Dal’s machine gun was hidden under his loose button-up shirt. The butt was beneath his armpit, the barrel tip tucked into the waistline of his jeans. He kept his arm clamped firmly to his side, holding the gun in place. The two extra magazines had been shoved into the crotch of his pants. It wouldn’t fool any Russian looking closely at him, but lucky for him, they were camouflaged among the hundreds of people fleeing the plaza.
Lena tried to conceal her weapon in a similar fashion. She didn’t have Dal’s height, which meant the barrel hung halfway down her thigh. Her extra magazine was tucked into the waistline of her stretch pants. Luckily, the loose tee she wore concealed most of the gun.
He spotted Russians along rooftop buildings, many of them smoking cigarettes and casually watching people stream by below them. There were also Russians on the streets, strolling around in large packs. They let them everyone pass unmolested.
Dal’s shoulders itched as they passed half a dozen Soviets. The men smiled smugly at them, machine guns propped on their shoulders. Cocky bastards.
“One minute they’re shooting at us, and now they’re letting us walk away,” Lena murmured.
“They’re not just letting us walk away,” Dal replied. “They shot everyone up with whatever is in those darts.” He was pretty damn sure it was an illness of some kind. A bacteria or virus cooked up in some underground red army lab. “Letting everyone go might be as good as shooting them dead.”
“And they’ll spread whatever they have,” Lena said grimly.
“Exactly.”
“We have to find my dad.”
Dal nodded. They passed another group of Soviets. A few of them chuckled at something one of their comrades said.
Beside him, Lena stiffened.
“What?” he asked.
She gave him a tight look but shook her head. He understood. Whatever she’d heard the Russians say, it wasn’t safe to repeat here.
The crowd steadily dispersed as they went along, people hurrying away in different directions. Dal and Lena hustled up the road that led back to where they had left the Mustang. Dal hoped it was still there. Otherwise, they might be hoofing it back to the farm.
“Dal.” Lena yanked on his arm. “Look! Over there by that orange Datsun.”
Dal’s breath caught in his throat. Bending over to peer into the driver’s side window of an orange Datsun was a familiar beat-up, brown leather jacket.
Mr. Cecchino.
In wordless unison, Dal and Lena broke into a run. They were hampered by the guns they concealed under their clothes, but even so they managed.
Mr. Cecchino turned just as they reached him. Dal had just enough time to register a wan, dirt-smudged face before Lena threw herself into her father’s arms.
“Daddy!”
Mr. Cecchino’s mouth fell open with a gasp of relief. His eyes watered as he held his daughter tight. He rocked her as she wept into his shirt.
His eyes met Dal’s over Lena’s dark head of hair. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. He settled for reaching out and giving Dal’s shoulder a hard squeeze. Dal returned the shoulder squeeze, his heart brimming. He made it a point not to look directly at the dart marks studding Mr. Cecchino’s forearm. They marred the tanned skin jut below the rolled-up sleeve of his flannel shirt.
The three of them stood like that for a long minute, Lena in her father’s embrace, the two men grasping one another’s shoulders.
Then Mr. Cecchino gently extracted himself from Lena. By this time, his eyes had dried. Dal had watched him deal with grief when Mrs. Cecchino had been diagnosed with cancer. Their small exchange had been as expressive as Mr. Cecchino ever got.
“Dallas.” Mr. Cecchino at last found his voice. “If anyone could find my Lena, I knew you could.”
“Don’t give him all the credit.” Lena flicked her ponytail over one shoulder and wiped her cheeks dry. “I had to hit two Soviets with a megaphone when they first attacked. I had to fight off two more with a chair leg while I waited for Dal to find me.” She smiled at Dal, her eyes shining at him in a way he’d never seen before.
“We have a car,” Dal said, ignoring the way Lena’s smile made his stomach flutter. “Two blocks north of here.”
“Good.” Mr. Cecchino wiped at the sweat that beaded his forehead. A bruise was forming around one eye. “I was considering the wisdom of breaking into this one and hot wiring it.”
Dal and Lena exchanged looks. Mr. Cecchino measured them, then shook his head. “Just take me to the car. We have to get back to the farm. I sent Nonna and the rest of the family to the cabin. A couple of Anton’s teammates were with them.”
They hurried up the street and arrived unmolested at the blue Mustang. Mr. Cecchino took in the car with a raised eyebrow as Dal fished the keys out of his pocket.
“We took it from some Russians,” Lena explained. She slid into the back seat and pulled out her machine gun.
“Did you take that from some Russians, too?” Mr. Cecchino raised both brows.
“After I shot them, yeah.”
Despite Mr. Cecchino’s skeptical expression, Dal didn’t miss the glint of pride in his eye. “Are you okay, honey?”
Lena rolled her eyes. “I’d rather shoot a Russian than a deer. At least deer are pretty.”
Mr. Cecchino cleared his throat, clearly fighting a grin. “Good job, sweetheart. Today you lived up to the family namesake.”
Dal pulled out his own machine gun after he slid into the driver’s seat. He passed the weapon to Mr. Cecchino. “You’re officially riding shotgun.”
Mr. Cecchino took the gun and readied it across his lap. “Gladly, son.”
Lena snickered as Dal unbuttoned his pants and pulled the extra magazines out of his crotch. Dal angled his head, hoping she didn’t notice his blush. It was just as embarrassing as it had been when she watched him stash them in the first place.
“Sorry.” He grimaced as he set the magazines on the floor by Mr. Cecchino’s feet. “I didn’t
