Her Rocky Mountain Defender. Jennifer D. Bokal

      He knew. He smiled. Wait. Wait. Wait. There was a hairbreadth between Anton’s car and the one that Roman drove. The road began to travel upward, the incline leading to the interstate. Nose up, Roman jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, the side scraping on a concrete barrier as it pulled onto the adjacent service road. Anton sped past, his red taillight glowing as he stepped on the brakes. From behind came the piercing scream of an air horn. A big rig, loaded with two trailers, lumbered up the entrance ramp—forcing Anton to drive on.

      “He won’t be able to get off until the next exit,” Roman said, verbalizing the last bit of his plan. “That’s five minutes from here, which means we have ten minutes to disappear.”

      * * *

      Rain hit Oleg’s face, mixing with his sweat and leaving him chilled. He stood at the end of the alleyway and looked left, then right, then left again. The street was empty. His pulse raced.

      “They’re gone,” he said to nobody in particular. “Just disappeared...”

      His phone rang and he pulled it from his coat pocket. Anton’s name appeared on the screen and Oleg swiped the call open. “You better have good news for me,” he said.

      “Not so much,” Anton said. “They tricked me into getting on the interstate.”

      Oleg ground his teeth together. “Tricked you?”

      “I have a license plate, though. That should help, yes?”

      “No, as a matter of fact, it won’t help.”

      “Prosti,” said Anton. Sorry.

      “I’m not in the mood for your apologies. Just get your sorry butt back to the bar.” Oleg ended the call with a stab of his finger and slid the phone back into his pocket.

      Oleg was surrounded by idiots. The only one with half a brain was Roman. How had they gotten out of the beer cooler? Serge must have unlocked the door. But why? Oleg wasn’t about to discover the truth while standing in a downpour with the stench of rotten cabbage thick in the damp night.

      Turning on his heel, Oleg took a step. His foot landed in a shallow puddle. Cold water seeped into his shoe, turning his $1,200 designer loafers into garbage. Oleg clenched his teeth, biting off a string of curses. Once he caught Roman, the traitor and his little girlfriend, he was going to make them exquisitely sorry.

      In the distance, lightning split the sky in two. A springtime thunderstorm in Boulder? For a city that saw sun more than three hundred and thirty days each year, a passing cloudburst was a rarity. But a full-blown rainstorm? Never. Yet here one was. It was almost as unbelievable as someone escaping from The Prow.

      He quickened his pace. Roman’s car, a crappy Pontiac from the 1970s, sat in front of the bar. The handle was stuck fast, but it was still here—which meant they’d gotten away in the girl’s car. He thought of going directly to Roman’s apartment, but discarded the idea as soon as it came. Roman’s place was an obvious choice, and he knew that the bartender wasn’t that stupid.

      He needed time to regroup, but Oleg wasn’t about to let himself be seen like this—wet, dirty and rumpled. He jogged around the corner and let himself in the back door. Dripping, he went to his office to dry off and come up with a plan.

      Oleg jerked his desk drawers open and slammed them closed. No towel. No dry shirt. Not even a used tissue.

      “Serge,” he called out.

      Never mind that the guy was the nephew of Nikolai Mateev. He was a moron, and in Oleg’s opinion, he liked hurting people a little too much. Look at that chair in the middle of his office. It was bolted to the floor—done by Serge without asking for permission, never mind getting it—so he could tie adversaries to it and beat them bloody.

      Oleg was supposed to be teaching Serge about business, and not just how to run a bar, either. Nikolai’s great-nephew needed to learn how ill-gotten money could be infused into a legitimate business and make any drug profits seem legally gained. But it was clear that Serge had no interest in that kind of education. Hell, he’d barely learned any English. With him, it was all about the violence.

      Using his shirt’s damp sleeve, Oleg buffed his face dry. He slumped into his seat. The godfather of Russian organized crime was due in Boulder tomorrow evening. Then Serge would become Nikolai Mateev’s problem, and Oleg expected a generous reward for all the housekeeping he’d done. Babysitting and laundering—money, of course.

      And speaking of babysitting... “Serge!” he bellowed.

      Nothing.

      Oleg stood and slammed his seat beneath his desk. He stomped up the stairs and entered the bar. Rock music pulsed through the speakers, thrumming into the soles of Oleg’s feet and pounding out the beat in his chest. As the night had grown late, more customers had arrived and crammed into the room. They stood three deep at the bar. Now working alone, the bar manager bounced back and forth, like a frenzied ping-pong ball. He expected to see Serge having a drink. Nothing. Nor was he in the back shooting pool.

      “You seen Serge?” Oleg asked the bar manager.

      The withered old man shook his head. “Not since he left with you.”

      Oleg nodded and returned to the basement. Not only was Serge an idiot, he was also proving to be a mystery. The stockroom door stood ajar and Oleg opened it slowly. Empty. But maybe Serge had just been there. Oleg returned to the office. Empty, as well.

      That left one final option, and one that didn’t amuse Oleg in the least. Obviously, Roman had convinced Serge to open the beer cooler. Then had he overpowered Serge, making him a prisoner in the cell he was supposed to be guarding?

      One more day and no more Serge. For Oleg, it couldn’t come soon enough. He used his keys on both locks and pulled the door open. Oleg stepped up to the threshold and stopped.

      Serge, obviously dead, stared at the ceiling. His gaze was already milky.

      Oleg began to tremble and it wasn’t from the cold. He had let Serge die. Nikolai Mateev would see it no other way.

      The only thing Oleg knew to do to save his life was to disappear. He hated leaving everything he’d built up from the ground. The bar. The drug trade. His car. His women. All of it would vanish, like a candle flame that had been snuffed out. From the pit of his soul, fury rose. Oleg’s head throbbed. His shoulders ached. He drew back his foot and kicked Serge again and again and again.

      As a small boy growing up outside of Fort Collins, Colorado, Oleg had spent hour upon hour in the company of his paternal grandmother. As she cooked, she told Oleg stories of their family. His favorite was how Oleg was a direct descendent of the Romanov czars. In another time, he would have been Count Oleg.

      Because of those stories, Oleg had known he was destined for greatness. And this—taking care of Serge the Stupid, laundering money for the Russian mob—was to be his way. But Serge had been too moronic to stay alive and in death had ruined everything. Everything. Oleg brought down his heel on Serge’s nose.

      He wiped his sole on the back of Serge’s jacket. His heel caught on something, and he worked it free. Attached was a lanyard with an ID card for the University of Colorado Hospital. The picture was of a petite brunette. Name: Madelyn Thompkins. The seed of a new plan took root in Oleg’s mind, flowering into the only chance he had at saving his legacy and his life.

      Certainly, Nikolai Mateev would be furious that his heir apparent had been killed. And while Serge could never be brought back to life, Oleg could make sure that a recompense was paid to the murderers—Roman and Madelyn. And look, the degenerates even beat poor Serge’s corpse.

      All Oleg needed now was to find Roman Black and Madelyn Thompkins. While he imagined that Roman knew enough to get out of town, Madelyn had ties that kept her in Boulder. Besides, if given a computer and ten minutes, Oleg would know everything there was about Madelyn’s life—or what was left of it, that is.

      * * *

      “Slow