A Date You Can't Refuse Page 24

  I fought back revulsion. “Hold on, Vlad. Are these the biggest guns you have?”

  “What do you mean?”

  It now hit me that I wasn't just a distressed damsel, I was a spy. I had a job to do. Playing this fearless, libidinous gun nut was inspiring me. I batted my eyes. “I listen to rap. Uzis, AK-47s, all those sexy names—I'm dying to touch one. Got any?”

  “Wollie Shelley,” he said. “You surprise me. Many women see the beauty of a machine gun, but I did not spot you as one of them.”

  I gave a modest shrug. “I'm a graphic artist, after all.”

  He pulled the key out of his pocket once more and dangled it in front of me, the way you'd tempt a kitten with a catnip mouse. “So you want my big guns?” he asked.

  “Is the Pope Catholic?” I reached for the key and he pulled it back.

  “Uh-uh,” he said and wagged a finger. “Kiss first.”

  “Gun first.”

  “I say kiss.” He pulled me to him. I resisted, which only tightened his grip.

  “Fine,” I said between my teeth. “But no gun, no tongue.”

  Vlad put his fleshy mouth on mine. I kept mine clamped closed, but that didn't stop him from running his tongue all over my lips. I was now breathing through my nose, inhaling the considerable odor of alcohol, along with some strong cologne, emanating from him. His tongue was wandering up my cheek heading toward my ear, like a cat cleaning its kitten, when I felt I could shut him down. “Guns,” I reminded him, turning my head fast so that my nose hit his. It hurt, but it was worth it.

  “Ouch. Watch it.” He gave me a playful slap on the cheek.

  “Ouch,” I said back to him. “Let's see some firearms.”

  He was breathing heavily as he turned a third time to the cupboards, fumbling with the key. Was this my chance?

  I didn't ask myself twice. I took off across the room.

  Maybe if the door hadn't been closed, or if I'd remembered that it opened outward, I'd have made it. But I wasted seconds pulling on it, and then Vlad was on top of me.

  Being tackled is no picnic. By the time I recovered my wits and reflexes, Vlad's body was crushing the breath out of me. We were both facedown, and my arms were pinned to my sides and one of my legs was free to kick upward but met nothing but air. When I felt his breath in my ear, I used the one weapon I could think of. I lowered my head, then threw it back fast, making contact with something hard. I winced. He yelled.

  My head was buzzing with pain, but the impact must've been worse for him, because his hold on me loosened and I wiggled to the right as he rolled to the left.

  “Bitch! What are you doing? Bitch!” Vlad sat up as I scrambled away from him. He had a hand over his mouth and when he removed his hand and stared at it, there was blood on it. He looked at me, horrified. “What are you doing?” He reached inside his mouth and pulled out something, too small and/or bloody for me to identify. “My veneer!” he cried. “It is only six months old. Bitch!”

  He pulled himself to his feet and I did too, moving backward toward the guns. The DVD had fallen out of my camisole, and I wedged it back in. Vlad was too occupied with his teeth to notice. Had I killed his amorous mood or simply inspired him to kill me?

  Vlad pocketed his tooth fragment and started toward me, an ugly look in his eye.

  Dread washed over me. I backed up.

  Could I reach the guns? Yes. I kept on moving, in reverse, toward the table.

  But were any of them loaded? Could I bring myself to shoot him?

  Vlad was advancing.

  I continued to back up until the table stopped me, and then I put my hand down and there was the Glock.

  No safety! There's no safety!

  I had to use both hands to pick it up because I was shaking and I was scared it was going to go off all by itself. It was aimed at the floor. Could I bring it up any higher? Vlad's chest, for instance? Or maybe—his balls? If I couldn't shoot him, maybe I could scare him.

  Vlad stopped, seeing the Glock. Then he snorted. “It's not loaded, stupid girl.” He walked toward me confidently.

  “Vlad.”

  The voice cut through the air and Vlad froze. Then he turned.

  Yuri stood in the doorway. He said a few words in Russian to Vlad, then glanced at me. “Wollie, put down the gun.” He waited until I did, then walked to Vlad.

  “Yuri,” Vlad said, “you see what this bitch—”

  Yuri punched him in the face.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Vlad didn't go down, but he reeled and twirled and listed dangerously. And yowled. His hands held his jaw. Blood flowed from his mouth.

  “Go,” Yuri said. “Get out, Vlad. Grusha will see to you. She's in the kitchen, baking.”

  To my surprise, Vlad slunk off. Yuri closed the door behind him and turned to me.

  “You're okay?”

  I nodded. I was more than okay, I was giddy with relief. Happy, even. I wanted to throw myself into Yuri's arms. Maybe I was in shock.

  “Vlad has some fine qualities,” Yuri said, studying me. “They are overshadowed by his unfortunate tendency to view half the human race as—”

  “Meat?”

  “Only the pretty ones. The rest he merely underestimates. Did I see blood on his face before I hit him?”

  “A head butt, I think it's called. I knocked out one of his veneers.”

  “Well done.”

  I nodded. “Thank you. And—well, thank you. Your timing was phenomenal. How did you know we were here?”

  Yuri pointed to the ceiling. “Surveillance cameras. Audio as well as video.”

  I looked up. They were in every corner, black cameras, not even attempting to hide.

  Yuri walked to one of them. He grabbed a chair, stood on it, and adjusted the lens. “I watched the footage last night as well, when you came in here alone.”

  Uh-oh.

  “You were here a good while,” he said. “You seemed quite taken with the room. In fact, you sketched it.”

  I gulped. “Occupational hazard. I sketch everything.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you never know when there'll be a greeting card in it, and—”

  “In a gun range?” He turned to me.

  “Yes. Honestly, it was very exciting, finding this room.” I tried for a cheery smile. Since I was shaking again, or still shaking, it probably looked a little manic. “Anyhow, I didn't mean to come in here at all. It was Olive Oyl. She was scratching at the door.”

  “Wollie, you disappoint me. Blaming the dog.” He smiled and crossed the room. “I see that Vlad gave you the tour.” He opened wide the last of the storage cupboard doors and stepped back.

  Inside the cupboard were too many guns to count. Big guns. The kind that soldiers carry. Dozens of them, maybe a hundred, mostly alike. Yuri was either a gunrunner or a survivalist or planning to outfit an army. Or all of the above.

  “Yuri, that's—quite a collection.”

  “It is, isn't it? Are you going to tell me what you were doing here last night?”

  “I'm incurably curious.” In fact, I couldn't stop staring at the cabinet full of guns. “So what are they all for? The little guns, those big ones, this Kevlar vest I'm wearing, the—”

  “Spectra, not Kevlar. What's intriguing,” Yuri said, selecting a big gun, “is that I wouldn't have guessed that about you. Excessive curiosity. My assessment is that you take things at face value. You have a trusting nature. I would have said that you have no great urge to delve into life's subterranean depths, the secrets of others.”

  “In general, you're right. In this instance—honestly, I couldn't tell you why I came in here.” This was literally true: I couldn't tell him why. I'd promised Bennett Graham not to.

  “Or why you're now so interested in my collection. Shall I offer one theory?”

  Oh dear. “Oh-kay”

  He closed the cupboard and brought the big gun over to me, along with a box of bullets. He set them on the table. “You are fascinated by me.”


  “Am I?”

  “Yes.” He walked back to the first cupboard and took out some paper targets, then carried them to the far end of the room and clipped them to the conveyor belt apparatus. He positioned one surveillance camera so that it focused on the target. “I captivate you,” he said. “So what is mine—this room—captivates you. Why would that be so, if it is in fact so?”

  “I don't know,” I said. “Why?”

  “Because my outstanding characteristic is a paternalistic nature. I love my children.”

  “True.” I'd noticed that, the way he looked at Parashie and Alik. The way he paid attention when they spoke.

  “Also, I am father to the entire team. Even to Vlad, not so many years my junior. I am a true patriarch.” He walked back to me, smiling. “To a woman with father issues, this is exceedingly attractive. It is most likely the reason you came to work for me.”

  I blinked. “You think I have father issues?”

  Yuri picked up the Glock from the table and a rectangular object. “This is a clip. It holds ten rounds.” He loaded it with bullets from his box. “Your father left when you were five. Abandonment, whether by absence or death, has a profound effect on children. They respond to it in myriad ways, but your way is dogged loyalty—not to say slavish devotion—to those you love, and a vulnerability—not to say slavish devotion—to a certain male energy.” He'd loaded the bullets into the clip and popped the clip into the gun. “But now I think that is not the whole picture. Now I think we have underestimated you.”

  “In what way?” I wrapped my arms around my Kevlar vest. Had Yuri seen the DVD pop out? No, he would've been outside when it happened, coming to rescue me.

  “This attraction of yours. Is it to just me? Or have you a yearning to explore your own shadow? To use psychological terms. Does my extensive cache of guns and toys, my state-of-the-art playroom attract you? Do you have a desire to play here?”

  “Well …”

  One eyebrow went up. “Or is it something else altogether?”

  “No, that's it,” I said. “Shooting, I mean. Is that what you mean? Yes. Shooting. I have a fascination with it.” A horrified fascination. “This is a seminal moment for me.”

  He looked at me appraisingly Was he buying it, or was he about to say, “Oh, horse pucky”?

  After a long moment, he said, “Fair enough.” I exhaled slowly.

  Yuri turned to the big gun and and loaded it. “Vlad gave you a visceral demonstration of the need for self-defense skills. Did he also teach you the four rules of gun safety?”

  “We didn't get that far.”

  “So I surmised. Pay attention. Number one, all guns are always loaded. Even if you are certain they are not, you treat them as though they are.”

  “Okay.”

  “Number two, never point your gun at what you are not willing to kill. Number—”

  “Whoa,” I said. “Back up. Number two. What about bluffing?”

  “No bluffing. This isn't poker. Number three, keep your finger off the trigger until you have the target in your sights. Number four, you are responsible for the terminal resting place of all projectiles fired. Any questions?”

  “Yes. That last one in English, please.”

  He smiled. “I have taught it in six languages. Blood and bone and skin are not enough to stop a bullet. Who is standing behind the person you're aiming at? Because you're responsible for him too. Who is behind the wall? Are you willing to kill her too?”

  If I'd ever wanted to fire a gun, I was having second and third and fourth thoughts now. The only way out is through, said the voice in my head. “Okay let's shoot!” I said.

  He held up a hand. “In good time. Repeat the four rules, please.”

  “All guns are loaded, don't pick it up unless you're willing to kill, see your target before your finger's on the trigger, pay attention to what's behind the door—target, I mean.”

  “Well done.” He walked over to the second gun cupboard and pulled out two headset things. “So. You like the big guns? Then we will start with the big guns. Not the way I'd ordinarily train a shooter, but you are an unusual girl, aren't you?”

  “I've been told so, yes.”

  “This,” he said, picking up the big gun, “is an H & K MP5 sub machine gun, utilizing a thirty-round magazine.”

  “Thirty rounds. Huh.”

  “Used by Navy SEALs in close-quarter combat and by special reaction teams all over.”

  “How wonderful.” I was having a special reaction myself to all this, and reminded myself to focus on the details, for Bennett Graham. “How many of these do you have?”

  “Down here? One hundred and fifty. Feel it. Nice and lightweight.”

  What did anyone need with a hundred and fifty of these things? And did this mean he had more stashed elsewhere? Before I could frame the question, Yuri was putting on a headset. He handed the other one to me, calling it a pair of earmuffs. The big spongy protective bagel-shaped things were unexpectedly disturbing, implying that now my hearing was at stake too. The earmuffs had an isolating effect, but this was offset by Yuri's hands on my arms and shoulders, adjusting my posture and grip. The gun was lighter than it looked, given the scary parts of it jutting out all over the place.

  Yuri's touch was businesslike rather than sexual, but it was still intimate and I was still carrying the DVD. Thank God for the camouflage vest. I thought of the men whose hands had touched me in the last twelve hours, starting with Simon's that afternoon. Not to mention his other body parts. Did I still carry his scent? All I could smell was guns.

  And then, after Yuri yammered on about thirty or forty more things I couldn't focus on, I closed my eyes and fired my first shot.

  I had no idea where it landed, nor did I care. What I noticed was that even with the earmuffs on, it was excruciatingly loud. It made me think of being at the dentist with the drill going full blast in your mouth. Not painful—assuming there's Novocain involved—but not a lot of fun either. And with the whole posture-and-grip thing, trying to remember to breathe, relax, and not scrunch up one's face, it was as tedious as a golf lesson, which some former boyfriend had once talked me into. I could imagine that if one were the type of person who loves firecrackers, this might be a good time. I wasn't, and this wasn't.

  But Yuri was patient and, in spite of myself, I was pleased to see my aim improve. Yuri took pride in my progress, and that too was strangely gratifying.

  I kept shooting until the gun was empty, which seemed to take half my life, then handed it to Yuri and removed my earmuffs before he could reload. “What an amazing experience!” I said. “Got anything else?”

  “Yes, I think you'll enjoy the Beretta Cx4 Storm, which, like the MP5, uses nine-millimeter rounds, like the handguns, giving us an ammunition compatibility factor.”

  “How handy,” I said. “How many of those do you have?”

  “Seventy-five. Next time on the MP5, I'll teach you the double-tap. Two shots to the center mass and, if your target's still upright, another one to the head. After a few sessions of that, you'll be ready to burst-fire the weapon.”

  “Something to live for!” I said brightly and made mental notes of everything he'd just said, for Bennett Graham's edification. “What's the story with compatibility factor? Are certain people more compatible with certain bullets? Kind of like astrological signs?”

  Yuri smiled. “Not bullets: cartridges. Or loads. Or ammunition. In case of warfare,” he said, reloading the gun, “one often fights alongside other factions. Allies. Allies may not share a common language, or even a reason for fighting, but in a gunfight what matters is that they can share ammunition. Also vital for you when you're carrying multiple weapons.”

  “How many wars have you fought in, Yuri?” I asked.

  “That is not an easy question to answer,” he said. “In a sense it is all one war, whatever the battleground.”

  “And what's that one called?”

  “Come,” he said. “Put your ea
rmuffs back on. I want your body to have some muscle memory of tonight's work.”

  Eventually I got used to the little orange explosion and a certain Raggedy Ann feeling for just a second afterward as the gun threw me off balance. After that, we shot the Cx4 and the Glock, the names and numbers of which I kept repeating to myself, for Bennett Graham. A teeth-gritting half hour later, Yuri looked at his watch. “My friends across the ocean are waking now,” he said. “I must make telephone calls. We will do this again, very soon.”

  Over my dead body, I thought. Aloud, I said, “Fabulous. It's a date.”

  He smiled and removed the earmuffs from my ears, at which point I realized I'd been screaming my enthusiasm for firearms.

  “Yes, it is an addictive hobby.” He took the gun from me, then pressed a button that made the targets return to us on the conveyor belt apparatus. “Look,” he said, showing me my Target Guy, full of holes in his chest. “You have more talent for this hobby than you know. And more courage than I suspected.”

  “It didn't take much courage.” If I had real courage, I'd press the issue and discover what was going on here. Instead of calling it a day and feeling lucky that I'd survived it.

  “This time, I saved you from Vlad,” Yuri said, checking the gun chambers. “Next time there is a Vlad, you will save yourself. I have just taught you how.”

  It was true. And against my will, I had learned. Did I want this knowledge? I pressed my fingers against my temples and rubbed, closing my eyes. When I opened my eyes, Yuri was looking at me.

  “What is the secret you're keeping, Wollie?” he asked softly.

  Which one? The bug in my pocket, the stolen DVD under my flak jacket? The knowledge I had of the corpse found rotting in the canyon? “I don't know what you're—”

  “Candor,” he said softly, “ends paranoia.”

  I blinked. “Allen Ginsberg?”

  “‘Cosmopolitan Greetings.’”

  “I love Allen Ginsberg.”

  “I stood with one hundred thousand Czechs and cheered him.” His eyes grew dreamlike. “As he challenged the dictatorship. Prague, 1965. Kral Majales. ‘Stand up against governments, against God—’”