by Anna Zaires
Yan stares at me, and I stare back at him, my expression calm. I can feel the growing tension between us, but I can’t afford not to play this game.
As far as I can see, there’s only one way forward for me and Sara, and this is my best shot at it.
“I think Peter and Anton are right,” Ilya says, breaking into the uncomfortable silence. “We don’t need this job. It’s too risky. Let’s just do a few extra gigs instead.”
I fork a piece of steak into my mouth, chew it, and swallow. “It’s decided, then,” I say and pick up my water. “We’re done here. Tomorrow morning, we fly home.”
I lie awake, listening and waiting, and at four in the morning, I hear it.
The quiet snick of the hotel room lock opening and the squeak of hinges as the door starts to move.
I react instantaneously, my body moving like a coiled spring. In a blink of an eye, I have the intruder on his knees, immobilized in a chokehold as I crouch behind him, holding a gun to his temple.
He’s choking and writhing, trying to escape, but he doesn’t have the leverage to either hit me or throw me off, and each bucking movement only depletes his air supply.
“Who sent you?” I ask when his frantic struggles start to weaken. “Why are you here?”
I loosen my hold just enough to let him have some air. He resumes fighting, so I tighten my arm again, cutting off his air supply completely. This time, he only lasts a few seconds, and I loosen my grip just before he slips into unconsciousness.
“Who sent you?” I repeat, and he finally sees the wisdom in cooperating.
“N-Novak,” he chokes out hoarsely.
“Why?” I press, not letting go. I already know what he’s going to say, but I want to hear it from him anyway.
“He… wants to see you,” the thug gasps out. “Just you, no one else.”
I tighten my grip, as if upset, but then I let go and stand up, simultaneously shoving him forward to sprawl face down on the floor. While he’s sucking in air and struggling to get up on all fours, I turn on the light and put on my winter jacket and boots. The rest of the clothes I’m already wearing, as I was expecting just such a visit.
“You win,” I tell the thug when he glares at me, resentfully rubbing his throat as he clambers to his feet. “Lead the way.”
My gambit of staying at a hotel in Belgrade has paid off. It’s time to see what Novak has up his sleeve.
18
Peter
A black limo is waiting for us by the hotel entrance, and when I climb inside, I see Novak there.
“That wasn’t very welcoming of you,” he says when the thug climbs in next to us, still rubbing his throat and glaring at me like he wants to incinerate me on the spot. “Victor was merely conveying my polite invitation.”
“By breaking into my room in the middle of the night?”
The arms dealer shrugs. “He didn’t want to knock and risk waking your colleagues in the neighboring rooms.”
“I see.” I give him an icy smile. “Very thoughtful of Victor.”
Novak’s answering smile matches mine. “I’m sure you weren’t too discomfited, given your profession. Now, why don’t we set aside the manner of my invitation and focus on the matter at hand?”
“By all means.” I lean back, stretching out my legs to cross them at the ankles. “Go right ahead.”
Novak studies me for a few long moments, then says bluntly, “I don’t trust your men. I know you have a history with Esguerra, but they have no reason to cross him.”
“Other than a hundred million euros, you mean?”
“It is a lot of money,” he allows. “But your team is not hurting for cash, from what I hear. What was it that you said? A few extra gigs, and you’ll have your hundred?” His lizard eyes gleam in the light of the street lamp.
I keep a poker face, showing neither surprise nor dismay. It’s easy, because I feel neither. I knew there was a solid chance we’d be overheard at that restaurant, and I played the odds, my every word calculated to bring about this precise outcome.
“Why am I here then?” I ask when Novak just continues to stare at me. “If you don’t trust us or our motivations, why come to us… and why drag me out here tonight?”
“I didn’t say I don’t trust your motivations.” His thin lips curve. “I know the full story of your employment with Esguerra. You did your job well—saved his life, in fact—and for that, you ended up on his shit list. Can’t feel good, I’m sure. And now you have a chance to balance out the scales and make a little money in the process.”
I allow my shoulders to relax slightly, as if relieved. “That’s very insightful of you.”
Novak’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel his satisfaction. He undoubtedly prides himself on being a good judge of people, and right now, he’s congratulating himself on doing his due diligence and reaching the right conclusions. He might even know about my break with Kent after the incident with Sara, possibly by bribing someone at the clinic to eavesdrop on my team while we stayed there. That would explain the auspicious timing of his offer.
He acted as soon as he found out my last remaining link to Esguerra’s organization was severed.
Of course, if his due diligence is that thorough, he knows about Sara, too. That worries me, but I’m hoping he buys the story Sara is telling the FBI: that I got tired of her, that the scar on her forehead somehow made her less attractive to me. Certainly, what I did—letting her go and risking not being able to retrieve her—is not something a man in our world would do when he’s still interested in the woman he abducted.
My forced relationship with Sara is not that unusual in Novak’s circles, but letting her go when I still want her is. This is why it’s safer for her back home.
If Novak knew how I truly felt about Sara, he’d use her as leverage, and I can’t allow that.
“So,” he says when the silence stretches into an uncomfortable minute. “I take it you do want the job.”
I incline my head. “I do—but it doesn’t matter what I want. I’m still not going in blind. That’s not how I operate, and as much I want Esguerra dead, I’m not willing to commit suicide to make it happen.”
Novak studies me for another long minute, then says, “All right. Here’s what I’m willing to tell you at this point. The asset that I have in place can’t be activated yet. It will take about eight months for me to make the appropriate arrangements. A few things have to fall into place first.”
“Eight months?” Only my training enables me to keep my expression unchanged as my guts twist at the shock of his words.
Eight months until I can resolve this.
Eight agonizing months without Sara.
Novak nods. “It might be a little sooner, but there’s no guarantee of that. In any case, that gives you and your team plenty of time to figure out your plan of action.”
I swallow the rage bubbling up in my throat. “There’s no plan if we don’t know the specifics of what we’re planning for,” I say evenly. “Where is your asset? On Esguerra’s compound or elsewhere? What is it exactly that you’re expecting us to do that your asset can’t do himself? If it’s someone on the inside, why don’t you have him carry out the job? I assume he has access to Esguerra.”
“Not yet, but she will.” Novak registers my involuntary blink of surprise with evident pleasure. “Yes, that’s another thing I’m willing to tell you: that my asset is a woman. She will have access to Esguerra, but neither the skills nor the inclination to carry out the task. However, she can be at the right place at a specific time, providing a distraction, disabling certain security measures, et cetera. The particulars of the help will have to wait until she’s in place and can assess the situation, but rest assured, you will have someone on the inside.”
I stare at him, torn. This is still not enough information, but I have a strong feeling that if I walk away this time, Novak will not approach me again. Also, given what he’s revealed thus far, it might be a bullet that finds me
next, not one of Novak’s goons. I’m not too worried about that possibility—I’m used to people gunning for me—but Sara is vulnerable, and I can’t risk Novak coming after her in lieu of me.
It’s unlikely, given the “he’s bored with me” scenario she’s painted for the FBI, but I can’t chance it.
“So let me get this straight,” I say, leaning forward. “You will have a woman on the inside, but not much sooner than eight months from now. She’s not capable of getting her hands dirty herself, but she’ll render some assistance, facilitating our task.” At his nod, I ask, “Why can’t you get her in place sooner? What’s going to change over the next eight months?”
“You’ll have to wait to learn that,” Novak says. “As of this moment, there’s still a chance I won’t be able to place the asset as expected. If certain things don’t unfold as they should, we might have to wait for another opportunity—that, or your team goes in unassisted.” He looks at me expectantly, and I shake my head.
“No. That’s not happening. Esguerra has layers upon layers of security at his compound. I know, because I helped him install them. And yes, though I know what they are, I still can’t get past them. They’re designed to be impenetrable. The only way in is with assistance from the inside, and if you can’t provide that…” I shrug, showing my empty palms.
Novak nods. “Right. I figured as much. So you understand the value of my asset. Once she’s in place, Esguerra will have a hole in his security. However, it will take time.”
“There is no way to accelerate this process?” I figure I know the answer, but I still have to ask.
“No. I’ve tried to get to others on the inside, but they’re all too loyal—or too afraid of Esguerra. This is the only one that shows promise. However, the timing is what it is.”
I digest that for a moment, then ask, “So why approach me now? Why not wait until you have the asset in place?”
“Because if you’re not on board, I need to make alternate arrangements—and it takes time to find a skilled team and vet them. And in this particular case, with Esguerra’s reputation… Well, I’m sure you know how it is.”
“Right.” Even with the incentive of a hundred million euros, few people would be willing to cross someone as dangerous as Julian Esguerra. Almost everyone has something to lose, and Esguerra has no mercy when it comes to his enemies. I know, because I helped him decimate those who crossed him, wiping out entire communities in the process. The Colombian arms dealer doesn’t distinguish between the innocent and the guilty; everyone connected to his enemies pays.
“So.” Novak leans forward, his pale gaze intent on my face. “Can I count on you and your team when the time comes?”
I consider that for a moment and nod. “Yes, you can.” My tone is steady, though inside, I’m still reeling. My separation from Sara was supposed to last a couple of weeks—a couple of months, at most. Not the better portion of a year. It’s possible, of course, that what I need will come about meaningfully sooner than eight months, but right now, it doesn’t sound likely.
Novak won’t disclose the identity of his asset any sooner than he has to.
“Good.” His thin-lipped smile oozes satisfaction. “I was hoping I had the right man, and it sounds like I do. Just one more thing…”
I lift an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I hope you understand that the information I shared with you today is highly sensitive, and for your ears only. That means not sharing with anyone on your team.”
I was expecting that much after his preamble, so I nod. “Understood. And on our end, we’ll require a deposit. Usually it’s half upfront, but given the extended timing, we can accept twenty-five mil now, and another twenty-five closer to the job itself.”
Novak doesn’t bat an eye. “You’ll have the money in your account tomorrow.”
We shake hands, and as we do, I try to ignore the agonizing void expanding in my chest at the thought of the months ahead. Now that I’ve embarked on this path, there’s no choice, not really.
I have to do this. This is the only way forward.
If I want Sara for the long term, I have to give her the life she deserves.
Part II
19
Sara
The rest of November passes in a blur of hospital visits, random FBI interrogations, and waiting. Endless waiting. I feel like I’m constantly on edge, waiting for Peter to show up. Each time I cross the hospital parking lot, walk down the street, or fall asleep in my old bedroom at my parents’ house (my house, by virtue of belonging to a wanted criminal, has been seized by the government), I expect to be snatched up and carried away—if not by Peter, then by one of the men he hired to watch me.
And they are watching me. I know it. I feel it. It’s the same itchy feeling as before, the same paranoia-inducing sensation of hidden eyes following me. Some of it is due to the FBI agents stalking my every move, but not all. I’ve gotten good at spotting the Feds. It’s always the nondescript car across the street, the pedestrian who doesn’t quite belong, the lone man or woman at the bar.
Peter’s men are different. I never see them; I just feel their presence. They’re the shadow around the corner, the echo of footsteps in the parking lot, the itch between my shoulder blades. They’re there all the time, but never close enough for me—or the Feds—to spot them.
Of course, it’s possible I really am paranoid this time, but I don’t think so. I know Peter. He wouldn’t leave me here without keeping tabs on me. Or so I keep telling myself as week after week passes by without a word from him… without so much as a hint that he’s coming back for me.
I try to focus on the fact that I get to spend all this time with my parents, and I’m glad about that. I really am. Dad seems to have gotten a new lease on life since my return, swimming and doing his doctor-assigned exercises with renewed vigor and dedication. And Mom is getting better every day, her bones healing with the speed of a woman half her age. She’s still bedbound for now—a fact that drives her insane—but the doctors promise that she’ll start physical therapy as soon as her body can take it, possibly by the middle of January.
November rolls into December, and still, the interminable waiting continues. It’s like I exist in a limbo between my old life and the one I’d started to settle into with Peter. I’m living in my childhood home, surrounded by my family and friends, yet I can’t shake the sensation that I’m a guest, a visitor at a place I no longer belong.
I think my parents sense that, because as December advances, they start questioning why I’m not doing certain things, like looking for a new job or finding another place to live. I fend them off by saying that I want to focus on Mom for now, but as her health continues to improve, that excuse sounds increasingly hollow.
“Sara, honey… you don’t have to be here all the time,” Mom says when I come to visit her one chilly December morning. “Your dad can entertain me just as well, and I know you have things you’ve been putting off because of this.” She waves her uninjured hand at the leg casts that keep her immobile.
Smiling, I shake my head. “There’s nothing that can’t wait, Mom. Thanks to the sale of the house, I have money in the bank, and I like living with Dad. Unless he’s tired of having me underfoot?”
“Of course not,” Mom says right away, as I knew she would. “He loves having you back home. You have no idea what a relief it is to have you back. If you want to live with us forever, you are more than welcome. I just know that you’ve always been independent, and I don’t want you to feel obligated to take care of us instead of getting your life back on track.”
Life back on track. I bite back the urge to tell her that I don’t know what that means anymore. That there’s no “track” for me, no straightforward path that I can see. My future, once so clear and linear, is now shrouded in darkness, full of twists I can only guess at.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I say, shaking off the gloomy thought. “I’m happy to be here with you and Dad.”
And sm
iling, I gently steer the conversation away from me.
Away from the future I can no longer envision.
We celebrate Hanukkah at the Levinsons’, then Christmas and New Year’s at the hospital with Mom. At the celebrations, I laugh and smile, exchange gifts and pretend I’m back for good. I tell my dad that, yes, I will look for a new job soon, and I discuss the purchase of a new house with Joe Levinson. He recommends a good real estate agent to me, and I write down the name, as though it matters.
As though any of it matters when, at any moment, I might disappear again.
By the time mid-January rolls around, the strain of waiting and pretending, of constantly juggling all the half-truths and lies, takes a toll on me. Peter’s absence is a raw gash in my heart, and no matter how hard I try to focus on my family and friends, I miss him all the time, so much that he’s all I can think about throughout the day. I know how wrong that is, and I kick myself for it, but at this point, I’m so used to the smothering guilt that it doesn’t feel as awful as it once did.
Wanting my tormentor doesn’t feel as heavy of a betrayal.
I still can’t forget that Peter killed George and held me captive for months, or that he murders people for money, but when I think about him, it’s the sweet, tender moments that come to mind, all the little ways he demonstrated daily how much he cares. I catch myself daydreaming about how he’d rub my feet and bring me breakfast in bed, how he’d take care of me when I wasn’t feeling well.
How I’d fall asleep in his arms instead of in my cold, empty bed.
The nights are definitely the worst. That’s when my longing for him is most acute, my need crossing over into the physical. Every evening, I toss and turn, struggling to fall asleep while my body burns for a man who’s thousands of miles away. I try playing with toys, reading erotic stories, even watching porn, but nothing quenches that aching emptiness inside me. It’s like that time when Peter was away on his Mexico gig, only a thousand times worse, because back then, at the very beginning of our strange relationship, he was still a terrifying stranger. Now, however, he’s a part of me, having wedged himself into my heart and mind to the point that life without him feels as empty as my bed.