Baba Yaga ignored him. Franny gave up on modesty, pressed his arm against the bandage on his side, and ran harder. There was a jostling crowd on the sidewalk. Cops and Baba Yaga and her people. Franny assumed they were responding to a 911 call. A limo was idling at the curb.

Franny grabbed one of the cops by the shoulder. “You’ve got to stop that woman! She’s a criminal. A kidnapper. A murderer.” The officer frowned and knocked Franny’s hand off his shoulder. “Look, I’m a cop, too!”

Most of the officers had entered the hospital. A few were still outside. They looked inquiringly at Baba Yaga and a stone sank into the pit of Franny’s gut. He recognized privilege and payoff when he saw it.

One of the cops said something. It sounded like a question. The Otter leaned down and Baba Yaga whispered in his ear. He answered the cop, who pulled out his baton.

“Ah shit. Really?”

The nightstick slammed into his shoulder. Franny spun away and the next blow landed on the wound in his side. Pain pulsed through his body and a burning light exploded behind his eyes.

Marcus could barely believe Olena had really stepped out into the street to meet the oncoming truck. If he’d had the strength he would’ve grabbed her. He didn’t, though, and could only watch.

For a moment he was sure the truck was going to run her down. And then he was sure that she was going to shoot the driver. Neither happened. Instead, she walked right up to the moving vehicle, stepped onto the sideboard as it passed, and jabbed the pistol through the window. Marcus didn’t hear what she said, but the gun made her pretty convincing. The truck stopped. Olena jumped down. The man climbed out, the Glock aimed at him the whole time. She made it look so easy.

She had turned her head, flicked the hair out of her face, and said, “It’s probably better if I drive. Get in.”

In the truck’s bed, Marcus had asked her through the open window of the cabin just who she was. Her answer, “I’m Ukrainian girl,” hardly explained it. Marcus was beginning to suspect that there was more to her than he imagined.

It embarrassed him that she’d gotten him out of this city, that she’d taken control. But it was a shallow level of embarrassment. He was relieved that it wasn’t all on him. If it wasn’t complicated enough, he was still ashamed of the things she’d seen him do in the arena. Ugly things. Murderous things. Some of that he’d done for her, but still … he didn’t like the memories he had of it. He didn’t recognize himself in them. He just saw a monster with blood on his hands and venom in his mouth.

Considering that, there was something about being nearly dead in the back of a truck stolen for him by a beautiful Ukrainian girl that seemed almost all right. Somebody cared, and if that was true there was still some hope left. If only he wasn’t hurting so. Bleeding still, dizzy enough that he felt near to losing consciousness …