by Anna Zaires
As I enter the small, dingy bathroom, the cramping sensation intensifies, and a sudden suspicion occurs to me, making my breath stall in my lungs.
Could it be? Is it finally here?
Sure enough, when I check, I find a smear of blood on my underwear. My period—now over a week overdue—has finally started. That’s why I’m feeling so shitty: it’s the first day, and all the symptoms are there, from the lower back pain and the hot flashes to the moodiness and the cramps.
It’s official.
I’m not pregnant.
Peter and I are not having a baby.
It should’ve been a relief, but as I stare at that reddish-brown smear, it grows in my vision, coloring my world the same bloody shade. Shaking, I press my fist to my mouth, but I can’t contain the sob that rises in my throat, nor the one that follows. As insane as it is, I feel like I lost something, like some perverse part of me had not only reconciled to the possibility of a child, but had also been looking forward to it.
This baby—the one I was so sure I didn’t want—never existed outside of my fears, yet I feel its loss as keenly as if I’d miscarried.
“Are you okay?” Marsha asks when I emerge from the bathroom some twenty minutes later, and I nod, not bothering to hide my swollen eyes and blotchy face as I gulp down my now-warm beer. I know what she’s thinking: that telling the story of my abduction took an emotional toll on me, reminding me of the trauma of what I went through. And I let her think that, because it’s better than the truth.
It’s better than her knowing that despite what Peter has done—despite the awful crimes he’s committed, both against me and others—I’m as obsessed with him as he is with me.
That as wrong as it is, I now belong to him, mind, body, and heart.
15
Peter
The week leading up to the meeting with Novak is among the longest of my life. We replenish our supplies, procure more weapons, and step up daily training, pushing ourselves to the point of complete exhaustion, but it’s not enough to make the hours pass any faster. Each day feels like a month, each night a never-ending struggle to sleep without Sara by my side. If it weren’t for the daily reports from the men I hired to watch her, I’d already be on the plane to the US, her parents’ need for her and my plan be damned.
Not that the reports are all that thorough. The FBI are all over Sara, following her around everywhere she goes, and my men have to hang back, being careful not to attract attention. Aside from the obvious danger to them, it wouldn’t be good for Sara if the FBI knew I’m still interested in her. Thanks to our hackers getting into Ryson’s files, I know what Sara told them, and I don’t want to undermine any aspect of her story. The agents have to believe I got bored with her and let her go for good; otherwise, they’ll hide her away, and likely charge her with aiding and abetting. The only reason they haven’t already done the latter is Sara’s family’s connections. Between her dead husband’s media contacts and her parents’ lawyer friends with Washington ties, this case has the potential to make national headlines—something a lot of highly placed individuals, Henderson included, are desperate to avoid.
For now, Sara is safe, but she won’t be if she gets caught lying.
In any case, while she was away, the FBI found all the cameras and listening devices I placed in her house, and after she appeared so fortuitously following her mother’s accident, it occurred to them to do a thorough sweep of her parents’ house as well. So all I have to go on now are the FBI notes our hackers send me, and the generic reports about her movements from the men I hired to follow her. It’s not nearly enough, and it eats at me, the need to know what she’s doing, how she’s feeling, what she’s thinking.
If I was obsessed with her before, now that I’ve had her with me all these months, it’s more like a physical addiction.
“Just fucking go get her already,” Anton mutters, wiping the blood off his lip after I punch him far too savagely for a training session. “Or at least take a chill pill. Seriously, man, can’t you go a few days without getting your fucking rocks off?”
For that, I land a hit directly to his solar plexus, and when he’s bent over, gasping like a landed fish, I grab a weighted pack and go for a run to avoid killing him on the spot. I know my friend is right—my temper’s been at the boiling point, and I’ve been taking it out on the guys—but that doesn’t lessen my rage and frustration. I haven’t slept a full night since… well, since Sara’s accident, come to think of it. The nightmares about my family’s deaths—the ones that had all but disappeared thanks to Sara—are back, only now they’re accompanied by an even more terrifying dream in which I lose her.
It’s my nightly reality, and every time I wake up, covered with cold sweat, I reach for the most recent report on her, reading it over and over again to reassure myself that it was just a dream, that my ptichka is alive and well without me.
That given what I’m about to do, she’s far safer at home than she would be by my side.
It’s this last thought that enables me to keep going, to resist the urge to do exactly what Anton said and steal her from under the Feds’ noses again. I can do it—their agents are no match for me and my team—but Sara’s mother is still far from well and Sara would hate me if I took her away from her family so soon. Besides, I have an entirely different goal in mind, and to achieve it, I have to stay on this path, no matter how difficult it might be.
I have to believe that ultimately, it will all be worth it.
16
Sara
One week without Peter.
It feels unreal, like a dream from which I’m waiting to wake up. Or maybe it’s the fact that I don’t sleep properly that gives my days this strange, dream-like quality. In some ways, it’s like I entered a time machine—I’m in a hospital, waiting for a loved one to recover from a debilitating car accident. Only that time, it was George who was the patient, and he never made it out of his coma.
Mom’s prognosis is much better. The doctors did a good job patching her up, and her wounds didn’t get infected. She’s still immobilized with all the casts, and she may never regain full use of her left arm—too many nerves and tendons were damaged there—but once her broken legs heal, with sufficient physical therapy, she should be able to walk again.
Dad is over the moon, both about Mom’s prognosis and the fact that I’m home. Every time he enters her room and finds me sitting by her bedside, his mouth quivers, like he’s about to cry, but instead, he breaks out in a joyous smile.
“I keep thinking you’re going to disappear,” he confesses when we sit down to eat dinner in the hospital cafeteria. “That if I turn away for a second, you’ll go poof.” He uncurls his hands in a magician-like move. “There one moment, gone the next.”
“Oh, Dad…” I grimace and look down, poking my pasta with a plastic fork. The guilt is eating me alive, because that’s precisely what’s going to happen in the near future—as soon as Peter deems my mom well enough. With effort, I manage to look up and smile at my dad. “Please, don’t worry. Everything is fine, okay? I’m here, and all is well.”
I know I sound evasive—Dad has been accusing me of that all week—but it’s hard to be convincing while juggling all the lies, half-truths, and facts I’ve been feeding to different people. The story for my parents and their friends is that Peter is my lover, and that he brought me home despite his ongoing “misunderstanding” with the FBI because he loves me and wants me to be there for Mom. The implication here is that one day, Peter’s legal troubles will be over, and at that point, we’ll have a shot at happiness together.
In contrast, the picture I’m painting for the FBI and everyone else is that of a monster who kidnapped me on a whim and eventually got bored enough to let me go. The only reason I’m able to make the dual stories work is that the Feds don’t want my parents—or anyone, really—to know about George’s role in all of this. And that goes double for the events that set Peter on his path of vengeance. After I spoke
to Marsha that day at the bar, Ryson brought me to their downtown office again, and not-so-subtly ordered me to keep my mouth shut, confirming my suspicion about Marsha’s involvement with the FBI.
It was too noisy at the bar for the agents to overhear our conversation, so the only way he could’ve known exactly what I told her is if she’d reported it to him right away—or maybe even wore a wire.
Naturally, I acted contrite and promised to be more discreet. And in return, I extracted a promise that the Feds will keep their mouths shut around my parents, doing nothing to dispel the less worrisome paradigm I created for them.
“As you know, my dad’s heart is weak, and he doesn’t need the stress of knowing I was forced to lie to them all these months,” I told Ryson, and the agent was only too happy to agree.
I’m guessing he extracted a vow of silence from Marsha too, because when I ran into Andy in the hallway, she didn’t know anything more than what she must’ve heard earlier.
“What happened?” she asked, eyeing me with unabashed curiosity and confusion. “You just disappeared one day, and the FBI were all over the place, questioning everyone. People were saying you hooked up with some criminal?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, giving her an uncomfortable smile. “Maybe we can get together one of these days and catch up. For now, my mom is waiting…”
“Oh, of course.” She attempted to rein in her obvious disappointment. “Marsha told me what happened with your mom. I’m so sorry. I hope she recovers soon.”
“She will, thanks. I’ll see you around.” I waved at her and continued down the hall, trying not to think about how out of place I feel here, at this hospital that was once my second home.
How lost and alone I feel without Peter.
Soon, I tell myself. He’ll come for me soon. All I have to do is wait.
And pushing away the guilt that comes with the thought, I put on a bright smile and enter Mom’s room.
17
Peter
We meet Danilo Novak at a café in Belgrade, a modern, stylish-looking place that has been entirely taken over by the Serbian arms dealer’s men. Other than the two young baristas behind the glossy white counter, every person in the café is armed to the teeth—and for all I know, the pretty teenage baristas are too.
Anton is providing backup—a precaution in case things go to shit—but the twins are with me.
Walking in, we stop and take in the situation.
Novak is sitting at a small round table in the middle of the café. It’s a location designed to make us uncomfortable—we’ll be surrounded on all sides—but I just give the arms dealer a cool smile as we make our way over.
“Nice place,” I say in Russian, going on the assumption that he’s more likely to be fluent in my native language than in English. “Do you own it?”
Novak’s thin lips curl up. “I do. Glad you like it.” His Russian is accented, but as fluent as I suspected. Of course, I could speak to him in Serbian—I know most Eastern European languages, as well as Arabic and a few others—but I’d rather not reveal that I understand his native tongue.
When dealing with men like Novak, every little advantage counts.
He leans back, studying me with a peculiar lack of interest. A tall, thin man in his mid-forties, with a receding hairline and thick glasses, Novak looks like a cross between an accountant and a math professor. Only his eyes betray what he is—expressionless and pale, they look like they belong to a lizard… or a stone-cold killer.
There’s surprisingly little our hackers have been able to learn about the man. He appeared ten years ago, seemingly out of nowhere, and has since built an illegal weapons empire in Eastern Europe, eliminating rivals with a speed and ruthlessness I’ve only seen once before—with Julian Esguerra, the man Novak wants us to kill.
The only arms dealer left whose criminal enterprise exceeds Novak’s own.
“So,” Novak says when I match his detached look with one of my own. “You’re Sokolov.”
I nod coolly, not allowing my expression to change, and I know the twins look just as calm. He’s not going to disconcert us with these games, and he might as well learn that.
“Sit.” He gestures at the two empty chairs remaining at his table.
I don’t move, and neither do Yan and Ilya. This is yet another little test, a way to see who’s the least important, least valuable on the team. Three of us, two chairs—the math doesn’t work, and he knows it. Someone is going to have to stand, be the odd man out, and I’m not going to allow that.
He’s not going to sow the seeds of discord among us. I won’t let him.
His unblinking eyes study me for a few long moments; then he motions at one of the thugs at the other table. “Victor. Another chair for our guests, please.”
I wait until Victor brings over the chair, and then I sit down. The twins follow my lead. Ilya’s face is stony, but Yan looks amused. He understands the importance of these little dominance games, knows the necessity of setting the right tone early on.
The teenage baristas come over to take our orders for drinks, but I decline to get anything. Ilya and Yan do the same.
“We’re not thirsty,” I say calmly, and Novak’s mouth curls again.
“I have no reason to poison you,” he says, and I shrug, dismissing his reassurance like the bullshit it is. There are many substances one can use, from mind-altering drugs to poisons so slow-acting the symptoms don’t manifest for weeks or months. He could easily slip something deadly into my drink, and I’d walk out of here not realizing that until after I do the job for him.
Until my usefulness to him is over.
“So,” Novak says when he sees that I’m not about to change my mind. “Esguerra.”
I cross my arms over my chest and look at him. Finally, we’re getting to the point of this meeting.
“You worked for him,” Novak continues as one of the baristas brings his drink—a high-end scotch, judging by the smell and color.
“I did,” I confirm. I expected him to know this, and he does. He’s clearly done his due diligence on me. “Is that a problem?”
“I don’t know. Is it?” His pale eyes bore into me.
“We didn’t part on the best of terms. In fact, he’s vowed to kill me if I ever cross his path again. But you know that, don’t you?” I give Novak a cold smile. “Isn’t that why you reached out to me in the first place? Because I’m in the unique position of having once been in Esguerra’s inner circle?”
Novak’s gaze remains unblinking. “Yes. Is that a mistake on my part? Is your team capable of what I’m asking?”
“That depends.” I uncross my arms and lean forward. “What are the assets in play that you mentioned? The ones that would help us get this job done?”
“Aside from you and your familiarity with Esguerra’s compound?” Novak’s eyes glint as he glances at the twins, who have stayed stoically silent so far. “I assume your men can be trusted?”
I look at him, not bothering to dignify that with a reply.
A smile stretches his thin lips again. “All right. I might have someone on the inside. You don’t need to know who that is yet. Suffice it to say, certain things could be arranged to happen at certain moments, enabling you to carry out your part.”
Irritation stabs at me. He’s not telling me anything I didn’t already suspect. Keeping my expression unchanged, I rise to my feet. “In that case, you are welcome to find another team,” I say as Yan and Ilya follow my lead.
I turn to head to the exit, only to be confronted by a wall of Novak’s goons, their weapons drawn and faces feral.
“Not so fast,” Novak says softly. “We still have much to discuss.”
I turn back to face him, ignoring the artillery at my back. “We have nothing to discuss,” I say evenly. “I don’t entrust my team’s safety to vague assurances of aid from unknown sources. If we are to take this job, we need to know everything, down to the smallest logistics. That’s how we operate; that
’s why we’re as successful as we are. If you want our services, you tell us everything—or we walk and you get someone else to do this.”
His bland features tighten. “You’re making a mistake, Sokolov. I’m not someone you want to fuck with.”
I bare my teeth in a humorless smile. “Neither is Esguerra, yet here we are.”
He stares at me, then jerks his head to one side. “Let them pass,” he orders, and I turn to see the wall of goons parting, their weapons lowered but postures tense. He doesn’t want it to get ugly, and I’m glad. Anton’s sniper’s rifle would’ve probably taken out a good three or four of Novak’s men, and the three of us could’ve gotten another seven or eight, easy, but bullets flying is never a good thing. The ultrathin bulletproof vests we’re wearing under our clothes wouldn’t protect us from a head shot, and as skilled as we are, we’re not immune to lead.
“You’re making a mistake.” Novak raises his voice as we head to the exit. “Mark my words, Sokolov. You’re making a big mistake.”
I don’t respond, and we walk out onto the busy street, blending in with the pedestrians as we head back to our meeting place.
“He’s not going to come through,” Anton says as we fill him in on what happened over dinner at a local restaurant. “We wasted our time. Whatever asset he’s got at Esguerra’s compound must be the real deal, if he’s guarding it so carefully. He’s not going to tell us what it is, so we might as well forget it. You saw some of the other offers we got recently, right? They’re not bad either. We do a few of those gigs, and there’s our hundred million. We don’t need Novak and his secretive shit.”
I nod, cutting into my steak. “I agree. Let’s focus on other jobs.”
Yan raises his eyebrows. “Really? Just like that?”
I meet his gaze. “We’re not going to go into this blind, and Novak isn’t going to come through, so we’re done here. Is that a problem? Because I got the impression you weren’t pleased when I wanted to take this job.”