In Sheep's Clothing. Susan Warren May

The law has shades of gray here.”

      A muscle tensed in Vicktor’s jaw. Arkady was from the old school, the days of propaganda and the Cold War, the easy days when the bad guys were easily identifiable—they wore red, white and blue.

      It hadn’t helped his relationship with his former chief when he had accepted the six-month internship in America. The friendship had taken further serious hits when he defected to the FSB, a.k.a. the former KGB, six months ago. The chief just didn’t get it—after the Wolf incident, the blunder of Vicktor’s militia career, Vicktor had to rescue himself from early retirement. Besides, the FSB had been chasing him like a hound since his training in the States, and after Roman had smoothed over the incident, they’d practically thrown him a welcome bash.

      “We’re on the same side, you know,” Vicktor said.

      Arkady drew on his cigarette as if he didn’t hear him.

      Vicktor suddenly wanted to dump this entire thing in Arkady’s lap. A lifetime of chasing the scum of society had left an ugly pit in his stomach. He preferred the intellectual sparring of the international crimes unit where he now worked. But the memory of Evgeny, all smiles and jokes, stripped his anger, leaving only aching.

      He needed answers. He wasn’t about to disappoint another person he cared about, especially posthumously. He’d find Evgeny’s killer even if he had to wrestle his pride into hard little knots.

      Vicktor dredged up a respectful tone. “Yes, sir.”

      Chapter Two

      Vicktor banged out of his apartment building and spied Roman leaning back against his building, arms akimbo, wearing a stocking cap, a running suit and a smile.

      “Missed you last night.”

      “I had to work.” The last thing Vicktor wanted to remember was the fact he’d missed out on a group chat. Like he had friends to spare. Vicktor made a face at him and began stretching from side to side. “I found Evgeny Lakarstin dead in his lab yesterday.”

      Roman went silent at that, his mouth in an O.

      “I was up until midnight answering questions and writing reports.”

      “Fun. Well, then I hate to be the one to tell you Mae’s in town. She’s pulling transportation duty for some army brass. She told me to say hi to ‘Stripes.’”

      Okay, that hurt more than he would have expected, even with Roman’s warning. “Oh, really?” Just what he needed to make his day—the memory of Mae Lund, her right hook against his chin, the fact that she was over him enough to say hello, and the knowledge that she probably looked better than he had a right to imagine. Only she knew how much he needed her opinion, how he’d relished the nickname she gave him.

      “She made captain, by the way. She’s flying DC-10s.”

      Good girl. Mae had earned her stripes through grit and spunk, and in the active, objective part of his brain, he couldn’t blame her for not falling for the first Russian to flex his muscles. Even if he had done it saving her life.

      “I thought she was on Search and Rescue.”

      “Not when she can speak Russian. They have her translating, too. By the way, David was online, as well.”

      The rising sun peeked through gaps in the tall buildings. It turned crisp, slightly frozen street puddles bright platinum and hinted at a beautiful spring day.

      “Let’s run,” Vicktor snapped. He didn’t know what irritated him more. That he’d been up until all hours describing Evgeny’s death scene for his old militia cohorts, that he’d slept with one-hundred and thirty pounds of Great Dane on his face, or that he’d missed a chance to check in with the only people who knew the nightmares that haunted him.

      Especially after a day when those nightmares seemed particularly fresh and brutal.

      Roman scrambled to keep up as Vicktor shot down the sidewalk toward the wide greening boulevard between Karl Marx Street and Lenin Street. Roman, of course, wouldn’t think of asking him to slow down, and that fact kept Vicktor at a speed that pushed his heart rate into overdrive.

      He didn’t care. Two weeks into his summer running habit, he needed an intense workout to drive Evgeny’s corpse from his mind. Internal snapshots of Evgeny had pushed sleep into the folds of eternity.

      He hardly noticed Roman behind him the entire kilometer to the river.

      The Amur River pushed yellow foam and brown ice in thick currents north to its Pacific mouth. Vicktor let the snappy wind comb his hatless head and chill the sweat on his brow. Next to him, Roman gripped his knees and gulped frosty breaths. Remorse speared Vicktor. He shouldn’t wrestle his grief during Roman’s workout time.

      “Sorry, Roma,” he muttered, stopping and leaning against a stone wall that separated the beach from the boardwalk.

      Roman straightened, his forgiveness written in his signature lopsided grin. “Kak Dela, Vita? I’d say from this morning’s sprint we aren’t simply stretching our muscles. You trying to exorcise some personal demons?”

      Vicktor looked away from Roman’s intuitive blue eyes. “You’re starting to sound like Preach.”

      “I’ll take that as a compliment. Tell me what’s up.”

      Vicktor turned, braced himself on the fence and leaned in, forcing screams up his calf muscles. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired.”

      Roman crossed his arms and propped a hip on the stone. Wind whistled down the boardwalk, sifting through Vicktor’s Seattle PD sweatshirt. He shivered.

      “Tired?” Roman echoed after a bit. “Tired of what? Grieving your mother? Trying to make things right with your pop?”

      Vicktor tossed him a frown. “You are definitely sounding like Preach, or maybe Mae. Stop psychoanalyzing my life. I’m just…tired.” He stared at the dirty Amur. “Sometimes I just wonder if it wouldn’t have been better if it had been me who’d been shot instead of my father.”

      “You gotta go forward, pal.”

      “Yeah. Well, Evgeny sure isn’t going forward. I’m going to find his killer.”

      Roman nodded. “I know. But when you do, you’re still going to be exhausted.”

      Vicktor shook his head. “I know where you’re going with this, and I’m telling you before you start, ditch the God-talk. I’m not interested. You know God and I have issues. The bottom line is God isn’t going to solve my problems. Ever.”

      “Calm down, Stripes.” Roman held up his hands in surrender. “As your friend, I get to say that you’re wrong, but I’m on your side anyway.”

      “Let’s run.” Vicktor jogged back to the boulevard. He heard Roman fall in beside him and set a reasonable pace. They ran in silence, listening to the wind rustle through the trees and traffic fill the streets.

      It was just like Roman to foist his religion into Vicktor’s problems. He and David had been systematically ambushing him for years.

      They just didn’t know how it felt to experience God’s cold shoulder. He’d tried the God route, once upon a time, and sorry, no thanks. Not that he’d ever mentioned his trial run with God to Roman or David. He’d rather have his tongue skewered slowly.

      He was going to find Evgeny’s killer without God’s help. It just mattered too much to trust to a fickle God who did…or didn’t…come through.

      They ran in rhythm, vaulting in one accord the craters in the broken sidewalk and murky puddles of mud. Crumpled paper cups and refuse frozen by winter’s embrace edged the path. Vicktor wondered if their national disregard for cleanliness irked Roman as much as it did him. Roman, too, had been to America, and Europe and even Japan once, and had seen the swept streets, the manicured lawns and the lush gardens. Nevertheless, Roman was forever