Night Magic Part 2

"She still out?" The voice was thick, gutteral- and not Rostov's. Clara knew that she would recognize the KGB man's distinctive accent anywhere.

"Yeah."

Ridiculously, the knowledge that neither of her captors was Rostov comforted her. Although she knew perfectly well that they were almost certainly his henchmen, told to bring her to him. Still, it was likely that she would not be harmed until he appeared.

Clara felt hands grab onto her shoulders, and other hands take her feet, which from the feel of them on her bare ankles were clear of the canvas. Then she was lifted and carried clumsily from the van. Concentrating on being a dead weight- no easy task with a twenty pound cat digging its claws into her chest- Clara tried to project the muscle tone of a limp noodle.

"Heavy, ain't she?"

This grunt, as they descended what felt like a steep flight of steps, piqued her pride. Which was ridiculous under the circ.u.mstances, she knew. Still, she'd always been sensitive about her weight, and it was some comfort to her to reflect that Puff was responsible for an additional twenty-odd pounds.

"G.o.d, I'm going to drop her!"

He did, before his gasping announcement even registered. Luckily, it was the man holding her feet who had fallen victim to b.u.t.ter fingers. Still, her leg crashed into what felt like the corner of a table, and the ensuing sharp pain did not quite cancel out the ripping of claws in flesh as Puff, dislodged from his perch, skidded protesting to where the rope binding her arms to her hips made it impossible for him to skid any further. Despite her best efforts to fall like a dead weight, she could not help trying to protect herself as much as possible. Perhaps they hadn't noticed how she'd cringed?

"What was that?"

The question was clearly in response to Puff's menacing growl.

"The d.a.m.n cat."

"You didn't get rid of it?"

"How the h.e.l.l was I supposed to get rid of it? The thing's a monster. You stick your hand up inside that bag and get rid of it."

"I don't suppose it makes that much difference. Come on, pick her up again and let's get this over with. The colonel will be here soon."

Clara's feet were lifted again. She was carried through a door and then put down on what felt like a cold stone floor. The scent of dampness wafted through the stiff folds of canvas. She was in a cellar of some kind.

There was a sharp rapping on a door a few feet away.

"What?" The question came from inside the door.

"Open up." It was one of her captors. "We've got the merchandise."

Clara heard the unmistakeable sound of a lock clicking open. Then she was picked up again and lugged through a narrow doorway. Her shoulders sc.r.a.ped the jam, but the canvas protected her flesh. Once inside, they set her on her feet, one of them holding her upright while the other seemed to be working at the rope. Conscientiously maintaining her pose of unconsciousness, Clara sagged at the knees. A ringing blow to the side of her head made her cry out, and straighten up fast.

"We know you're awake, Blondie. If you know what's good for you you won't give us any trouble."

The blow and the muttered warning came from the man who was still struggling to untie the rope that wound around the canvas. Another voice, one she hadn't heard before, spoke from further in the room.

"Here's the present we've been promising you, McClain."

"What the h.e.l.l kind of screw up have you done now, a.s.shole?" The rasping, taunting voice belonged to the man in the tobacco field. The one that Rostov had been searching for. Well, apparently they'd found him. But if so, what did they want with her?

"Next time Rostov tells you to talk, you'd better do it. Because I doubt your little girlfriend here will hold up very well to what Rostov will do to her. How do you think she'll like having each finger broken one by one- and how do you think you'll like watching? And if that doesn't work, we can always try cigarettes on soft little t.i.tties. Or a cattle prod. I can think of something fun to do with a cattle prod..." And he went on to describe an act so vile that Clara felt sick to her stomach. She had no illusions that the man was just talking, trying to frighten her. She was frightened. But no one cared about her. They were going to use her to try to make McClain talk- and he wouldn't talk to save her. She didn't know the man, but she suspected he would let them do anything they wanted to her, even kill her. She moaned.

There was a low chuckle. "See, she's smarter than you are. Are you going to let us do that to your sweetie without doing anything to stop it? All it takes is the right words from you."

"I keep telling you, she's not my girlfriend."

"You keep telling us," he agreed. Then, apparently to the man still trying to work the knots out of the rope, he said, "Cut it, you fool!"

Seconds later, Clara felt the sawing of a knife at the rope. Without warning it gave. Her arms were released from the circulation-stopping restraint- and Puff, with no support for his rotund body, dropped to the floor like a stone just as Clara was freed from what proved to be a large laundry bag.

"What the h.e.l.l is that?" The startled question came from the man who had originally been in the cellar with McClain.

"It's only a cat," one of her captors tried to a.s.sure him. But Puff was not behaving like "only a cat." Thoroughly outraged by the treatment that had been accorded him, he snarled, crouching at Clara's feet, then leaped for the top of a heatlamp that had been directed at McClain. Clara, still blinking in the unexpectedly bright light, barely managed to take in all that happened next. The light pole fell with a crash. Puff, emitting bloodcurdling yowls, was thrown from his chosen perch to land with claws extended on the shoulder of one of her captors. The man screamed and tried to drag Puff from his back. The other two watched goggle-eyed as their buddy danced around the small room trying to dislodge the huge furry ball, and McClain, who had been sitting on a small wooden chair, his face swollen and bloodied from blows, rose to his feet with a sudden surge of power, his hands handcuffed uselessly behind him. Even as the man who had been guarding him turned toward him, one of McClain's feet lashed out and made contact with the other's crotch. Screaming, the man dropped to his knees. The other two men, their attention caught by the scream, turned in time for one of them to be flattened with a flying drop kick that landed right beneath his chin. The third, finally free of Puff, who had leapt for safety to the top of a metal locker, fumbled inside his jacket for a gun. McClain ran toward him, b.u.t.ting him in the stomach with his head before the gun could be drawn. The man doubled over with a whoosh of escaping air.

"Let's get the h.e.l.l out of here!" McClain roared, hardly looking over his shoulder at her as he bolted through the open door. Clara, who was still somewhat dazed but not stupid, ran after him. The three thugs were already recovering.

McClain ran up the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs, through a pantry and then a kitchen of what seemed to be a large, elegantly furnished house, and out onto the paved patio, where numerous vehicles were parked.

"Check for keys," he yelled at her. Clara ran to look in the window of the vehicle closest to her. It was a van, and the keys were in the ignition.

"Here!"

He was beside her even as she got the door open, shouldering her inside then dropping into the pa.s.senger seat.

"Get us the h.e.l.l out of here!"

"But-"

"Drive!" he bellowed. Clara turned the key over and started to pull away just as a gray furry ball erupted from the open door of the house, followed by three men.

"Puff!" she screamed, barreling toward them. One of them was taking aim... She ducked, the bullet shattered the windshield, McClain yelled the foulest curses she had ever heard, the men leapt out of the way, and then Clara hit the brakes so hard that the van slid sideways to a screeching halt.

"What the-" She barely registered McClain's protest. Swearing under her breath, she jumped out of the van, ran to scoop Puff out of the driveway where he crouched, apparently frozen with fear, and jumped back into the van just as another bullet whistled over her head. Dumping Puff unceremoniously into the back, she put the van in gear and stepped on the gas so hard that the vehicle shot forward like a rock out of a slingshot.

VI.

"You almost got us killed over a d.a.m.n cat?" McClain's voice was a barely subdued roar.

"He was sitting in the middle of the drive. I couldn't just run over him."

"Those aren't play bullets, you know. Those are real bad guys and they really would like to kill us."

"There's no need to be sarcastic."

"I can't believe any rational human being would stop for a d.a.m.n cat..."

Clara ignored this mutter and concentrated on driving. The twisty road opened out onto a two-lane blacktop. She barely paused at the stop sign; the van's wheels spun as she pulled out. Every few seconds she glanced in the rearview mirror. McClain had said that they would be followed. What was taking them so long?

"Where do you think you're going, anyway?"

Clara looked over at him, surprised. The darkness was kind to his bruised and battered face, but he was certainly no better looking than she had thought him at first meeting. With his square, pugnacious jaw distorted, a swelling the size of one of her fists just below his ear and an ugly looking gash the size of her middle finger behind it, a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth and a dark purple circle surrounding one bright green eye, he looked like he had been made up for Halloween. Only Clara knew that the marks were not makeup.

"Home," she said, surprised that he should even ask. Then, thinking about it, she was surprised again at her own slow-wittedness. The drug they had sprayed her with must be having some residual effect. Of course she could not go home. If Rostov had sought her out twice, once at the home of the county sheriff, she was not safe anywhere. The thought was frightening.

"Dumb idea, huh?"

He nodded. "They'll be looking for us. We'll have to hide."

"Explain something to me. If they had you, why did they want me?"

"The only thing that was keeping me alive was the idea that I might have pa.s.sed on to a few people some information I have. Rostov didn't dare kill me until he found out who I might have talked to. They tried to torture the information out of me. When that didn't work, they decided to bring you in and see if I could stomach watching them kill my girlfriend by degrees. They were gambling that I couldn't. But either way they would have killed us both."

"I'm not your girlfriend."

"No."

"It doesn't matter, does it?" Her voice and the eyes she turned to him were suddenly despairing. "It doesn't matter that I never saw you before in my life until you popped up in that field and scared the life out of me. It doesn't matter that I have absolutely nothing to do with whatever you're involved in. It doesn't matter that I don't know anything about anything. They want to kill me anyway, because of you. It isn't fair!"

"Life isn't fair." His calm rejoinder set her temper to sizzling. She glowered at him, then switched her attention back to the road. He was right: life wasn't fair. If it was, Rostov would have made hamburger of him long before she'd become involved in this nonsense.

"What's that?"

A dull roar prompted her question. McClain frowned, then his eyes widened and he looked out the van window.

"Holy s.h.i.t," he said. "They've got a helicopter. Hit it, would you?"

Even as Clara took a quick, instinctive look out her window, the spotlight picked them out of the darkness and the copter swooped until it was flying just above and behind the van. Stepping on the gas for all she was worth, Clara concentrated on keeping the van on the twisting road. Driving at such speed under the conditions was suicide- but so was doing anything else.

The spotlight beaming down on them made it impossible for her to see the helicopter's occupants, but from her recent experience with Rostov and his thugs Clara did not doubt that they had guns. She was right, and ducked reflexively as a hail of bullets strafed the van.

"Oh my G.o.d!"

Head still lowered so that her eyes just peeped over the steering wheel, she stood on the accelerator. The van tore down the road. McClain, hampered by his handcuffs, was practically thrown out of the seat. Cursing a blue streak, he kept his head down and watched the helicopter's progress through the pa.s.senger side mirror.

"Turn right!"

"Where?"

"Here!"

Clara barely saw the narrow road that cut through a swathe of trees. But she swung the wheel for all she was worth. The van stood on two wheels as it obeyed her. Then they were pa.s.sing safely under the overhanging branches, protected from the helicopter- for the moment. Clara barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief before the van was shooting out into the open again.

The helicopter's spotlight found them. Clara had to fight the urge to close her eyes as it dived around them like a demented seagull. It was swooping after them, bullets smacking into the pavement and the dirt on either side of the road. A bullet smashed through the roof to ricochet through the interior. Clara and McClain ducked simultaneously. The bullet whined over McClain's head to smash through the window on his side.

"Oh my G.o.d!"

For just a moment they were safe beneath another group of trees. But then they were in the open again. This time the helicopter swooped and dived at the van's roof. Its runners sc.r.a.ped against the metal over Clara's head. She cringed, stomping down on the accelerator so hard that the van's wheels were barely touching the narrow, dark road. The speedometer needle climbed past seventy. The left rear wheel hit gravel at the side of the road, and for a moment Clara thought that it was all over. But with a desperate swing of the wheel she managed to right the van, although her correction sent it careening amidst a spray of gravel down the wrong side of the road.

"The object of this is for us to end up alive," McClain said through clenched teeth when Clara finally had the van in the right lane again. "The KGB doesn't want us dead at this point, remember. They want to take us alive so they can find out if I've told anyone what I know. Just keep calm, and try not to run off the road. Wrecking the van is the worst thing we can do."

"Keep calm!" Clara wanted to laugh hysterically, but she was too busy trying to get away from the swooping helicopter. It dove in front of the van, its runners nearly touching the pavement. Clara stood on the brakes, then at a shout from McClain tromped on the accelerator again and headed straight toward it through a hail of gunfire.

For a moment it looked as though the copter and the van would collide. Clara shut her eyes and kept the gas pedal pressed to the floor. There was a curse from McClain, a whooshing sound, and then she opened her eyes to find that they were safe under more overhanging trees. At the last minute, the helicopter had lifted out of the way.

"Do me a favor," he said, sounding as though his calm tone was costing him an effort. "Next time we play chicken, keep your eyes open, will you?"

Then they were out in the open again, briefly, so that the helicopter only had time to swoop once before the van shot under the protection of more trees. This time there seemed to be a lot of them. Clara felt some of the tension ease from her body. They were safe for the next couple of minutes, at least.

As far as she could tell through the enveloping darkness, the road wound up the side of a wooded hill. It was a two-lane blacktop. She only hoped that they didn't meet anything coming the other way.

"Cut the lights."

McClain sounded tense, but in control. Clara looked at him. Surely he didn't expect her to drive this unfamiliar narrow country road in pitch darkness? His expression was unreadable, but his green eyes glittered as they met hers. He looked vibrantly alive, she thought. With a sense of shock she realized he was enjoying this! The knowledge scared her even more than she had been.

"Did you hear me? I said cut the lights!"

There was an edge to his voice this time. She thought, this is a dangerous man.

Then, on the verge of an acute attack of hysteria, she doused the lights. Immediately the darkness enshrouded them. Clara could no longer see the road. Instinctively she hit the brakes. The van slowed its precipitous rush with a squeal and a sideways skid. By the time it straightened out, she was- just barely- able to see the road again. Keeping the van at a crawl, she cast a quick, shaken look at him.

"Who are you anyway- James Bond?"

Despite the bravado she tried to inject into it, the question had a squeaky note. He looked over at her, unsmiling. Funny, she was getting to know him better than she wanted to. She was able to recognize that unrelenting look. It was the one he had worn the night before in the tobacco field. When he had held the gun to her head.

"Something like that."

"You're telling me you're a spy?" Her voice rose two octaves on the last word. James Bond existed only in the movies. Even real life spies- and she knew that they existed- she read the newspapers, but not in Virginia, for G.o.d's sake!- were sort of glorified gossipmongers and pencil pushers. All that James Bond stuff was so much fiction. She knew that. Didn't she?

"Agent."

"Oh my G.o.d." That seemed to be all she could say. Driving along the dark, twisty road with a man who scared the daylights out of her when she thought about it, praying that the overhead branches would shield them from the helicopter, Clara felt she was caught up in a nightmare. Real life wasn't like this. At least, not in Virginia.

"Look, suppose I get out here and let you go on by yourself? I really don't want to be involved in this."

His eyes gleamed catlike through the darkness as he looked at her.

"You are involved in it. And you can't get out of it just by walking away. Rostov will never let up until he has both of us, and as we've both learned, he's good at finding people. Besides, I can't drive with these d.a.m.ned handcuffs on."

"That's hardly my problem." She was short on sympathy at the moment. This man was likely to get her killed, and she didn't even know him. Didn't know anything about him. Didn't want to know anything about him. She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry if it puts you out, but I'm driving straight to the nearest police station. After that, you're on your own. Tell them anything you like, I won't say anything about you being a spy, but I'm not going to be involved in this any longer. It's dangerous."

"Look, lady- Cora, whatever your name is-"

"Clara!"

"Clara. Whether you like it or not, you are involved in this. Going to the police is out. There is no one you can trust. No one. Do you understand?"

"No, I do not." Clara felt better now that she had made a decision. "The Virginia State Police are in no way involved with the KGB, if it's even the KGB who's after us and not some sort of crooks you ripped off in some sort of dope deal or something. Not that I care," she added hastily, not wanting him to get the idea that he had to kill her to silence her. "You do what you want, but that's where this van and I are headed. To the police."

"Oh no you're not."

"You can't stop me! I saved your life! Besides, you can't drive. Remember the handcuffs?"

Fear made her voice shrill. He looked at her for a moment through the darkness, his eyes glittering. Then she heard him take a breath. When he spoke, his voice was low and harsh.