Darkness Before the Dawn (Maggie Bennett 2)

He reached out and took her hand, holding it in the moonlight. The dried blood and cuts looked no worse than Maggie had expected. “Did he do that to you, too?”

“No,” she said. “I did it to myself, breaking the window. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“And this?” He turned her hand over, caught the other one, and examined her wrists. They were dark and bruised from the handcuffs, and Maggie had no choice but to nod.

“You already admitted he did this.” His hand reached out and feathered across her face.

She didn’t pull away. “I’m just glad he’s left-handed. He could have wrecked my best side,” she added with an attempt at lightness.

Randall’s hand moved from the bruised side of her face to the untouched side, the fingers gentle and questing. And then it left her, falling back to his side. “If you won’t stay here, at least stay out of sight.”

“What are you going to do?”

A savage smile transformed Randall’s distant face. “Settle some old debts”—his hand touched her face lightly, one more time—“and a few new ones.” And he turned and headed out into the moonlit night.

sixteen

Her legs were long, her strides rapid, but there was no way she could keep up with Randall Carter when he was determined. The moonlight illuminated his silent, almost ghostly figure as he raced across the stubbled fields toward the narrow bridge, and she crashed along behind him with a fraction of his stealth, falling farther and farther back until he was out of sight in the fitful shadows.

When she finally reached the bridge, breathless, with a stitch in her side, the confrontation had already begun. Leopold stood to one side, watching. His youthful face was intent; for once, no trace of a smile lingered around his generous mouth. His eyes flickered to Maggie, then went back to the two men circling each other like wary dogs.

Miroslav was shorter than Randall by a few inches, but his burly arms and shoulders, his stocky legs, and the ruthless determination on his broad face made him a force to reckon with. Maggie felt panic sweep over her as she tried to figure their chances against him if he managed to best Randall.

And then the combatants’ movements brought Randall’s face into view, and Maggie’s doubts vanished, replaced by something close to shock. At this moment, the eminently civilized, impeccably dressed man looked absolutely savage. She watched with horrified fascination as he closed in on Miroslav, wondering if she were about to see a man die in front of her eyes.

It was a longer fight than she would have expected. Miroslav was incredibly strong, incredibly determined, and despite his shorter height he must have outweighed Randall by ten or twenty pounds; those ten or twenty pounds were all muscle. For the first few minutes, Randall did little more than evade Miroslav’s furious attacks, letting his opponent wear himself out. And then, when Miroslav’s energy began to flag, when he stood panting, staring at his enemy like a frustrated, maddened bull, Randall moved.

It had been a fight with no rules, but even so, Maggie was still startled to see just how vicious Randall could be. The fight she’d witnessed in Caleb’s apartment had been a minuet compared to this. Randall’s knee slammed into Miroslav’s groin, his hand chopped across his throat, and his fist drove into his stomach. In moments, Miroslav was lying in the dust, groaning and spitting blood.

Randall stared down at him for a long, meditative moment. Maggie shut her eyes, afraid of what would come next. Miroslav’s semiconscious body was hauled upright and dragged toward the old stone bridge, and Randall shoved him up against the side of it. His body bounced against the unyielding stone, and Miroslav’s moan would have been pathetic if Maggie hadn’t remembered exactly who and what he was: chief torturer for the secret police, with more pain on his conscience than Randall could ever deliver.

It might be a close call, though. As Maggie watched and listened in the still, hot night, Leopold moved beside her, equally intent. Randall’s voice, speaking to Miroslav, carried on the thick night air. “I owe you a great deal, my friend,” he said, his voice rough and eerily polite. “More than I can ever repay.” He slammed him against the stone wall again, and Miroslav began to weep.

“But your worst mistake,” he said gently, “was being a little too free with your hands today. She said you were left-handed—” His voice was dreamy, almost meditative, as he caught Miroslav’s left arm and pulled it upright.

It happened so fast, Maggie almost missed it. Randall slammed Miroslav’s left hand against the stone wall with hideous force, shattering the fragile bones. He screamed once, a shrill, high-pitched shriek, and pitched forward in a dead faint. Randall stood above him, looking down without a trace of emotion, and a shudder ran through Maggie’s body. Suddenly, the hot summer night was cold and deadly.

Leopold moved to Randall then, taking it all in stride. His matter-of-fact manner was almost as horrifying as Randall’s savagery had been. “You didn’t kill him?”

Randall lifted his head. His black hair was damp around his forehead, his shirt had ripped during the battle, and there was dust and sweat and exhaustion on his dark face. “Not this time,” he said, suddenly weary. “You said you had plans?”

Leopold reached down with hidden strength and hauled Miroslav’s unconscious body up and over his shoulder. “I thought he’d make a good birthday present for my brother. He had Vasili for almost a year before he managed to escape.”

“Then you

r brother must owe him even more than I do,” Randall said, his eyes glancing over Maggie’s still figure and then moving away.

“I think he will enjoy repaying his hospitality, yes,” Leopold said jauntily. “You can stay in one of the houses? My cousin Tomas will pick you up before dawn and get you over the border. I don’t think you should bother with customs this time around. The secret police will know Miroslav has disappeared, and they know he was after the two of you.”

“I agree completely.” Randall’s cool, polite voice was still shocking, coming from the rumpled, violent man opposite her.

“Meet him here by the bridge, mister. And take care of the lady. She looks like she’s seen a ghost.” Leopold’s voice was amused; the unconscious man across his shoulders was no more burden than a backpack.

“Maybe she has,” Randall said. “We’ll be in the middle shack if something comes up. Good-bye, my friend. Give my best to Vasili.”

Leopold nodded, hefting the body higher. “Good-bye, lady.”

She forced herself to move then, to break the paralysis that had kept her weary limbs captive. She crossed the few feet to Leopold, keeping her eyes averted from the limp body draped over him. “Thank you, Leopold,” she said, “for everything.” And she leaned over to kiss him lightly on the cheek.