In Sheep's Clothing

“Looks like the remnants of a tetrad, the kind professors use to record lab data.”

A notebook. For experiments? Vicktor rubbed his chin and rose. Why would Evgeny burn his lab notes? Turning, he glimpsed another tech slip something into his pocket. “What are you doing?”

The man whirled. Reed thin, with bloodshot eyes and scaly skin, he blanched. Vicktor grabbed him by the collar and shoved the tech against the sticky lab table. Glaring into his eyes an inch from his nose, Vicktor reached into the man’s pocket and pulled out an unbroken vial. Novocain.

“Zdraztvootya? I believe that’s called stealing.”

The tech’s Adam’s apple dipped twice in his neck. “He doesn’t need it anymore.”

The room went quiet. Vicktor let the kid go and blew out a hot breath. The tech’s mottled face, glistening with a scrim of sweaty fear, told Vicktor he wore what Roman would call his “tiger” face. Great. Just when he thought he had a clamp on his emotions.

Good thing Roman wasn’t here. Though perhaps, if he were, Vicktor wouldn’t feel like the only uninvited guest at a birthday party. The militia stepped up and took notice whenever a COBRA walked into the room—the training the FSB received to become the special agents who fought the mafia guaranteed respect.

Or better yet, the entrance of David Curtiss, Green Beret and Delta Force captain, would get their attention. Only, he couldn’t shout that little alliance across the room, could he? Sometimes Vicktor felt like David, better known as Preach, was in his head, his little voice of reason, and he would admit, only to himself, that he needed Preach’s words of wisdom way more than he’d thought ten years ago.

Who knew that a pickup game of hockey, a fistfight and an American-style pizza would lead to friendships that felt tethered to Vicktor’s very soul?

Sometimes he wondered if Roman and David had planned it that way.

Vicktor set the vial in a tray on the examining table and shot the tech a scalding look. “Get to work.”

Stepping into the hall, he fielded a frown from the Bulldog.

“Spequietsye, Vicktor. This isn’t America. Loosen up.”

Arkady’s voice, although low, tightened Vicktor’s gut. He swallowed a retort, closed his eyes and sighed. “Sorry.”

Arkady was right. He didn’t need a new generation of enemies in the militia, and another stunt like that could route his next urgent phone call straight to the morgue.

Arkady tapped his cigarette. The ash died to gray before it hit the floor. “Your shirt is too tight, Vicktor. You’ve changed. Ever since you got back from that stint in America, nothing is good enough for you. You see everything through American eyes…American cop eyes. Black and white. Don’t forget you are Russian. The law has shades of gray here.”

A muscle tensed in Vicktor’s jaw. Arkady was from the old school, the days of propaganda and the Cold War, the easy days when the bad guys were easily identifiable—they wore red, white and blue.

It hadn’t helped his relationship with his former chief when he had accepted the six-month internship in America. The friendship had taken further serious hits when he defected to the FSB, a.k.a. the former KGB, six months ago. The chief just didn’t get it—after the Wolf incident, the blunder of Vicktor’s militia career, Vicktor had to rescue himself from early retirement. Besides, the FSB had been chasing him like a hound since his training in the States, and after Roman had smoothed over the incident, they’d practically thrown him a welcome bash.

“We’re on the same side, you know,” Vicktor said.

Arkady drew on his cigarette as if he didn’t hear him.

Vicktor suddenly wanted to dump this entire thing in Arkady’s lap. A lifetime of chasing the scum of society had left an ugly pit in his stomach. He preferred the intellectual sparring of the international crimes unit where he now worked. But the memory of Evgeny, all smiles and jokes, stripped his anger, leaving only aching.

He needed answers. He wasn’t about to disappoint another person he cared about, especially posthumously. He’d find Evgeny’s killer even if he had to wrestle his pride into hard little knots.

Vicktor dredged up a respectful tone. “Yes, sir.”

Chapter Two

Vicktor banged out of his apartment building and spied Roman leaning back against his building, arms akimbo, wearing a stocking cap, a running suit and a smile.

“Missed you last night.”

“I had to work.” The last thing Vicktor wanted to remember was the fact he’d missed out on a group chat. Like he had friends to spare. Vicktor made a face at him and began stretching from side to side. “I found Evgeny Lakarstin dead in his lab yesterday.”

Roman went silent at that, his mouth in an O.

“I was up until midnight answering questions and writing reports.”

“Fun. Well, then I hate to be the one to tell you Mae’s in town. She’s pulling transportation duty for some army brass. She told me to say hi to ‘Stripes.’”

Okay, that hurt more than he would have expected, even with Roman’s warning. “Oh, really?” Just what he needed to make his day—the memory of Mae Lund, her right hook against his chin, the fact that she was over him enough to say hello, and the knowledge that she probably looked better than he had a right to imagine. Only she knew how much he needed her opinion, how he’d relished the nickname she gave him.

“She made captain, by the way. She’s flying DC-10s.”

Good girl. Mae had earned her stripes through grit and spunk, and in the active, objective part of his brain, he couldn’t blame her for not falling for the first Russian to flex his muscles. Even if he had done it saving her life.

“I thought she was on Search and Rescue.”

“Not when she can speak Russian. They have her translating, too. By the way, David was online, as well.”

The rising sun peeked through gaps in the tall buildings. It turned crisp, slightly frozen street puddles bright platinum and hinted at a beautiful spring day.

“Let’s run,” Vicktor snapped. He didn’t know what irritated him more. That he’d been up until all hours describing Evgeny’s death scene for his old militia cohorts, that he’d slept with one-hundred and thirty pounds of Great Dane on his face, or that he’d missed a chance to check in with the only people who knew the nightmares that haunted him.

Especially after a day when those nightmares seemed particularly fresh and brutal.

Roman scrambled to keep up as Vicktor shot down the sidewalk toward the wide greening boulevard between Karl Marx Street and Lenin Street. Roman, of course, wouldn’t think of asking him to slow down, and that fact kept Vicktor at a speed that pushed his heart rate into overdrive.

He didn’t care. Two weeks into his summer running habit, he needed an intense workout to drive Evgeny’s corpse from his mind. Internal snapshots of Evgeny had pushed sleep into the folds of eternity.

He hardly noticed Roman behind him the entire kilometer to the river.

The Amur River pushed yellow foam and brown ice in thick currents north to its Pacific mouth. Vicktor let the snappy wind comb his hatless head and chill the sweat on his brow. Next to him, Roman gripped his knees and gulped frosty breaths. Remorse speared Vicktor. He shouldn’t wrestle his grief during Roman’s workout time.

“Sorry, Roma,” he muttered, stopping and leaning against a stone wall that separated the beach from the boardwalk.

Roman straightened, his forgiveness written in his signature lopsided grin. “Kak Dela, Vita? I’d say from this morning’s sprint we aren’t simply stretching our muscles. You trying to exorcise some personal demons?”

Vicktor looked away from Roman’s intuitive blue eyes. “You’re starting to sound like Preach.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Tell me what’s up.”

Vicktor turned, braced himself on the fence and leaned in, forcing screams up his calf muscles. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired.”

Roman crossed his arms and propped a hip on the stone. Wind whistled down the boardwalk, sifting through Vicktor’s Seattle PD sweatshirt. He shivered.

“Tired?” Roman echoed after a bit. “Tired of what? Grieving your mother? Trying to make things right with your pop?”

Vicktor tossed him a frown. “You are definitely sounding like Preach, or maybe Mae. Stop psychoanalyzing my life. I’m just…tired.” He stared at the dirty Amur. “Sometimes I just wonder if it wouldn’t have been better if it had been me who’d been shot instead of my father.”