Page 23 of One Minute Out

“That asshole right there?”

“Da. Da.”

“You know his name?”

“I hear them call him Niko. That is all.” She begins to cry suddenly, her hardened look evaporating in an instant.

Three men in total climb out of the vehicle, and another two emerge from a second, identical SUV. They all walk together up the steps to the front door of the police station. I take a few pictures, focusing on the one called Niko, then help Liliana out of her chair and lead her back over to the bed by her arm.

She is weeping still, and I sit her down. “You did great. You just made a difference. Get some rest. Tomorrow morning I’ll take you to the train station and tell you how to get home.”

“What about Niko?”

I smile a little in the dim light. “I’ll be back for Niko.”

She nods slowly; I start to stand to return to the window, but she holds me by the wrist.

“You are good man.”

I’m not, but I say, “Thanks.”

She pulls me closer, tries to lead me down onto the bed on top of her.

I attempt to break away without making a big deal out of it, but her grip is surprisingly strong. I say, “You aren’t thinking straight, Liliana. You need to sleep.”

There are fresh tears in her eyes now. “I know what you need. I give you what you need.”

She’s wrong. I don’t need that. Not like this.

“No, you aren’t thinking straight,” I repeat.

I stop her advances as gently as I can, but gentle isn’t exactly my strong suit. Within seconds I have her arms pinned over her head, and only then does she stop trying to pull me down.

She nods without emotion now. “This you like? You like rough?”

Shit. “No. No. I’m sorry,” I say. “But I can’t.” I let go of her arms, but she doesn’t move them.

She sniffs and looks at me quizzically. She doesn’t seem offended, just surprised. “Assassin who is gay, or assassin with girlfriend?”

I marvel at the absurdity of this moment. “There is a girl.”

Another dispassionate nod from the Romanian. “British girl?”

The comment confuses me, but then I remember that I’m Prince Harry. Surprising myself, I don’t lie when I answer her. “No. A Russian girl.”

I get yet another look from her like she thinks I’m an idiot. With all the certainty in the world she replies, “Russian girl? She take your money.”

“Not this one.”

Then, “Russian girl drink too much.”

To this I shrug. “You may be right about that.”

She looks at me, then again says, “You are good man.”

A good man? She’s got me all wrong. For the third time I say, “You aren’t thinking straight, Liliana. Get some rest.”

EIGHT

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