The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [105]
One of the few paparazzi who had been allowed into the tent stepped over and politely asked if he could photograph the two mothers with their children. Sandy blushed—she actually blushed—and reluctantly agreed. The two women stood with their heads together and showed their perfect teeth.
Stevie stood to one side and scanned the faces on either side of the paparazzo, as she had seen Dovetail do hundreds of times: mildly interested spectators, another photographer coming in for a photo of her own. As a risk assessor, these situations made her nervous. Too many variables.
Sandy was holding KJ up to the photographer. Everything seemed to be fine—and then something caught Stevie’s eye. It was a quarter profile, a long jaw, a large, fleshy ear lobe.
A quick stab of fear she couldn’t place. A warning. And then she saw the whole face, watching. It was Sergei Lazarev.
He was dressed in an Austrian Loden and a grey mountaineer’s hat, complete with feathers, that looked out of place with his very Eastern European features. His hand rested on a wooden walking stick, common among the Wanderer—Swiss hiker—set. It was decorated with the numerous metal souvenir badges that mountain walkers are so fond of. He was staring at Sandy.
What was he up to? Stevie moved closer to Sandy and saw Lazarev do the same.
Dovetail’s view was momentarily blocked by the Princess’s head.
Instinctively, Stevie stepped up right next to Sandy. Lazarev disappeared behind the photographer for a moment—where the devil was the man?—then suddenly he appeared, pushing violently past, knocking the photographer to the floor.
Quick as the bird she was, Stevie leapt in front of Sandy and KJ, shoving them behind her with one arm. The man hurtled forward, knocking into Stevie like a drunk.
Her mind raced, screaming instructions at her: Tie him up, hold him any way you can, Dovetail will only be a second.
Her body was racing with adrenaline.
Too late Stevie noticed the tiny red button below the handle of the walking stick, the finger poised to press it. The walking stick was pointing right at them—at Sandy and KJ.
Stevie dived at the man, her hands reaching to grab the stick. Her weight wasn’t enough to knock him to the floor but he spun and stumbled. The walking stick fired off with a harmless ‘pop’, into Lazarev’s own calf.
He lashed at Stevie with his stick, catching her on the side of the head. She reeled to the floor, more from the shock than the force of the blow. It stung like hornets.
Dovetail was on them then, covering KJ and Sandy with his bulk.
‘Get them out of here FAST!’ Stevie shouted. ‘There could be others.’ She scrambled up from the floor, furious. Where was Lazarev?
She could see the hat bobbing, pushing through the guests, making for the open side of the tent. Without thinking, she high-tailed after him.
He didn’t appear to be injured; he bolted. Stevie was just able to keep him in sight but she was not a fast runner and she would lose him at this rate.
Lazarev vaulted the low barrier that surrounded the polo
field—the game was at half-time—and began to sprint along it. Empty of obstacles, he gained ground, fast approaching the exit gates and presumably a waiting car that would speed him away over the border.
That would not do.
A groom was passing with a hot pony, still saddled from the last chukka. In a moment of pure instinct Stevie grabbed the reins from the startled gaucho and was up on the pony. She wheeled the horse around and gave chase. Cheeks blazing with outrage and the effort of running in leather trousers, she galloped at full speed along the fence, throwing up great icy clods into the crowd.
The jaded spectators turned to watch. This wasn’t on the programme— and Stevie’s leather did look