they must not have thought much about it because no one came to Conrad’s aid, not even Rolan.
Diktator, Rolan’s leopard, skidded to a halt and swung around at the sound of the terrible sawing growls and challenging roars, so distinctive of leopards fighting. He paused for a moment and then turned and raced toward the safety of the trucks. He was sprinting hard, his legs shaky, not used to running anymore, when something hit him from the side. A bright hot pain spread through his body and he knew his lung burst.
His legs went out from under him and he tumbled, rolling over and over, coughing as blood filled his throat and nostrils. He tried to stand, but then went down, his sides heaving. He watched as the leopard approached, not even coming at him fast, as if he didn’t even count. As if he wasn’t a vor, a leader of the bratya, his lair one of the most feared.
Diktator snarled at him, showed his yellow, stained teeth, but didn’t move, sides heaving as he tried to gather his strength. The leopard just watched him with malevolent eyes. The leopard had a strange, distinctive coat. Pure white underneath with a scarred, dark coat on top. Where had he seen him before? He should know him. He had seen him, a long time ago in Russia, but Rolan’s memory was going.
Without warning the leopard attacked, moved so fast he was a blur, just a streak of spots, and there was a terrible crunch and more flashing pain as the leopard bit through the bone of his right back leg. Diktator howled. The leopard retreated, once more circling, staying just out of reach, looking as if Rolan’s leopard was nothing at all and Rolan no more than the lowest creature inhabiting the earth. Rolan wanted to scream at him, to tell him differently, but he didn’t dare.
Minutes later, three more leopards joined Diktator. One was a powerful Persian leopard, the other two were Amur leopards. They paced back and forth, circling Diktator. Another two minutes, and there was no mistaking Shturm, Sevastyan’s leopard. Rolan’s heart sank. He should have known the reason the leopard hadn’t come in for the kill.
Conrad had tried to warn him a dozen times against coming to the States. He’d told him to leave it alone, that Mitya and Sevastyan were long gone and weren’t coming back. Even after Lazar had been killed by Mitya and Sevastyan, the betrayal had eaten away at Rolan until he couldn’t think of anything else. He wanted Lazar’s sons dead. He needed them dead.
Shturm trotted up to the other leopards and all of them looked in the direction of the trucks. It was clear Oliver was dead. Most likely, everyone was dead. He’d failed all around. Rolan was weary. Diktator was weary. He let Sevastyan come to him. There were ways. There were always ways. He could act conciliatory. Pretend he wanted to talk. He shifted, just partially, his head, luring Sevastyan in. Making him vulnerable. That was all Diktator would need.
Shturm stepped close. Rolan’s heart accelerated. He could see Sevastyan’s eyes looking back at him. He was going to shift. He told Diktator to be ready, to go for Sevastyan’s throat, his most vulnerable place, if he shifted only partially so they could talk.
“Lazar did us all such a disservice, teaching us such hatred,” he began, watching. Feeling triumphant. Gleeful.
Shturm leaned in before Rolan could shift back, put his jaws around the man’s head and bit down hard, crushing the skull as if it was no more than an eggshell. He pulled back and looked down at the leopard with contempt before delivering a second bite to the throat. He turned and followed the other leopards to the transports and the drivers.
Sevastyan was going to help with dispatching them and then he would leave the mop-up to his security force so he could get to Flambé and make certain she and Flamme were all right. He had no idea what was going on with her, since she wouldn’t answer him and he couldn’t send Kirill and Matvei up to the master bedroom to check on her. But the sense of urgency was riding him hard.
16
FROM very far away, Flambé heard voices talking in hushed tones. Strong arms lifted her, turned her. She cried out when pain burst through her. Sevastyan’s voice soothed her when nothing else could. His tone was like a velvet cloth stroking a cool liquid over the burning