Tom gunned the car in the direction she had indicated, and a minute later they could see the Troitsky Bridge and a long line of traffic leading to it.
"Take the left lane," Viktor instructed.
Tom swung the car into the oncoming traffic, horns blaring and headlights flashing as cars swerved up onto the pavement to avoid them. Ahead, two large barriers had just come down across the road, preventing any more traffic from passing.
"What's happening?" Tom asked.
"They're raising the bridges to let the ships through. They do it every night, except when the river's frozen. Once the bridge is up, it won't go down again until three a.m. If we get across now, they'll be stuck here."
Tom slammed on the brakes as they reached the barrier, the car slewing to a sideways halt.
"We'll have to run for it from here." He hit the ground running and vaulted over the barrier, the others only seconds behind him.
"This way," urged Viktor.
They ran past a gesticulating guard onto the main bridge section. Tom felt it slowly begin to rise under them as they ran.
"We're not going to make it," he panted.
"We have to. Look—" Viktor was pointing at something behind them. Tom turned to see that a second car was accelerating down the road toward them. Two gunmen with semiautomatics were firing at them from the windows, the bullets burrowing into the tarmac around them like pebbles dropping into sand.
He turned and, hauling Archie with him, ran as fast as he could toward the edge, the gradient steepening as the bridge continued its rise. With one final effort they surged toward the edge and jumped the small gap that had opened up between the two halves of the bridge. Only Viktor paused at the top, gripping her gun with both hands and emptying it into the windshield of the pursuing car until it swerved and crashed through the handrail into the river below.
Those few seconds' delay, though, had caused the gap to become a chasm. Arms outstretched, legs pumping, she launched herself across the void, her fingertips somehow making contact with the rim. She hung there, helpless, the freezing waters of the Neva staring hungrily at her. She felt herself slipping. Suddenly a hand closed around her wrist. Tom's face appeared above her, then his other hand reaching down to haul her to safety. Once over the lip, they tumbled headlong down the raised bridge section, landing in a confused heap at the bottom.
"Spasibo" she said, pulling herself to her feet, her legs and arms raw and bruised where she had fallen.
"Don't mention it," said Tom, smiling. He felt a stab of pain in his left shoulder and winced.
"You've been hit," she exclaimed, kneeling down next to him.
"It's nothing," Tom panted, looking down at his fingers, now scarlet where the blood had run down his arm. He realized with alarm that he couldn't feel them.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
It was more bordello than bedroom. A huge chandelier drooped from the mirrored ceiling, giltwood chairs covered in leopard skin pressing up against the pink walls, and a polar bear rug stretched in front of the massive black marble fireplace.
Tom stared up at his reflection in the mirror over the bed, trying to keep his mind off the searing pain in his shoulder. Viktor, perched on the bed next to him, stopped what she was doing and looked intently into his eyes. "You don't like it?" Tom shrugged. "It's not my style."
"Nor mine." She gave a tight smile. "I inherited it. I would have changed things, but in Russia, rooms like this make people respect you. Obey you. Maybe even die for you."
There was no trace of emotion in her voice. Tom knew she was right. He'd seen for himself how the ostentatious display of wealth could both cow enemies and inspire followers.
"This will hurt."
She'd already cleaned the wound with cotton balls and warm water, the dried blood washing away to reveal a small hole in his left shoulder. Tom couldn't remember feeling when he'd been hit. The angle and location of the wound suggested that it had happened early on, when he first grabbed the wheel and accelerated away from the gunman firing through the shattered window.
According to Viktor, who had demonstrated a surprising familiarity with gunshot wounds and how to treat them, the bullet had lodged itself in the muscle around the shoulder blade. A trip to the hospital was clearly out of the question and, although Viktor had access to other, more discreet doctors, she had advised against involving outsiders unless absolutely necessary. The incident with the waiter at the club had proved to them all that, for the right price, even those she trusted could betray her. Tom had agreed, even though he knew it meant allowing Viktor to extract the bullet without anesthetic.
"Ready?" she asked, stainless steel tongs poised over the wound.
"As I'll ever be," said Tom, bracing himself.
She slipped the tongs into the wound, and the burning in Tom's arm burst into a blazing fire. The room seemed to go dark around him as the pain shut out all other senses. His ragged breathing came through clenched teeth in a succession of wet hisses that stuck in his throat.
"I appreciate you helping us," he gasped, hoping that conversation would help take his mind off the pain.
"Until I find out exactly what's going on, you're worth more to me alive than dead." Her voice was hard and unfeeling. "I'm just protecting my interests."
"You've done this before?"
"Many times."
"You're a nurse?"
"No." A smile flickered across her face.
Even in his present state, Tom could see that she was a striking woman, her body slim and firm and imbued with the supple athleticism of a dancer. The events at the bridge had left her red dress torn and dirty, her bronzed skin grazed and bruised, and her sleek ebony hair in disarray. And yet, if anything, this seemed to complement the wild, exotic beauty that burned within her dark eyes. But he saw a hardness there too, an unspoken hurt, almost as if she was resigned to the burden of her own existence.
"I used to work." She shrugged. "You know…"
"You were a prostitute?" Tom asked uncertainly. Archie had whispered something about this when they arrived at Viktor's house, an imposing building on the banks of the Fontanka Canal, but Tom had been in too much pain to really take it in.
"Yes."
"So how…?" Tom winced as she twisted the tongs. "Did I end up here?" She gave a mirthless laugh. "It's a long story."
"I'm not going anywhere."
There was a long silence. As she probed the wound, maneuvering the tongs in an effort to get at the bullet, Tom almost regretted asking the question. It seemed he'd strayed into a no-go area, prying into a part of her life she preferred not to talk about. But then she spoke.
"When I was sixteen my parents sold me to a man called Viktor Chernovsky. He was one of the Mafia bosses here in St. Petersburg. At first I was lucky. He wouldn't let anyone else touch me, just raped me himself."
Tom mumbled something about being sorry, but she didn't seem to hear him.
"Then, when he got bored, he gave me to his friends to use. They were bad men. And when they came back injured from some robbery or shootout, I was the one who had to patch them up. That's how I learned how to do this."
"Where did you learn to speak English so well?"
"One of Viktor's men was American. He taught me. He was the only one who ever really cared. I think I almost loved him."
"Why didn't you just leave?"
"You don't leave this life — either you're in, or you're dead. Besides," she continued tonelessly, "I got pregnant. Viktor found out and made me have an abortion. Got one of his men to do it with a coat hanger. There…"