Forever Mine

by Anna Zaires

  The tailwind weakens just as we’re about to begin our descent. I learn about it via a terse announcement from Anton.

  Excusing myself, I carefully extricate myself from Sara’s embrace and head over to speak to him, grateful that he had the foresight to speak Russian.

  My ptichka is worried enough as it is.

  Ilya and Yan are already inside the pilot’s cabin, with Yan crouched next to Anton, holding a computer.

  “How much are we going to fall short by?” I ask without preamble.

  “Not much,” Anton says grimly. “If the wind speed doesn’t drop more, we might have enough for a hard landing—or we might not. It depends on how well this plane runs on fumes.”

  “Are there any landing strips closer?” Ilya asks. “A wide road would do as well.”

  “I can’t find anything like that on the map,” Yan says, and I see him zooming in on a heavily forested region on Google Maps. “We’re right on the edge of the jungle; there’s nothing but trees, rivers, and narrow dirt roads.”

  I bite back a vicious curse.

  This is bad.

  Really fucking bad.

  If it were just us, I wouldn’t worry so much—people have been known to survive plane crashes—but even a hard landing could be too much for Sara and the baby.

  “What’s going on?” she says from behind me, and I turn to find her staring worriedly at the controls. “Did something happen?”

  Nobody answers. Even Yan has no sarcastic remarks.

  “Nothing, ptichka. We’re just getting ready to land,” I say evenly, and taking her hand, I lead her out of the cabin.

  50

  Sara

  * * *

  My insides feel like icy stones as Peter guides me to my seat and straps me in, tightening the seatbelt across my lap until it’s almost hard to breathe. Then he limps over to the couch and pulls off the cushions. Bringing them over, he dumps them in front of me, then opens an overhead bin and pulls down a duffel bag.

  “What are you doing?” My voice starts to shake. “Peter, what are you doing?”

  He doesn’t reply, just pulls out a long rope and a knife. Grabbing one of the cushions, he ties it to the back of the seat in front of me, exactly where my head would hit if I assumed the classical plane-crash position and something were to push me forward.

  Then he takes the other cushion and stuffs it to the left of me, between my seat and the window. It’s wedged tightly in there, so he doesn’t need to use the rope to hold it in place.

  “Are we crashing?” It’s a stupid question, as it’s obvious what’s happening, but I can’t help myself. I want him to lie to me again, to tell me that what he’s doing is nothing more than a silly precaution.

  “No, we’re landing,” he says, as if reading my mind, and then he straps the third cushion to my right by tying it to me.

  I was wrong.

  I don’t want him to lie.

  I want him to tell me the full truth, so I can properly freak out.

  The plane’s nose dips, and my stomach follows suit as I feel the sudden change in cabin pressure.

  “Peter.” My voice is surprisingly steady. “Please, sit.”

  “In a moment,” he says and disappears in the back as Yan and Ilya come out of the pilot’s cabin and take their own seats.

  A few seconds later, Peter reappears with a few pillows. Ignoring my protests, he ties them all around me, with one small one going on the top of my head. By the time he’s done, I resemble a human marshmallow.

  Then and only then does he take the seat next to me.

  “Take some of these pillows for yourself,” I beg, but he just tightens his seatbelt. “Please, darling. Or at least give a couple of them to your teammates. Why should I have them all? Peter, listen to me…”

  “Don’t listen to her, Peter,” Ilya says gruffly from the other row. “We’re going to be fine.”

  “But—”

  “Relax, Sara,” Yan says coolly. “My brother’s right. Besides, padding can only do so much.”

  Peter barks something sharp in Russian—probably an admonishment for needlessly scaring me—and I feel my ears pop as our descent accelerates.

  “Five minutes to landing,” Anton announces over the intercom, and Peter reaches across the table between our seats, his hand burrowing through the mound of pillows to clasp mine. His grip is as strong as usual, but his fingers are cold as they wrap gently around my palm.

  “Four minutes,” Ilya says as the plane tilts to the left, enabling me to catch a glimpse of the green forest below.

  In the distance, I spot a large cleared area with a smattering of small buildings near a bigger white one, but then the plane tilts to the right and all I see is the sky.

  A sputtering sound interrupts the steady drone of engines. It sounds like a giant clearing his throat.

  I stop breathing, my eyes snapping to Peter’s.

  His face is white, his jaw set in a brutal line, but his grip on my hand remains steady and reassuring.

  The engines resume their droning, and I suck in a much-needed breath. Cold sweat is gathering under my armpits, and all the pillows make me feel like I’m suffocating.

  “Three minutes,” Ilya says hoarsely. “Almost there.”

  The engines cough again, then resume working.

  The plane tilts to the right again, and I force myself to glance out the window.

  The cluster of buildings—Esguerra’s compound, presumably—is almost underneath us now, and I see that the white building is a stately mansion. I also notice what looks like prison guard towers at the edge of the cleared area.

  “Two minutes,” Ilya says, and I spot our destination: a paved runway some distance from the mansion, with a thick patch of forest surrounding it on both sides.

  The wheels unfold underneath us with a screech, and then the engines cough again.

  “One minute,” Ilya says, his voice strained.

  With one last sputter, the engines go silent.

  We just ran out of fuel.

  “Ptichka.” Peter’s voice is eerily calm as my terrified gaze meets his. “I love you. Now brace yourself.”

  51

  Sara

  * * *

  I’ve always thought that planes with malfunctioning engines fall out of the sky, like birds that had been shot. But as I stare at Peter in paralyzed terror, I don’t feel a sharp drop.

  Somehow, we’re still gliding forward as we descend.

  “Sara.” His voice sharpens. “Bend over and hug your knees. Now.”

  My frozen limbs somehow comply, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him assume the same position.

  Oh, God.

  It’s happening.

  It’s real.

  We’re crashing.

  We’re about to die.

  My rapid breathing is tornado loud in my ears, my right hand slippery with sweat as I push it through the mound of pillows to touch Peter’s arm.

  I need to feel him.

  Need to know that we’re connected to the end.

  Then his hand wraps around my palm again, and for a fraction of a second, it’s all I need. The flare of joy is as intense as the panic consuming me, the surge of love so strong it overcomes the fear of impending death.

  “I love you,” I whisper, turning my head to meet his silver gaze. “I’ll always love you, Peter… in this world and beyond.”

  The initial impact is like landing on a bucking bronco. The plane hits the ground so hard it bounces twice, each jolt rougher than the next. The belt across my lap is the only thing that keeps me from flying off the seat, and my left shoulder slams into the couch cushion as the plane tips violently to one side.

  A wheel must’ve broken off, I realize as the agonizing screech of metal dragging over pavement reaches my ears over the deafening pounding of my pulse, and then miraculously, we’re slowing down.

  We’re on the ground and slowing down.

  The realization sinks in slowly, and it’s not
until we’ve stopped that I comprehend it fully.

  We survived.

  We ran out of fuel, but we still landed.

  Breathing raggedly, I sit up and open my eyes—I must’ve squeezed them shut during the landing—and I see Peter already sitting upright, his stubble-shadowed face creased with a worried frown as he frees his hand from my white-knuckled grip.

  Unbuckling his seatbelt, he stands up and swiftly rids me of the pillows before patting me down from head to toe.

  “Are you all right?” he asks fiercely, and when I nod, I find myself pulled into his embrace and held so tightly that I can’t breathe. Not that I need to. This, right here, is all that I require. His warmth seeps into my frozen body, his comforting scent surrounds me, and with my ear pressed against his powerful chest, I hear his heart beating in tune with mine.

  We’ve made it.

  We’re together, and we’re alive.

  52

  Peter

  * * *

  If I had my way, I’d hold Sara forever, breathing in her sweet scent, but there’s still our unwilling host to deal with.

  Reluctantly, I release her and step back. Ilya and Yan are already by the door, opening it and lowering the ladder, and I walk over to help them.

  Sure enough, outside are enough armed guards to take down a platoon. They’ve surrounded our plane, and behind them are at least twenty SUVs with reinforcements, with a dozen more pulling up as I look.

  “Stay here until I come for you,” I tell Sara over my shoulder, and then I step out into the humid heat of the jungle, fully prepared to be shot on the spot.

  Just because Esguerra let us land doesn’t mean he’ll let us live.

  He might’ve just wanted our plane undamaged.

  No bullets come at me, but I know better than to relax as I go down the steps, the adrenaline helping me conceal the limp.

  “I’m unarmed,” I call out as the nearest guards raise their M16s. They must be new; I don’t recognize any of their faces from my time in Esguerra’s employ. “Tell your boss that I’m here to see him.”

  “Are you now?” Esguerra says mockingly, stepping out from behind a cluster of guards. “What a coincidence. Because I could’ve sworn your plane just happened to crash here… as if you ran out of fuel.”

  “Yes, well, shit happens. Fuel leak last minute and all that.”

  He tsk-tsks in false sympathy. “Should fire your maintenance guy. Fuel leaks are dangerous.”

  “Aren’t they, though?” My grin is as sharp as the knife I’ve concealed in my boot. Despite what I said, I’m never completely unarmed. “But all is well that ends well,” I continue. “We’re here now, so why don’t we shelve the whys for later and focus on what matters—finding Henderson and unfucking up this situation as quickly as possible.”

  Esguerra’s eyes narrow into blue slivers, and for a moment, I’m sure he’s going to kill me. But business sense must prevail because he just says coolly, “All right. You have a month to fix this mess. Diego will show you and your team to your lodgings.”

  And as he turns to leave, I allow myself to exhale the breath I’ve been holding.

  We’re far from safe, but we’ve just bought ourselves some time.

  Part IV

  53

  Sara

  * * *

  I wake up to the startling sounds of a baby crying, combined with women’s voices trying to calm it down.

  Opening my eyes, I sit up, willing my brain to start functioning so I can figure out where I am. And as I look around the plain room, with its white walls and gray carpet, it comes to me.

  We’re in Colombia, on the arms dealer’s compound.

  I’m glad about that; I like the privacy. Not to mention, the house itself is nice—clean and modern, if minimally furnished.

  “Wasn’t this Kent’s residence? Where is he staying?” Peter asked as we pulled up, and Diego explained that Lucas Kent is in the main house with the Esguerras—something about extra security and convenience for business meetings.

  The crying seems to be coming from the outside, so I get up, throw on a robe that I found in the closet yesterday, along with a few other clothes, and walk over to peek out the bedroom window through the closed blinds.

  Two dark-haired young women are crouched over a baby lying on a blanket on the green lawn in front of the house. They’re changing the child’s diaper, and the baby is wailing like it’s the worst thing in the world.

  Who are they?

  And where is Peter?

  Judging by the bright sun outside, it’s already late morning—which, given that I passed out shortly after our arrival yesterday afternoon, means that I slept for something like sixteen hours.

  My body must’ve needed the rest after all the stress.

  Automatically, my hand goes to my stomach. It’s still flat, with no sign of the life growing inside, but I know it’s there. I feel it.

  A baby of my own.

  In a few months, I’ll be changing diapers too.

  Assuming we’re still alive, that is.

  My chest tightening, I step back from the window. For a moment, I’d almost forgotten the precarious nature of our circumstances—and what brought us here.

  The roar of the helicopter amidst the gunfire, pushing on Dad’s chest in a futile effort to restart his heart, Mom’s face with a chunk of it missing—

  Gasping, I sink to my knees, my heart racing as cold sweat coats my body. For a second, it was as if I’d been transported back in time, the flashback so vivid that I’d smelled the metallic stench of blood, felt the warm spray on my face.

  Oh, God.

  I can’t do this.

  I can’t go there.

  Shaking, I get to my feet and stumble into the adjoining bathroom, where I turn the shower to the hottest setting and step in, letting the scalding water burn away the ice inside me.

  One day, I’ll be able to think about my parents, but not yet.

  Not for a long, long time.

  The doorbell rings just as I’m entering the living room, wearing a pair of jean shorts and a T-shirt that I found in the closet. They fit me surprisingly well. Given what Peter said about this being Kent’s house before, I’m guessing all the women’s clothes here are Yulia’s.

  Hopefully, she won’t mind if I borrow them.

  The doorbell rings again.

  “Peter?” I call out, looking around, but there’s no response. He must be out of the house.

  Taking a breath, I walk over to the front door and open it.

  Outside are the two young women I spotted earlier, with the baby now sleeping in a stroller. They look to be in their early twenties and are dressed in sundresses and casual sandals. One is petite and strikingly pretty, with a thick, glossy curtain of waist-length hair and a slim, athletic build, while the other one is round-cheeked, with a bright smile and curvy figure. To my shock, both of them look familiar.

  Where have I seen them before?

  “Hi,” the petite girl says, studying me with a peculiar expression. Her eyes are huge and dark in her delicate-featured face. “You must be Peter’s wife. I’m Nora Esguerra.”

  The name rings a bell, too—beyond the now-familiar “Esguerra.”

  “And I’m Rosa Martinez,” the other girl says with a faint Spanish accent. Like Nora, she’s staring at me like I’m some kind of a zoo animal, and I realize that her name is familiar as well.

  We’ve definitely met. But where?

  “Hi,” I say slowly as a memory nibbles at the back of my mind. It’s something from years ago, something having to do with my hospital… “I’m Sara Cobakis—that is, Sokolov.” Or Gorin, or whatever identity Peter’s going to have us assume next.

  “And you’re a doctor, right?” Nora cocks her head. “I don’t know if you remember, but—”

  “You were a patient of mine!” I gasp as it comes to me. My gaze falls on Rosa, and my shock intensifies. “You both were.”

  I remember it now. It was years a
go, not long after George’s accident. I’d been called in to the ER to treat two young women who had been assaulted at a nightclub. One of them—Rosa—had been raped, while the other one—Nora—had suffered a miscarriage in the process of trying to defend her friend.

  Nora’s husband had been there, too, a stunningly handsome man who’d looked like he was on the verge of murdering everyone but his young wife.

  Had that been Julian Esguerra?

  Have I already met the man I’ve heard so much about?

  Nora’s lips curve in a smile. “You have a good memory. I’m sure you’ve had thousands of patients over the years.”

  “I… yes, but…” Realizing I’m keeping them by the door like some door-to-door salesmen, I step back and open the door wide. “Please, come in. You must be hot standing there.”

  “Thank you,” Nora says, stepping in, and Rosa follows, pushing the stroller in front of her.

  “Is that your child?” I ask Rosa, but she smiles and shakes her head.

  “She’s Nora’s.”

  “Congratulations,” I say softly. I remember how devastated she’d looked in the hospital, how worried for her friend. And Rosa… It’s hard to believe the battered girl I’d treated that night is the bright-eyed woman standing in front of me. If not for Nora’s presence, it might’ve taken me longer to recognize her; half of Rosa’s face had been swollen and crusted with blood when I last saw her.

  “Thank you.” Nora’s smile dims slightly, then comes back in full force. “She’s our world—which is why I told Julian we must give you shelter, no matter how pissed off he is about the Henderson situation.”

  I blink at her. “What?”

  Rosa not-so-subtly kicks Nora’s foot and says something in rapid-fire Spanish.

  “I’m sure she knows about Henderson,” Nora says, frowning at her friend before looking back at me. “You do know about Henderson, right?”

  “Yes, of course,” I say. “I’m just confused as to what your daughter has to do with giving us shelter.”