by Anna Zaires
It’s now been almost sixteen hours since I stole the car from the hospital. By now, its owner would’ve found it missing and reported it to the police. If they’ve discovered our Mercedes in the parking lot—and I would be shocked if they haven’t—every law enforcement officer in the area must now be looking for the blue Toyota and the fugitives in it.
It’s only a matter of time before they find our cabin.
If Yan doesn’t get here soon, it will have all been for nothing.
I look at the phone again, rereading his email for the fifteenth time. I should conserve the battery, but I can’t help myself. The three little words on the screen are the only thing keeping me going.
On our way.
That’s all Yan replied when I sent him an email detailing the situation and our location. He clearly knew what is happening because he answered in under a minute.
On our way. That’s it. No specifics, not even a rough ETA. I have no idea if he’ll be here in minutes or hours or days.
For all I know, we’re looking at weeks.
It had been another agonizing choice when I’d unlocked the phone: call 911 to get Peter the medical attention he so badly needs, or reach out to Yan and continue this fugitive madness. In the end, I went with my instinct—and when I looked at the phone’s browser after getting Yan’s reply, I was glad I did.
Our faces are all over the news now, both mine and Peter’s. Every media outlet, minor and major, is dissecting our lives online, the articles constantly updating with new details about our wedding and speculations about our relationship. In some, I’m cast as a brainwashed victim; in others, I’m complicit from the beginning. When it comes to Peter, however, there’s no ambiguity.
In every story, he’s the villain.
“She told me he killed her first husband,” Marsha is quoted as saying in The Chicago Tribune. “That he tortured and stalked her before kidnapping her. She was gone for months, and when she came back, she was completely messed up. He must’ve done a real number on her, brainwashed her somehow. Because when he showed up again, she married him. Like, within days. She denied it was him—he changed his last name somehow—but they couldn’t fool me. I always knew the truth.”
My bandmates had also been interviewed. “He just popped up out of nowhere,” The New York Times quotes Phil as saying. “For months, we all knew her as this shy, reserved widow, and then suddenly, she’s marrying this mysterious Russian. She said they’d been dating in secret, but I’d always thought there was more to that story. And he was so possessive of her. Like, dangerously possessive. You could tell he’d kill anyone who dared look at her sideways. He just had that lethal aura about him.”
My parents’ deaths are covered too, as are their neighbors’ reactions to them and the shootout. What is conspicuously absent, however, is any mention of the specific evidence linking Peter to the bombing, or anything about his real background and motivations.
Some news outlets claim that he’s a Russian spy, and that the bombing was Putin’s unofficial response to the sanctions. Others speculate that Peter is an assassin for the Russian mafia, and that the bombing had to do with an ongoing investigation. George is mentioned too, as a brave journalist whose story about the Russian mob resulted in his murder.
There’s nothing about the small village of Daryevo or Peter’s family, not a single word about the terrible error that led to their deaths.
Stopping my pacing, I sit on the edge of Peter’s bed and feel his forehead. He’s still burning up, his body battling the infection that’s causing the wound in his side to look red and inflamed.
He’s almost totally unresponsive, but I manage to get most of the medicine down his throat. It’s not enough—he needs much stronger stuff—but it’s the best I can do for now.
“Hang in there, darling,” I whisper, running a damp towel over his face to cool him down. “Help is coming. Just hang in there, and all will be well.”
It has to be.
I can’t bear to think otherwise.
I’m nodding off next to Peter when the front door opens with a loud creak.
The adrenaline blast is so strong I’m on my feet before I can even process the sound. “Wha—”
“It’s just us,” Ilya says, stepping with Yan through the doorway. “We have to go. Now.”
I realize I’m panting, one hand pressed to my wildly hammering heart. “You’re here.” I step forward unsteadily. “You came.”
Yan is already standing over Peter. “Help me,” he orders his twin brother, and Ilya hurries over. Together, they lift Peter off the bed and swiftly carry him out of the cabin.
My brain belatedly switches on, and I grab the first-aid supplies, then run after them.
Outside is a dark-colored SUV with its headlights off but its motor running. “Get in the back with him,” Yan tells me as he and Ilya deposit Peter in the backseat, then go around to the front.
I scramble to obey. “There’s some weapons in the Toyota,” I say breathlessly as Yan gets behind the wheel. “Should we get them or—”
“No time,” Ilya says as Yan slams on the gas, and the car rips forward. “If we don’t make it out of US airspace before eight a.m., they’re going to shoot down our plane.”
I suck in a sharp breath and shut up, focusing on protecting Peter from the worst of the jolting. He’s lying in the back seat with his head on my lap, and with every pothole we hit at full speed, I’m terrified that he’ll fly off the seat and tear his stitches.
At first, I have no idea how Yan can see well enough to drive without headlights, but after a few minutes, my eyes adjust and I begin to make out the shapes of trees and bushes in the faint light of the crescent moon flickering through the clouds.
“Where’s the plane?” I ask when we finally turn onto a paved road and the teeth-rattling torture ceases. “How far is it from here?”
“Not far,” Ilya says, glancing back at me as Yan turns on the headlights—probably to blend better with the few cars that are out at this time. “Just a little longer, that’s all.”
“Okay, good.” Peter is feverishly mumbling something again, and I wouldn’t be surprised if at least some of his stitches got torn. “Do you think we’ll be able to—”
“Quiet.” Yan’s order is knife sharp. “I can’t miss this turn.”
I fall silent again, letting him concentrate on getting us to our destination. Before long, we turn off on another dirt road, and Yan switches off the headlights as we embark on another bone-rattling adventure.
I keep Peter as still as I can while stroking his sweaty hair. It seems to soothe him, and it helps keep me calm as well. As relieved as I am that we’re no longer alone, I know we’re not out of the woods yet—literally or figuratively. The tension in the car is palpable, the adrenaline thick in the air.
“Zdes’,” Ilya says suddenly, and Yan takes a sharp right, nearly sending me flying. I manage to catch Peter’s shoulders, but he still groans in agony as his injured leg hits the seat in the front.
“Is he okay?” Ilya asks gruffly, glancing back. The sky is beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn, and his shaved skull gleams in the twilight-like darkness, its pale smoothness marred only by the intricate pattern of tattoos.
“Depends on your definition,” I answer, keeping my voice low. I don’t want to distract Yan again. “He needs a hospital. Badly.”
“What about you?” Ilya’s deep voice softens. “I heard what happened to your—”
“I’m fine.” My tone is harsher than I intended, but I can’t go there right now, can’t poke at the dark well of grief and despair. I can feel it bubbling under the surface, but for as long as I don’t touch it, don’t open it, I can keep myself from drowning in it.
Ilya studies me for a moment longer, then turns back to face the front window. I hope he’s not offended, but even if he is, I can’t gather enough energy to care. Now that I’m no longer in charge of getting us to safety, I can feel myself starting to unrav
el, thread by agonizing thread, and it takes all my willpower to hold the fraying ends together.
I have to stay strong.
If not for myself, then for Peter and our baby.
We bump along for ten more minutes before we turn onto another paved road and I see a decent-sized plane standing a dozen yards away.
“This is the airport?” I look around, taking in the forest surrounding the narrow strip of asphalt that seems to end not too far in the distance.
“More of an illegal airstrip,” Yan says, hopping out of the car. “Ilya, help me get him out.”
I move out of their way as they lift Peter out of the car and carry him onto the plane. Grabbing the first-aid supplies, I hurry after them, expecting to see Anton, Peter’s friend and their teammate, inside.
To my surprise, instead of Anton’s bearded face, I’m confronted with the hard features of Lucas Kent—the arms dealer whose home I stayed at in Cyprus. He’s standing inside the luxurious cabin, arms crossed over his broad chest.
“Hello,” I say dumbly, and he nods at me, his square jaw tight. He must still be upset with me for persuading his wife, Yulia, to help me escape.
That, or he’s just worried about this operation.
“We have less than two hours before my guy’s shift is over,” he says to the twins, confirming that it’s at least partially the latter. “Place him here”—he nods toward a cream-colored leather couch—“and we go.”
The twins do as Kent says, and he disappears into the pilot’s cabin. A minute later, the engines start with a roar, and I sit down next to Peter on the couch as the plane begins rolling. Yan and Ilya each take a seat at the front, and I look out the window, holding my breath as the plane speeds up.
With an airstrip this short, it’ll take a hell of a pilot to clear the trees ahead as we lift off.
Apparently, Kent is a hell of a pilot because we clear those trees without any issues. I can hear the powerful engines revving up as we climb at a steep angle, and a wave of relief rolls over me as I realize we’re in the air.
Not over the border yet, but at least up in the air.
As soon as the plane levels off, I inspect Peter’s wounds. There’s some fresh bleeding around his calf, but the stitches in his side and arm have held, though the side continues to look angry and inflamed. It might be my imagination, but he feels a little cooler to the touch by the time I’m done, and his face looks more relaxed. It’s more like he’s sleeping rather than out of his mind with the fever.
I wipe a damp towel over his face and neck to cool him down more, then kiss his cheek and walk over to where the twins are sitting.
“How’s he doing?” Ilya asks, getting up. “Will he make it until we get to the hospital?”
I swallow a sudden lump in my throat. “I think so. That is… yes, he will.” I hadn’t let myself think that he wouldn’t, not really, but the awful possibility had been there, gnawing at my chest and burning a hole in my stomach.
“He’s a tough bastard,” Yan says, his green eyes gleaming as he lounges in his seat, looking like a corporate shark in his perfectly tailored dress pants and pinstriped shirt. “It’ll take more than a few bullets to kill him.”
I laugh shakily, then feel wetness on my face.
Am I crying?
Wiping away the errant moisture, I turn away, embarrassed, just as a big paw descends on my shoulder, squeezing lightly.
“It’s okay,” Ilya says when I turn back to face him. “You did well, kroshka. He’ll make it, thanks to you.”
“And you,” I say. I have no idea what he just called me, but it sounded more like an endearment than an insult. “If you hadn’t come…”
“Yeah, you would’ve been fucked,” Yan says matter-of-factly. “They’re really ramping up the hunt for the two of you.”
I nod, suppressing a shudder. “I figured as much when I saw the news. I can’t even begin to thank you for—”
“So don’t.” Yan stands up. “We don’t need your thanks.”
I smile, feeling a bit awkward. “That’s very nice of you, but I still really appreciate it. I know what a huge risk this is…”
Yan grins sardonically. “Do you? Are you now an expert on life on the run?”
“No, but I’m learning more about it every day,” I say evenly. “So thank you. I’m grateful that you came, and I’m sure when Peter wakes up, he’ll be too.” I have no idea what Yan’s deal is, but I have a nagging suspicion that he’s toying with me, like a cat with a mouse.
Pushing that unsettling image away, I turn to Ilya. “Where’s Anton?” I ask. “Is he okay?”
“He’s in Hong Kong on some business,” Ilya answers. “Wouldn’t have gotten here in time. We got lucky that Kent was in Mexico and had a plane. Otherwise…” He shrugs his massive shoulders.
“Right.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “I need to thank him too.”
“I wouldn’t,” Yan says dryly. “He’s not your biggest fan.”
“Oh.” So the arms dealer is holding a grudge about my escape—or at least his wife’s involvement in it. “I guess I should apologize to him first.”
“Why?” Yan looks coolly amused as he leans against the side of his seat. “Because you saw an opportunity and took it? He would’ve done the same in your shoes.”
“Yes, well, still.” I turn toward the pilot’s cabin, but Ilya steps in front of me, blocking my way.
“You don’t need to do this,” he says, his expression kind. “This is between him and Peter.”
“Okay…” I didn’t realize there was a specific protocol to these things. “I guess I’ll leave it to them, then.”
I turn to go back to Peter’s couch, but then I remember something important. “Where exactly are we going?” I ask, facing the twins again.
“To the clinic in Switzerland,” Yan says. “To get this one”—he nods at Peter—“on his feet. And after that, who knows.” He smiles darkly. “The whole world is now your home, Sara Sokolov. Welcome to our kind of life.”
Part III
37
Peter
* * *
I wake up with a sense of well-being that belies the pulling discomfort at my side. Soft hands are stroking my hair, and a sweet voice is crooning a soothing melody, making me feel warm and relaxed.
Opening my eyes, I meet Sara’s startled gaze. She’s sitting on the edge of my bed, holding a comb that she must’ve been about to use on me.
“You’re awake.” Her heart-shaped face lights up as she jumps to her feet and leans over me, leaving the comb on the bedside table. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” My voice comes out raspy, like I haven’t used for a while. My mouth is dry too, as is my throat. Moistening my cracked lips, I ask hoarsely, “What happened? Where are we?”
Beaming, Sara reaches for a glass of water sitting next to the bed. “The clinic in Switzerland. The Ivanov twins got us out.”
There’s a lot to unpack there, so I suck water through a straw while I sift through my recollections. I remember the bullet ripping through my side and Sara shepherding me into our car, but then things get hazy, more like a jumble of impressions. We must’ve changed cars at one point, because I have a vague memory of getting into a blue Toyota, but after that, it’s pretty much blank. And before the shootout—
“The baby.” I grip her wrist, my pulse kicking up. “Ptichka, are you and the baby—”
“We’re fine.” She puts down the cup of water, smiling brightly. “They checked me over, and we’re both perfectly fine.”
I exhale in relief, but then I remember something else. “Your parents.” My heart cracks in half as her smile disappears. “Ptichka, I’m so sorr—”
“Don’t.” She pulls away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I watch, chest aching, as she turns away, visibly composing herself. I remember more now, including the agent she shot point blank.
My little songbird, who’s dedicated her life to healing, killed a man
.
To protect me… and to avenge her mother.
She pulled the trigger not once, but three times.
I can only imagine what’s going through her mind right now, with her parents dead and her old life irrevocably lost. Not to mention the trauma of the shootout and the escape that followed.
How had she gotten us out by herself?
I’m sure Yan wasn’t waiting outside her parents’ house with a plane.
“Sara…” I push up to a sitting position, suppressing a wince as my side protests with pain. “Ptichka, come here.”
She rushes over immediately. “What are you doing? Lie down. It’s too soon to be moving.”
“I’m fine,” I say, but let her push me back flat on the bed. I like her fussing over me, her pretty face animated with worry.
It’s better than suppressed grief.
“Tell me what happened after I passed out,” I say after she checks my bandages to make sure I’ve done no damage. “How long have we been here? How did we manage to escape?”
She takes a deep breath. “It’s kind of a long story. But essentially, I got us to the cabin you told me about, and then I emailed Yan from your phone. He got Kent involved, and they came for us with a plane—the twins and Kent as the pilot.” She takes another breath. “That was two days ago.”
Two days ago? I must’ve been on death’s doorstep to be out that long.
Pushing away the implications of Kent’s involvement, I concentrate on getting all the facts. “Okay, now tell me the long story,” I say, and then I listen, stunned, as my civilian wife details her undercover venture into the hospital and the clever way she procured us a car.
“So yeah,” she concludes, “after I figured out what you were saying in Russian and unlocked your phone, I emailed Yan, and the twins came a few hours later. Yan said the two of them were in Mexico when it all happened, working with Kent on some deal, so it was just a matter of grabbing Kent’s plane and heading over. Oh, and bribing Kent’s air traffic control guy with one and a half million dollars. Yan said you owe him that money.”