The Lion in Russia by Roslyn Hardy Holcomb

if it occurred outside Russia. No one
would actually believe it, but it would be more plausible if
everyone didn’t already know the man was a homicidal maniac.
    Not for the first time in the past couple of
days she wondered where Deringer was. She hadn’t heard from him
since that annoying phone call a couple days ago, though she could
see signs that he was about; she’d even picked up his tail when
they returned from the show the day before. That would never have
happened unless he wanted it to. Presumably he wanted her to know
he was still working the case. Deringer moved in mysterious ways,
but right now she’d prefer he just used the goddamned phone. She
shook her head as she walked out the door. Thus far this case had
gone smoothly. Well except for the sleeping with the client part,
there had been no hiccups in the plan at all. No wonder she was
terrified.
     
    Vries leaned her head back against the
impossibly soft leather in the luxury sedan. Leo was holding her
hand as Pushka drove them to the opera. Leo’s dark charcoal
business suit contrasted nicely with his light hair and eyes,
emphasizing his striking good looks. His pleasant mood was
infectious and she joined him in humming along to the music
streaming through the speakers. He apparently had an affinity for
lounge music, particularly Dean Martin. Given everything she’d
discovered about him in the past couple of days, she didn’t even
bat a lash though when he broke out in song, she couldn’t help but
laugh even though he made up for in enthusiasm what he lacked in
talent.
    He pulled her closer on the seat. “I’m deeply
wounded that you’re laughing at my singing,” he said, glowering at
her.
    His facial expression only made her laugh
harder. “I doubt that I’m the first,” she said, still giggling.
    “That’s why I’m hurt,” he said, then without
warning he leaned forward and began tickling her. Vries gasped and
tried to wiggle away. Suddenly there was a strange cracking noise
she immediately recognized. Without a conscious thought she
reacted, dragging Leo to the floor of the car and sprawling on top
of him just as though in slow motion, the glass of the back
windshield cracked in a familiar spider web pattern. As each bullet
hit the windshield it generated its own web. One. A pause. Then two
and three in rapid succession. The way the pattern bloomed was
almost artistic. The glass was bullet proof and the laminate
coating held the broken shards in place, but just from the way it
cracked she could tell it was a high-caliber weapon. Illegal as
hell here in Italy and not particularly easy to acquire or bring
into the country. Those factors severely limited the list of
possible suspects. Government or Mafia. Given what Leo was up to,
it was easy enough to check off All of the Above . Despite
the fear that had stalked her almost from the beginning of this
assignment, she moved with calm efficiency to neutralize the
situation as quickly as possible. As always the fear was gone the
moment the action started.
    “Hit it Pushka!” she yelled at the driver
unnecessarily. The sedan accelerated with the alacrity of an RPG.
Obviously Pushka had taken defensive driving courses. As she looked
around trying to tell the direction of the gunshots she grabbed her
minaudière from the seat and opened the small purse with practiced
movements. Within seconds she had a small, but lethal
semi-automatic handgun in her hands and climbed up on the backseat
trying to determine the direction of the shots. The traffic was not
as congested as usual and she saw a motorcycle with a passenger
turned backwards facing her wearing a ninja mask, but she didn’t
see a weapon. The driver was weaving in and out of traffic anyway,
she had no chance of getting off a clear shot. She looked down to
where Leo was trying to climb up from the floor.
    “Stay down honey, Pushka should have us home
soon,” she said, still distracted by her quest for the culprit. Where the hell was