Alex? Viktoria? Dammit, someone answer me!”
“You need to learn to do as you’re told.” Tristan stepped out of the shadows. The cocky crooked grin on his face was such a relief I couldn’t even be angry at his words.
“Thank God.” A breath whooshed out of me. “I heard a shot. I was worried. Is everyone okay?”
As I looked around the space I heard more voices speaking Russian, but this time they were female.
Viktoria. And Alex? I saw them now through the open shelving of the storeroom.
It shouldn’t be a surprise Alex spoke Russian. Nothing that woman did could surprise me anymore. Though the overwhelming relief that she was all right shocked the hell out of me.
Maybe I did have it in me to forgive her—eventually.
Tristan stepped closer and glanced at the doorway. “Russians shot the lock. They gone?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered, hoping it was the truth. “I waited until they got on the elevator then came to investigate. Who were they?”
Tristan shrugged. “Could be anyone. NSB. Putin’s henchmen. Viktoria’s daddy’s men. Who knows?”
“Jesus.” That list of possibilities, here on US soil and at the MoMA no less, did not make me feel better.
Tristan’s gaze met mine. “Thanks for the warning. You saved us from quite a mess. We were able to hide before they got here.”
So that’s what had happened. The Russians found an empty room and thought their target had left. But that didn’t explain what was happening here in the first place.
“Care to explain what’s going on there?” I tipped my head toward Viktoria, the two men who looked as pale and shaken as I felt, and Alex who seemed perfectly calm in spite of it all.
Tristan followed my gaze. “Apparently Alex speaks fluent Russian.”
I cocked up a brow. “Yes, I see that. But what was Viktoria doing creeping around here in the first place, and why were two armed men tailing her? Did we stumble upon some sort of smuggling ring?”
It was quite obvious that this wasn’t just a donor taking a tour of the collection, even to me, a novice at this spy stuff.
“Actually, we did in a way. However, she’s not smuggling art, but rather artists.”
My gaze shot to him. “What?”
“My Russian isn’t quite as good as Alex’s—which is quite flawless by the way—but from what I’ve gathered, Viktoria is helping that man flee his country.” Tristan nodded toward the man standing between Viktoria and Alex.
So many revelations came from that sentence I didn’t know which to focus on first. That Alex’s Russian was perfect—and what did that indicate about her? That Tristan also spoke Russian—of course he did. Why not? The man could do anything apparently. And finally—and this was probably the only thing I should be concerned about—that Viktoria was helping some artist defect.
“Why is he fleeing his country?” I asked, putting aside my petty personal concerns about Alex’s identity and Tristan’s perfection and settling on that last larger point.
“The subject of his art, and I’d wager his political leanings as well, has put him on Putin’s hit list. Viktoria got him into the country on her private plane. The museum curator is helping set him up with a place to live and work here in the States.”
I frowned. “I didn’t know being an artist was such a dangerous profession.”
“Under certain countries, it definitely is.”
It was like the plot of an action movie. I was still trying to wrap my head around it all when I asked Tristan, “What now?”
“Now you can go back to the party or home if you wish. We’re done here.”
“Done?” It didn’t feel done. The bad guys could still be in the building. Viktoria’s artist was still stashed in the storeroom of the museum. It felt like there were too many loose ends for this to be over. “What about him?”
“There’s a car waiting at the loading dock to take the artist away.”
“But what if the two Russians are down there waiting for him?”
“Zane’s computer expert has gained access to a camera across the street. He’s got eyes on the car and the surrounding area. It’s clear, but I’m going down with them to make sure.”
“So you don’t need me?” I asked.
“No. We’re good, mate. Go get yourself a drink. You deserve it.”
“Okay.” Why was I feeling so let down?
Maybe because if this had been an action movie, there’d be some sort of conclusion. A happy ending. At least a kiss before the hero left his lady and drove off into the sunset.
Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.
I glanced at Alex, still chatting in Russian, and then back to Tristan. “I think I’ll skip that drink and just head out.”
And then have a drink—or three—once I was safely home, alone in my apartment.
I had a feeling I was going to need it.