"Pazdolba! Delaetye vcyo, shto vam yugodno—mnye vcyo ..."
It was Eva yelling in rapidfire Russian. Arguing, shouting orders? He couldn't make it out.
Now he edged through the final archway, grasping the Baretta. At that moment an eruption of gunfire splintered the silence, a fiery burst in the rainy night, while Eva was yelling for it to stop. It was over as quickly as it had come, but she was still screaming, swearing actually.
Whoever was there, they were no more than thirty feet away. But she was still safe. He could hear her curses, now half muffled in the storm.
Gingerly he edged on out through the entryway and stood at the edge of the courtyard, Baretta cocked and ready. A lighter blossomed in the rain, was brought upward to a cigarette, and momentarily framed a face.
Alex Novosty.
He was holding what appeared to be an Uzi, peering down at the glistening stones. Sprawled across from him were two bodies, both in dark raincoats. Now he was saying something to Eva in Russian, but she was staring past him, toward the entryway where Vance stood. In a flare of lightning their eyes locked, and he saw in hers anger and disbelief.
At that moment the flame of the lighter was cut short, but not before Novosty whirled and followed her gaze.
Instinctively Vance threw himself against the inside wall of the processionway. An instant later, the Uzi blazed again, drowning the sound of Novosty's challenge. He held his own automatic, barely breathing, while the rounds ricocheted against the stone walls. Was Eva part of it? What in hell . . .
Then her voice rose again, through the dark, a mixture of Russian and English. She was screaming at Novosty. Finally she called out.