a man who was presumably Ivanov called back in heavily accented English. From the sound of his voice she could tell he was coming through the kitchen, presumably heading for the common room. Panic sent Gina’s pulse rate soaring. She could hear it drumming in her ears. Hide. It was the only thing to do, the only chance she had. Wildly she looked around. Under the table . . . behind the couch . . . in the closet . . . The closet was the only possible place to go. Everywhere else she would be spotted the moment someone walked through the room. Juiced by a spurt of adrenaline, Gina fled toward the nearest closet with a door—a wooden double slider—that was partly open. Unless someone actually looked in it, she wouldn’t be seen. Pushing the door open a little wider, she dove inside. It was maybe three-by-six feet, moldy-smelling, dark.
