In Sheep's Clothing. Susan Warren May

toward the bedroom. Gracie drew in a slow, noiseless breath, trying to ignore the sound of her pounding heartbeat. The presence edged closer. Clamping down on her trembling lower lip, she moved the telephone to the floor. It jangled.

      Gracie froze.

      Glancing around the room for a weapon, her heart sank. The Youngs had nothing more dangerous than a couple of oversize pillows in their room. Her slaughtered body would be found clutching a feather pillow like a shield. Revulsion sent an unexpected streak of courage into her veins. She wasn’t going to let Evelyn’s murderer kill her without a fight.

      Her eyes fell on the crystal vase Dr. Willie had given his wife for Christmas. Gracie eased to her feet and grabbed the vase. The faux flowers went airborne, scattering the potpourri Evelyn had tucked inside.

      Gracie heard a brushing sound, as if the intruder had skimmed his jacket along the wallpaper. She gritted her teeth, willed her pulse quiet, raised the vase.

      The door cracked open.

      Gracie wound up.

      A fuzzy white paw clawed at the invisible.

      The vase crashed.

      Gracie’s heart nearly rocketed out of her open mouth. Shaking, she sank onto Dr. Willie and Evelyn’s double bed and wheezed deep breaths.

      She’d nearly killed a cat. What if it had been the killer? What was she supposed to do, bean him with a pot of flowers? The absurdity of her defense sent heat into her face. She was a fool. And she might be in danger.

      Glancing at Evelyn’s butchered body, she pushed a hand against her pitching stomach and released a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Evelyn. I have to get out of here.”

      Gracie grabbed her satchel from its landing place near the door and stepped out into the hallway. Nothing but shadow and the plink of water from the kitchen sink. On noodle legs, she ran to the door, just daring someone to leap from the kitchen or the living room. She’d send him out of the window and into the next country.

      She stepped into the hallway, strode to the landing and started down the stairs. One step at a time, skipping two, then three, feeling the hem of her dress catch as she hung on to the rail and flung herself down every flight until she stumbled, breathless through the entrance and out into the clear, blue-skied day.

      Her gaze landed on a babushka, still attired for January, sitting on a bench near the door. The old woman scrutinized her with a slit-eyed stare. Gracie stalked away, her strides not nearly long enough for the speed she needed. The cacophony of sirens, horns and car engines on the street played her tension like a drum.

      Footfalls streaked up behind her. She ducked her head. Panic made her stiffen, yet she glanced up.

      A teenager ran past, his backpack slapping against his hip. He frowned at her as he whizzed by. She lowered her eyes and repositioned her satchel on her shoulder, increasing her stride.

      Color caught her eye. Dark red. She slowed and examined her hands.

      Blood. Her breath stuck in her throat. Blood welled in the creases of her palms, smeared her hands, stained her shirt-sleeves. It saturated her denim skirt, lined the hem of her trench coat.

      She’d held her head in her hands, wiped her tears…Evelyn’s blood streaked her face.

      Gracie felt another howl begin in her gut and fought it. She wanted to retch on the sidewalk.

      Run.

      Light-headed, she stumbled to an alleyway. Threading between metal garages, she found a niche between two blue, peeling units and sank down next to a pile of vodka bottles.

      Hiccuping in horror, she wrapped her arms around her body and rocked as Evelyn’s pale face ravaged her memory. And Gracie was covered in her blood. The world spun; she forced herself to breathe. Battling for sanity, she spoke aloud.

      “Get home. Get clean. Get out of Russia.”

      Yes, get out of Russia. Now. Gracie climbed to her feet. Bracing an arm on the garage, she forced herself to formulate a path home.

      She’d cut through the garages, around the park, along the alley and behind the bread kiosk, then make a frenzied dash to the front door.

      Ducking her chin, she raced toward her apartment.

      “We’re not as free as you think, Vita, that’s all.” Yanna didn’t look at Vicktor. She stirred her cold tea, pushing the tea bag into a wad at the bottom of her cup. The beverage had long since sent off its last wisp of steam. Vicktor’s stomach churned as he watched her twirl her spoon. Something was eating at her, something bigger than tonight’s tournament.

      Vicktor kept his voice low. “Could you be more clear?”

      Yanna sighed, dropped the spoon and flicked her hair back. It shone rich mahogany in the well-lit cafe. She crossed her arms over her chest, wrinkling leather and appearing exasperated. “Nyet. Just keep our little online friends a secret. Don’t breathe names, or even connections. Chat rooms are not private, even encrypted ones like ours. Ponyatna?”

      “Yeah, I got it.” Annoyance plucked his nerves and he felt a faint ripple of fear. He wasn’t under any illusions that the Internet, and even his e-mail, couldn’t be monitored. That was why they used nicknames and chatted in English, why Preach had set up their private, encrypted chat room. Vicktor rubbed his thumb along the handle of his coffee cup. Post-Communism residue soured his stomach.

      “Is it lunchtime yet?”

      Yanna’s face lit up. “Roma!”

      Vicktor stood and locked hands with Roman, who grinned. “I got a tidbit for you that will make your day.”

      “You’re on Evgeny’s case,” Vicktor guessed. It gave him pleasure to see his friend’s smile droop.

      “How did you know?”

      “Malenkov. Chewed my ear off this morning for not calling him on his day off.”

      Roman turned a chair around and straddled it, joining them at the round table. He eyed Vicktor’s beverage with a grimace. “Vicktor, why can’t you drink tea like every other Russian?”

      Vicktor ignored his sour stomach and took a long, loud sip of his coffee.

      Roman put two hands to his neck and squeezed, mimicking choking. Vicktor nearly choked for real with laughter when a waitress hustled up, and looked at the COBRA captain like he had a disease.

      Yanna shook her head.

      Roman cleared his throat, becoming, instantly, the counter-terrorist Red Beret who knew how to defuse a tense situation. He smiled, nicely. “Got any borscht?”

      “I’ll see,” the waitress snapped. She whirled and headed for the kitchen.

      Roman gave an exaggerated shiver. “Oh, how I love Russian service.”

      Vicktor gulped his laughter. Roman didn’t need any outside encouragement.

      “So, you already know my big news.” Roman crossed his arms and waggled his eyebrows. “Well, I’ll bet you don’t know this…”

      Vicktor gave him a mock glare.

      Roman glanced at Yanna. “He’s grumpy, huh?”

      She smirked.

      “Roman,” Vicktor warned.

      “Keep your shirt on, Vita. Some of us got to asking how the comrade major found out about Evgeny. I mean, Arkady certainly didn’t roust him out of bed with the news, did he?”

      Vicktor leaned forward, his heart missing a beat. “Who told him?”

      “Actually, we’re not sure.”

      Vicktor’s eyes narrowed.

      “But we do know the call came in early this morning on one of Major Malenkov’s private lines, right after he came in to work.”