by Anna Zaires
Esteban, the greedy little fucker, demands no less than three million euros to make the appropriate arrangements, and we don’t have any room to argue.
If we don’t land at his little airport, we’re fucked.
Finally, all the logistics are ironed out, and I make my way over to Sara’s seat. It’s big enough for two men, and she’s curled up in it with her knees drawn up to her chest, staring out the plane’s window.
“Ptichka.” I sink to my haunches in front of her, ignoring the pulling pain in my calf and side as I clasp her hands in mine. “My love, are you okay?”
She focuses on me, blinking. “What are you doing? You should be lying down.”
“I’m fine,” I say, but she’s already on her feet, pulling me up and toward the couch. Sighing, I let her—because I do feel like shit.
“Lie down with me,” I say as I stretch out on the couch. “I want to hold you.”
She frowns. “But your side—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I pull her down until she has no choice but to stretch out beside me. Rolling onto my uninjured side, I spoon her from the back, inhaling the delicate perfume of her hair as Ilya and Yan pointedly turn away in their seats, giving us a modicum of privacy.
Sara is rigid at first, undoubtedly worried about bumping into one of my injuries, but after a minute, some of the stiffness leaves her muscles. And that’s when I feel it.
An almost imperceptible trembling in her limbs and back.
She’s shaking all over.
My chest squeezes, even though I know it’s just the aftermath of the adrenaline overload. My little songbird is not physically injured—that was the first thing I made sure of when we got on the plane—but that doesn’t mean she got off scot-free.
What she’s just been through is enough to give PTSD to a seasoned soldier, much less a civilian woman.
A pregnant civilian woman.
“How are you feeling, my love?” I ask softly, placing my hand on her belly. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it feels flatter than usual, as if she’s lost some weight. And maybe she has.
Between the unpredictable morning sickness and all the stress, she might not be eating properly.
“I’m fine,” she murmurs, even as her breath hitches on a betraying quiver. “It’s just…”
“The adrenaline aftermath, I know.” I keep my voice low and soothing, moving my hand from her stomach to her hip to stroke her gently. “It’ll pass.”
She draws in a deeper breath. “I know. It’ll be fine.”
“It will be,” I promise. “We’ll get to our safe house, and everything will be just fine.”
It’s the first time I’ve lied to her, and judging by the renewed stiffness of her body, my ptichka knows it.
Because it won’t be fine.
Nothing can undo what has been done and bring back Sara’s parents.
All I can do is seek vengeance—and that, I’ll do.
Henderson will pray for death long before I’m done with him.
44
Sara
* * *
I must’ve drifted off in Peter’s embrace because I wake up to the low murmur of voices speaking Russian. Opening my eyes, I see my husband in a seat with a computer on his lap and the twins standing on both sides of him. He’s pointing to something on the screen while talking in rapid-fire Russian.
“What’s going on?” I ask, sitting up. I feel groggy, as if I’d been out for hours. And for all I know, I have been.
It’s a long flight from Switzerland to Venezuela.
The men glance in my direction. “Just trying to figure out where the sniper was hiding,” Yan says at the same time as Peter says, “Nothing, my love. Don’t worry about it.”
“A sniper?” A fresh spike of adrenaline sends me to my feet. “What sniper?” Then it dawns on me. “Oh, you mean whoever shot at the agent arresting you, causing all of them to panic and start shooting? I was wondering about that. I initially thought it might’ve been someone trying to help you, but they weren’t, were they? They were trying to cause trouble.”
Peter glares at Yan—did he think I need to be protected from this?—before turning to face me. “That’s right,” he says evenly. “Henderson must’ve hired the sniper to make sure I wasn’t taken alive. I’m guessing the plan was to frame me, then use the authorities to take me down, along with everyone who’s ever helped me—and to do so in a very public way, so nothing could be hidden from the media. If I’d been arrested, I might’ve been able to convince the authorities of my innocence by finding the real culprits, and then everything could’ve gone back to the way it was—and Henderson would’ve been in real trouble.”
“But if he had the sniper there, why not just shoot you instead of the SWAT agent?” I ask, suppressing a shudder as the image of Peter’s head exploding flits through my mind. “If that sniper was in position—”
“Well, for one thing, the angle wasn’t optimal to get me,” Peter says. “Or at least that’s what we’ve determined based on my recollections of the event. To get that shot, he must’ve been lying on the roof of the three-story house at the end of the street. Remember, the white one, with the gray roof?”
I nod, and he continues. “Well, I was closer to our house, so the trees must’ve been shielding me, at least partially. But more importantly, if I had been shot by an unknown sniper, it would’ve raised all sorts of suspicions about who’s really behind the attack, and I’m guessing that’s the last thing Henderson wanted. But with the agent getting shot, it was almost certain that the cops would assume it was someone in cahoots with me, and I would be killed in the resulting shootout anyway.”
“And you very nearly were,” I say, unable to hold back a shudder this time. “You came so close to dying…”
Peter’s lips curve in a cold smile. “Yes… but unfortunately for Henderson, I didn’t quite get there.”
I stare at him, the fine hairs on the back of my neck rising at the dark promise in his voice. I haven’t forgotten this side of him, of course, but it had been easy not to think about it when we were going about our suburban life. The Peter I’d agreed to marry hadn’t been all that different from the vengeful assassin who’d invaded my home to murder George, but it had been possible to pretend that he was—that he was no longer capable of the terrible things he’d done to avenge Tamila and his son.
Except he is.
He always would be.
And now he has another reason to go after Henderson.
“How are you going to do it?” I ask, and even I’m surprised at how conversational I sound. “Do you have a plan in place already?”
Because Henderson will die for this. I know that as surely as I know that Peter loves me. My lethal husband will make his enemy pay tenfold, and as wrong as it is, I can’t muster up an ounce of moral outrage at the thought.
The recently awakened monster within me wants Henderson to suffer, to know pain and devastating loss.
Peter’s icy smile doesn’t waver. “Don’t worry about the particulars, my love. Suffice it to say, he won’t get away with this.”
“I know he won’t,” I say softly, holding my husband’s gaze. “You won’t let him.”
And getting up, I go to the bathroom to freshen up, cognizant of Peter’s eyes tracking me as I walk through the cabin.
45
Peter
* * *
People process trauma in different ways. Some fall apart and never pull themselves together. Others find a core of strength that gets them through the days. I’ve always known that Sara was of the latter persuasion, but I’ve never appreciated her inner steel more than I do now as I watch the bathroom door close behind her slender figure.
She’s a warrior, my little bird—as strong in her own way as any trained soldier.
“So do you still think she’s all sweetness and light?” Yan says in Russian as I look away from the door and meet his coolly amused gaze. “Because from where I’m standing, your perfect little doctor seems
to have developed quite a thirst for blood.”
“Shut it, Yan,” Ilya snaps before I can respond. “Now’s not the time.”
Under any other circumstances, I’d already have my hands around Yan’s throat, but Ilya is right.
We’re about to start our descent, and there’s no time for bullshit.
“I’m going to do a last-minute check on the situation on the ground,” I tell Ilya, pointedly ignoring Yan. “Esteban promised that we’ll be all set, but you know how much I trust that weasel.”
“Right.” Ilya snatches Yan’s phone from his brother’s pocket and hands it to me. “Good idea.”
I punch in the number of a Venezuelan police chief I’ve had on my payroll for the past three years and wait for the call to connect. If all is well, Santiago will be clueless as to why I’m calling. If not…
“Hello?” he answers in Spanish.
“It’s Peter Sokolov.”
There’s a moment of tense silence; then he hisses into the phone, “Why the fuck are you calling me? It’s too late; there’s nothing I can do. They’re all over that dinky airport. I told you, I can’t do anything when the whole department—”
I hang up before he finishes and look up to meet two sets of identical green eyes.
“Looks like Esteban’s airstrip is a no-go,” I say evenly. “Any other ideas?”
46
Sara
* * *
I return to find Peter and the twins clustered around the entrance to the pilot’s cabin. All three men are on their feet, gesturing tensely as they argue in Russian with Anton.
My stomach dives. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“Our Venezuelan contact sold us out,” Ilya says over his shoulder. “Or maybe he was caught—we don’t know for sure. Either way, the police are waiting for us to land, which means we need to stretch our fuel supplies and get to another—”
“There’s no stretching the fuel; Anton told you that.” Yan’s voice is sharp. “I say we chance it with the police. If our fuel runs out, that’s certain death, but with the cops—”
“We have seven percent left,” Peter says. “That’s enough to get us to an airport halfway across the country.”
“Where they’ll be waiting for us anyway,” Yan snaps. “We’re already on their radar, and if we miscalculate even a tiny bit…”
“It’s better than walking into a certain trap,” Ilya says. “I say we land somewhere else. Like another airport, or a highway, or maybe even—” He stops abruptly and rushes over to the laptop Peter was on earlier.
“What is it?” I ask, my heart hammering.
“Colombia,” he says, his deep voice incongruously excited. “We’re right next to Esguerra’s Amazon compound, aren’t we? And he has an airstrip inside…”
“You’re kidding, right?” Yan crosses his arms. “There’s no way our fuel would last that far—and that’s assuming Esguerra would even want to help. He’s eyeballs deep in his own shit right now.”
“Yes, but it’s all the same shit, don’t you see?” Ilya says as his thick fingers fly over the keyboard. “We’re the reason he’s getting blackballed everywhere. So—”
“So he’ll gladly save the police the trouble and shoot us down himself,” Yan says. “Either way, I don’t see how we’d have enough—”
“I’ll rerun the fuel numbers with Anton,” Peter says and disappears into the pilot’s cabin.
I stare after him, my nausea returning as I process the fact that there are no good options for us.
Even if we don’t run out of fuel on the way to Esguerra’s compound, the arms dealer is unlikely to welcome us.
“We may have enough to get to Esguerra’s place,” Peter says, reappearing in the doorway. “It all depends on the speed and direction of the wind. Right now, we’ve got a strong tailwind. If it stays as is, we’ll make it.”
“The wind? That’s what we’re betting on?”
Nobody responds to Yan’s rhetorical question, so he walks over to the couch and plops down, muttering what sounds like Russian curses under his breath.
“I just reached out to Kent,” Ilya says, looking up from the computer. “He’s at Esguerra’s compound right now. Maybe he can convince him to let us crash with them for a bit.”
“There’s no time for that,” Peter says. “By the time they hash it over, we’ll be out of fuel. I’m going to call Esguerra directly. He has to let us land. It’s our only chance.”
47
Peter
* * *
The Colombian arms dealer picks up on the third ring.
“Trouble in paradise?” he says silkily.
“On your end too, I imagine,” I say calmly. The last thing I want is for Esguerra to sniff out any hint of desperation. “I think we can help each other.”
He laughs derisively. “Yeah, sure.”
“Do you know who’s behind this shit show?”
“I have a pretty good idea. The former general, right? The fucker you didn’t kill because you wanted to play house in the suburbs?”
Fuck. Of course he would know this already. Information is as much Esguerra’s stock in trade as the weapons he produces.
I change my tactics. “Listen, I’m sorry this spilled over to you and your business. But the only way to fix this is to expose Henderson and what he’s done. And I know exactly how to do that.”
“Really? Isn’t this the guy you’ve been hunting unsuccessfully for three years?”
I ignore the mockery in his tone. “Yes—which means no one knows as much about him as my team and I. It will take you months, if not years, to gather all the data that we have on his friends and relatives, and to go through all the hiding spots we’ve found and eliminated. Face it: You need me to fix this clusterfuck of a situation quickly, before you lose even more money. How much are all the raids at your factories costing you? A hundred million a day? More?”
I was just guessing about the raids, but judging by the silence on the phone, I’ve struck a nerve.
“Julian, listen to me,” I continue as Sara and the twins stare at me intensely. “I can take down Henderson, and I can do it quickly. All I need is a place to lay low for a bit and some of your resources, and I’ll prove that you had nothing to do with the explosion. By this time next month, you’ll be back in Uncle Sam’s good graces, and we’ll be out of your hair for good. Or you can try to deal with it on your own, and put up with every law enforcement agency coming after—”
“Fuck you and your team.” There’s no mistaking the fury in Esguerra’s voice. “You’re the reason for this whole fucking mess. And you know what? I bet if I give you and the other ‘terrorists’ on your team to Uncle Sam, that’ll go a long way toward mending that relationship.”
“Will it? Are you sure?” It’s my turn to sound coolly mocking. “A dangerous explosive—your explosive—was deployed on US soil against the FBI. Every agency is involved in this, every bureaucrat from high to low. Do you really think all will be forgiven and forgotten if you turn over your co-conspirators? Because that’s what they’ll believe, you know—that you’re just ratting out your cohorts. Unless you expose Henderson for what he is and clear your name quickly, you’re just as fucked as we are.”
There’s another long, tense silence on the line. Then Esguerra says in a hard voice, “Fine. I can give you a place to lay low. I have a contact in Sudan. Once you get there—”
“Sudan won’t work,” I interrupt. “I have a different place in mind.”
“Oh?”
“Your compound. We’ll be there in under an hour.”
And before he can reply, I hang up.
48
Sara
* * *
I watch, stomach in knots, as Peter calmly pockets the phone and walks back to the pilot’s cabin—presumably to inform Anton that we’re going to Esguerra’s compound, regardless of the arms dealer’s feelings on the matter.
“You know, he’s just going to shoot us down on a
pproach,” Yan says when Peter reappears a minute later. “And that’s if our fuel lasts that long.”
“It will,” Ilya says confidently. “And he won’t. You heard Peter: Esguerra needs us to sort out this mess quickly.”
“Yeah, sure,” Yan mutters and heads over to the bathroom in the back of the plane.
My legs don’t feel entirely steady as I walk over to the couch and sit down.
Is this how we’ll die?
Not by a bullet, but in a plane crash?
The couch dips beside me, and a big, warm hand covers my knee. “It’ll be all right, ptichka,” Peter murmurs, raising his other hand to brush back my hair. His fingers graze over my jaw, the touch so tender it makes me want to cry.
“How do you know?” I whisper, then chide myself for acting like a needy child.
Of course he doesn’t know.
He’s just saying it to make me feel better.
“Because I know Julian,” he says softly. He hasn’t shaved in days, and the dark stubble accentuates the unhealthy pallor of his skin. Nonetheless, he still somehow radiates his usual strength and self-assurance, and even though I know it’s most likely a façade, I can’t help but feel reassured as he presses his lips to my forehead, then wraps one powerful arm around my shoulders, tucking me against his uninjured side.
“You should be resting,” I murmur after a minute. As strong as my husband is, he’s not invincible. It was only days ago that he was at death’s door. But when I attempt to pull away, he just holds me tighter, and I give up with a sigh, laying my head on his shoulder.
It’s not worth fighting over.
After all, this may be our last hour together.
49
Peter
* * *