Page 7 of The Pakhan's Dangerous Secret
I give her a few seconds' head start, then follow.
The library is quiet this afternoon, just a handful of patrons scattered throughout the building. Perfect. The fewer witnesses, the better. I move through the aisles with practiced silence, keeping my distance but never losing sight of her.
She stops in the literature section, pulling books from her cart and sliding them onto the shelves with efficient movements.She's completely focused on her task, unaware that she's being watched.
I circle around to the opposite side of the aisle, positioning myself directly across from where she's working. The shelves are tall, packed with books, but there are gaps, spaces where I can see through to the other side.
I wait until she reaches for another book, and then I move a few volumes aside, creating a clear line of sight.
She's right there, less than three feet away, separated only by the width of the shelf. I can see her face clearly now, those green eyes I remember from years ago. She's concentrating on the spine of a book, checking the call number against the shelf.
I stare at her, willing her to look up. To see me.
And then she does.
Her eyes lift, scanning the shelf, and suddenly, we're looking directly at each other through that narrow gap between the books. For a moment, time seems to stop. Her eyes widen, her lips part in a silent gasp, and I see the exact instant recognition hits her.
She knows who I am. Or at least, she knows what I am.
I smile. Not a friendly smile, but one that lets her know exactly what this moment means.
I've found you.
The color drains from her face.
"Come with me," I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Don't make a scene."
For a second, she just stares at me, frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights. Then she nods, a tiny movement of her head that I almost miss.
Good. She's smart enough to know she can't fight this. Smart enough to understand that causing a scene in a public library will only make things worse for her.
I step back, moving toward the end of the aisle, expecting her to meet me there. I'll take her out the front door, nice and easy, and we'll have a conversation in the privacy of my car. No drama, no violence. Just a simple discussion about her father and the heirlooms he stole.
But when I reach the end of the aisle and turn the corner, she's not there.
I frown, looking back the way I came. The aisle is empty. Where the hell did she go?
I move quickly but calmly toward the front of the library, scanning the space. The red-haired woman is still at the circulation desk, helping a patron check out books. A few people browse the shelves. But there's no sign of Mariya.
I pull out my phone, checking for a text from Matvey. Nothing. If she'd tried to leave through the back door, he would have grabbed her by now. So where is she?
I walk toward the front entrance, my mind racing through possibilities. The library isn't that big. There are only so many places she could hide. Maybe she ducked into the bathroom, hoping I'd give up and leave. Or maybe she's crouched behind one of the shelves, waiting for an opportunity to run.
I'm almost to the door when I glance out the window and see her.
She's sprinting across the street, her blonde hair streaming behind her, heading toward the row of shops on the opposite side.
How the hell did she get out without being spotted?
I don't waste time trying to figure it out. I send a quick text to Matvey, letting him know she's made a run for it, then I push through the door and take off after her.
She's fast, I'll give her that. She moves with the speed and agility of someone who's been running her whole life. But I'm faster. My legs are longer, my stride more powerful, and I close the distance between us quickly.
She cuts down an alley between two buildings, probably hoping to lose me in the maze of back streets. But she's made a mistake. The alley is narrow, enclosed, with nowhere to go but straight ahead. And I'm right behind her.
I catch up to her halfway down the alley, grabbing her arm and spinning her around to face me. She immediately starts fighting, her fists flying at my chest, my face, anywhere she can reach.
I can't help but be amused. She's what, five-six? Maybe a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet? And she thinks she can fight me off? I'm six-three, two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle, and I've been in more fights than I can count.
