I park the Toyota directly across from our Mercedes, jump out, and hurry over to our car. Opening the passenger door, I look my husband over, wondering how I’m going to move two hundred pounds of unconscious male from one car to another.
Oh well, here goes nothing.
Grabbing his ankles, I pull with all my might.
He moves an inch. Maybe.
Fuck.
I put my entire back into it, digging my heels into the asphalt.
Another three inches.
Maybe I should forget this stupid idea and just drive our car. The stroke victim’s wife will be happy when she finds her Toyota in the parking lot and—
My husband lets out a low groan.
My pulse leaps into overdrive. “Peter.” I scramble into the car, leaning over him. “Peter, darling, please wake up.”
He mumbles something incoherent, his head turning to the side.
“Please, I need you.” I shake him gently. “Please wake up.”
His eyes open, unfocused.
“That’s it, darling.” My breath hitches in joyous relief. “You can do it. Look at me.”
He blinks, his gaze slowly focusing in on me. “Sara? What—”
“We’re in a hospital parking lot,” I say quickly. “I procured us a car, but I can’t move you without your help. Can you walk over there for me?”
His jaw tightens, but he nods.
“Good, let’s do it. Come on.” I bring the seat up to a sitting position and help him out of the car. He’s unsteady on his feet, leaning heavily on my shoulders, but somehow, we make it across the row.
His face is greenish white by the time I help him into the car, but he’s clinging to consciousness with every shred of his iron will. “The weapons,” he rasps, plopping heavily onto the passenger seat. “Under the back seat. Get them.”
We have weapons?
I’m not nearly as surprised as I should be.
Leaving Peter in the Toyota, I sprint back and try to raise the back seat of the Mercedes. It takes some ingenuity, but I finally get it open—and gape at the arsenal inside.
In addition to handguns and assault rifles, there are grenades and what looks like a rocket launcher.
There’s no way I’ll be able to carry all this across the parking row without someone spotting me and raising an alarm.
Then an idea comes to me.
Grabbing the first-aid supplies, I run back and put them onto the back seat of the Toyota, then yank the sheets out from underneath them and hurry back to the Mercedes. The weapons are heavy, so I have to make three separate trips, but I get everything over to the Toyota—wrapped in sheets.
“All done,” I tell Peter as I slide behind the wheel, panting from the exertion, but there’s no answer.
He’s passed out again.
I lean over and make his seat flat again, both so he can rest and so that he won’t be visible in the windows.
Then, taking a deep breath, I pull out of the parking spot and head for the cabin.
34
Sara
Remembering Peter’s admonition about speeding, I drive carefully, obeying every traffic rule and speed limit. Peter’s phone is locked and I can’t wake him, so I use a combination of road signs and my own vague knowledge of the area to get us to the dirt road he mentioned.
I don’t think about my parents or the man I killed so ruthlessly. I can’t—not while I need to hold it together. Instead, I focus on getting us to our destination without stopping. By the time we turn into the woods, my bladder is on the verge of exploding, so I pull off onto the shoulder and go behind a tree, camping style. The elderly lady kept a little bottle of hand sanitizer in the car, and I use it before I resume driving, trying not to think about what will happen once we actually get to the cabin.
Despite my best efforts, dangerous questions swirl in my head.
What will we do if Peter’s wounds get infected?
Will there be food and water at the cabin?
And worst of all, how long until we’re found?
Because we will be found. I can’t fool myself into believing otherwise. We’ve been lucky so far, but we’re no match for the FBI. Or at least I’m no match. Peter had managed to avoid capture for years with the help of his underworld connections.
I’ve never regretted not having criminals in my social circle before, but I do now. None of my friends or acquaintances can help us—not without getting in trouble with the law themselves. In fact, other than my husband, the only people I know who have the right skills and contacts are his Russian former teammates, and they’re nowhere near—
Wait a minute.
I do have Yan’s email.
That’s how he congratulated me on our wedding.
My pulse jumps again, the excitement sizzling through my veins before I remember one important fact.
I have no way to send an email other than using Peter’s phone, and for that, I need my husband to regain consciousness and put in his password.