Destiny Mine

by Anna Zaires

  It’s so bad that I consider giving in to my parents’ urgings and actually looking for another job. Instead, however, I decide to go back to volunteering at the women’s clinic.

  To my relief, they are more than happy to have me back.

  “We missed you so much,” Lydia, the receptionist, tells me. “We didn’t even realize how much we needed you until you were gone. Is everything okay now? The FBI showed up, questioning all of us, and—”

  “Yes, everything is fine. It was just a misunderstanding about the guy I went on vacation with,” I say, not wanting to do the whole song and dance here as well. “It’s all resolved now, don’t worry.”

  I can tell that Lydia is dying of curiosity, but she holds her tongue, sensing my reluctance to discuss things further. I have no idea what rumors were going around here, but luckily for me, the clinic staff and volunteers deal with sensitive situations all the time, and they know when to pry and when to leave things alone. After one round of “what happened” and “where have you been,” everyone leaves me to focus on the patients—which I do full time and then some.

  Basically, whenever I’m not with my parents.

  “How the hell are you managing to overwork yourself while unemployed?” Marsha complains a month later when I call to decline her invitation to go out yet again, claiming exhaustion from a night shift at the clinic. “Seriously, hon, I haven’t seen you outside of the hospital hallways in weeks. First, it was your mom who needed you twenty-four-seven, now it’s this. We haven’t hung out at all after that one time at Patty’s.”

  “I know, I know.” I sigh into the phone, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry, Marsha. Maybe next week will be easier.”

  It won’t be—I’m on schedule at the clinic for over sixty hours next week, including two nightshifts—but I will make time for Marsha regardless. I’ve been avoiding her after learning about her involvement with the FBI, and I’m starting to feel bad about that. What she did felt like a betrayal, but that’s not an entirely rational reaction. She was probably doing what she thought was best, maybe even imagined she was helping me. In any case, cooperating with the Feds is generally the right strategy for the average law-abiding citizen—which is something I can no longer consider myself to be.

  Not when I’m concealing my true feelings about a wanted killer.

  I think Agent Ryson senses that I’m not telling the full truth, because he keeps dragging me into the FBI office downtown. At this point, I’ve endured at least ten interrogations, and each time, I’ve stuck to my story, telling the agents only what I disclosed in the beginning and nothing more. It helps that whenever they start probing deeper, my heart rate jumps, and my body goes into a full-blown panic attack mode.

  It’s like my PTSD or whatever is on Peter’s side.

  “Are you seeing a therapist, Dr. Cobakis?” Ryson asks after they have to bring in Karen, their agent with medical training, to calm me down after a particularly thorough questioning session. “If not, I can recommend someone.”

  My breathing is still shallow and unsteady from the panic attack, but I manage to shake my head. “I have someone, thanks.”

  I haven’t seen my therapist, Dr. Evans, since my return, but he’s good. He helped me before, when I couldn’t cope with the nightmares and anxiety resulting from Peter’s attack in my kitchen. I should go see him again, but I can’t bring myself to walk into his office and feed him the same confusing mix of truth and lies I’ve been regurgitating for the FBI.

  I’d rather deal with my issues on my own while I wait for Peter.

  He’ll be back for me any day.

  20

  Peter

  I count the days on a calendar, marking them down like a man waiting to get out of prison. My liberation day—the day when I’ll be reunited with Sara—can only be guesstimated, so I pick a date eight months from my meeting with Novak and count down to that, because finding out the specifics of Novak’s asset is step one toward my plan of ensuring a real future with Sara.

  With our Japan hideout presumed compromised, we go from safe house to safe house, never staying in one place for longer than a couple of weeks. Along the way, we do various jobs, some more challenging than others, but none as complicated or dangerous as the one we agreed to with Novak.

  My teammates—even Yan—accepted my decision to take the Esguerra hit, as well as the fact that we will find out more about the asset when the time is right. As I promised Novak, I didn’t tell them any of the details we discussed. Partially, that’s because there’s really nothing to talk about yet, but mainly, it’s because I need Novak to trust me. My guys can act as well as anyone in Hollywood, but when dealing with someone of Novak’s vast resources, one never knows who’s listening and when. Our safe houses are secure, but we do venture out, and a parabolic mic can be used from surprising distances.

  That, more than anything, is why Sara is no longer a topic of conversation among us. As far as anyone on my team is concerned, she might as well not exist.

  “I don’t want to hear her name, or even the pronoun she,” I told them. “Don’t mention her to me, and don’t ever discuss her among yourselves. She’s gone, and that’s that. Got it?”

  They all nodded, understanding my concern, and I added more layers of security to my communication with the hackers and the men we hired to watch Sara in the US. I can’t not watch my ptichka, but for her safety, nobody can know of my continued obsession with her.

  And I am obsessed. It’s a sickness made worse by her absence. I dream about Sara every night. Sometimes, it’s about something as innocuous as holding her and brushing her silky hair, but often, the dreams are dark and violent. In some, I’m losing her; in others, I’m the cause of her pain. Our first meeting, where I drugged and waterboarded her, has been haunting me in recent weeks, the recollections invading my mind in exquisitely brutal detail. Worst of all, I wake up from the dreams of hurting her with my cock hard and aching, and I know that as much as I miss her—as much as I love her with all my heart—my feelings for Sara will never be simple and sweet, untainted by the darkness of our past.

  By the things I’ve done to her… and may do again.

  If the nights are bad, the days are even worse. The first thing I do every morning is go over the reports on Sara, both from the hackers and the Americans watching her. That’s how I know that she’s gone back to volunteering at the clinic and that her mother has started physical therapy. Occasionally, the Americans manage to get a long-distance video of Sara as well, and on those days, I watch the recordings several times before breakfast, and then a dozen more times in the evening right before I fall asleep. In between, I train with my team and run the business, but my mind is not on any of it.

  It’s on her.

  My beautiful ptichka, whom I miss like a severed limb.

  I think about retrieving her constantly. Thanks to Sara’s story about me getting bored with her, the Feds haven’t tried to hide her from me. They still watch her in case I return, but they haven’t deemed it necessary to put her in the witness protection program or anything along those lines. I think it’s because they’re hoping I’ll return for her.

  She’s bait, though they won’t admit it.

  And I’m tempted. Fuck, am I tempted. Now that her parents no longer need her as much, I fantasize about getting her back daily, to the point that the whole operation is mapped out in my mind. I know exactly how we’d bypass the air controls and where we’d land, how we’d create a distraction to lure the Feds away from Sara and how we’d plant a false trail to throw them off our scent while we escape.

  We could do it tomorrow, if we were so inclined.

  Some twenty hours from now, I could be holding Sara.

  Most of the time, I can shake off the fantasy, reiterating to myself the reasons why I’m doing this, reminding myself that she’s safer where she is. However, there are days when the fantasy is all I can think about, and I catch myself seconds from giving in and ordering Anton t
o prep the plane.

  To maintain my sanity, I intensify the search for Henderson, the last and most elusive person on my list. The fact that we haven’t already found him and his family substantiates the rumor about his CIA background. The fucker is good at this—as good as someone in my profession.

  It may be time to turn up the heat.

  “We’re going to North Carolina,” I announce at the breakfast table the following morning. “Going to shake things up in Asheville, see if we can flush the fucker out the hard way.”

  My teammates look up from their plates with identically unsurprised expressions. This has been the fallback plan all along. We’d rather not involve innocents—Henderson’s friends and distant family members who had nothing to do with the Daryevo massacre—but given our target’s elusiveness, it’s the only option left.

  “He’ll be expecting us,” Anton says, pushing his plate aside. “It’s most likely a trap.”

  I smile grimly. “I know.”

  The difficulty of this operation is what I’m looking forward to the most. Not only will we have to get in and out of the country undetected, but Henderson will undoubtedly have the Feds keeping an eye on his connections. Logistically, this will be similar to stealing Sara back, only instead of kidnapping one woman, we’ll be interrogating half a dozen people, all of whom are likely watched by Henderson’s buddies from the FBI, and maybe even the CIA.

  “Should be fun,” Yan says, his green eyes gleaming. “Beats sticking around here.” He waves his hand to indicate the rustic cabin where we’ve been staying for the past week—our safe house in eastern Poland.

  Ilya shoots him a glare and resumes eating. He’s been on the outs with his brother for the past week, ever since Yan fucked a Budapest waitress Ilya also wanted. It’s not the first time the situation has arisen—the twins have a similar taste in women—but in the past, they would just amicably share, either by double-teaming the girl or taking turns. I have no idea what made this waitress different, but Ilya has been pissed with Yan ever since we got here.

  I’m not about to get in the middle of that dispute, so I just pretend not to notice the tension at the table. “Get ready,” I tell the guys. “I want to be in Asheville before the end of the week, so we need to have a viable plan by tomorrow.”

  And getting up, I go to email my US contacts.

  21

  Sara

  I meet Marsha at a club in the West Loop neighborhood of Chicago. It’s new, trendy, and so loud my ears throb from the music blaring from the speakers. Marsha is already on the dance floor, grinding against two young banker types, so I make my way to the bar and order myself a gin and tonic. I’m hoping the alcohol will soothe the ever-present ball of tension in my stomach.

  Any day now. Any day. I’ve been telling myself this for weeks, yet I’m still here, still in this unsettling limbo. Five days ago, Mom walked the entire distance from her bed to the bathroom with only her crutches for assistance, and yet I’m still here, living in my parents’ house with no idea when—or if—Peter is coming back for me.

  Could it be? Could the lies I’ve been telling the FBI have turned out to be the truth? Maybe my Russian assassin did get bored with me. Maybe my clinging to him at the clinic made him lose interest. I know he thrives on danger and challenges of all sorts, and maybe that’s all I meant to him: a challenge. After all, what greater achievement is there than winning the affection of your enemy’s widow, a woman who has every reason to hate your guts?

  The thought keeps invading my mind, and I keep pushing it away, remembering the look on Peter’s face when he vowed to return for me. “As long as there’s breath in my body,” he said, and I didn’t doubt him for a moment—not after the lengths he went to in order to make me his.

  I still don’t doubt him—not really—and that means only one thing.

  If Peter hasn’t returned for me, it’s because he can’t.

  It’s because something happened.

  I’ve been trying not to think about that, to force the terrifying possibility from my mind, but I can no longer ignore it. Peter’s life is such that he might as well be a soldier in a war zone. Between the authorities hunting him worldwide and the powerful criminals he deals with all the time, he defies the odds just surviving from day to day. And when his “jobs” are added to the mix, the chances that he’s hurt or worse are not insignificant.

  In fact, they’re so high my insides are in a permanent knot these days.

  The only thing that gives me solace is that I’m still being watched, both by the FBI and by Peter’s shadowy men. That itchy feeling between my shoulder blades never abates when I’m in public. In fact, at this very moment, I’m certain there are at least a couple of my stalkers in the club—the nondescript Fed who followed me in and is nursing a beer on the other side of the bar and someone else, someone I can’t identify but whose presence I feel.

  If Peter was dead or captured and the FBI knew it, they’d stop following me around. Same goes for whoever Peter hired.

  It’s not much of a relief—he could still be badly hurt somewhere—but it’s something.

  It’s what lets me get up every morning and go about my day despite the gnawing pit in my stomach.

  “There you are!” Marsha pops up next to me, beaming with that unique glow that only alcohol-enhanced dancing generates. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”

  “I’m here,” I assure her as the bartender hands me my drink. “Just got delayed at the clinic—you know how that goes.”

  She nods sympathetically and tells the bartender, “A Corona, please.”

  He hands her the bottle, and she clinks it against my glass. “To finally getting you out,” she says, and I laugh as my friend takes a long sip.

  “So,” she says, “how have you been? I can’t believe March is around the corner, and we haven’t hung out since your first week back.”

  “Ugh, I know.” I make a face. “Sorry about that. It’s just that with my mom and everything—”

  Marsha cuts me off with a wave of her beer. “Say no more. I get it, I do. Just tell me one thing…” She looks around, then leans closer, laying a hand on my forearm. “Are you okay, hon?” Her voice is soft despite the blaring music, her gaze lingering on the now-faded scar on my forehead. “We never really talked about… well, about what happened.”

  My throat tightens. “I told you what happened.”

  She nods gravely. “I know. I’m not talking about that. How are you handling it?”

  “I’m”—stressed to the max, unable to eat or sleep, having nightmares about Peter hurt or dead—“fine.”

  “Uh-huh.” Marsha glances down at my forearm, which looks particularly skinny and pale under her tan, sleekly manicured fingers. “That’s why you’re imitating an anatomy lab skeleton.”

  I pull my arm away. “I’m on a diet.”

  She sighs and leans back. “I see.”

  I sip my drink, wishing I could tell her the truth: that I’m not suffering from psychological trauma but missing the man who did this to me, that I’m waiting for him to return and reclaim me. Except if I say that, I might as well sign my own jail sentence.

  “I’m fine,” I repeat. Putting on a bright smile, I say, “How about we stop talking about depressing stuff and just go dance?”

  Marsha hesitates, then grins. “All right. Dance it is.”

  I grab her hand, and we make our way to the crowded dance floor. They’re just starting to play one of Nicki Minaj’s latest hits, and I laugh as I remember belting out my own version of this song to the guys back in Japan.

  Marsha laughs too, tilting her head back to gulp her beer, and we start dancing. I sing along, substituting some of my own lyrics at key spots, and before long, we’re genuinely having fun. The beat vibrates through my bones, making my feet move of their own accord, and I giggle as some of my drink spills on my hand.

  “Hold on,” I tell Marsha and down the rest of my gin and tonic to avoid another accide
nt. Setting the empty glass on a nearby table, I push my way through the crowd to the bar and order a bottle of beer—much more dance-floor friendly. By the time I return, Marsha is already dancing with a couple of new guys, and as I approach, she grabs my hand, pulling me toward them.

  “This is Bill and Rob,” she shouts over the loud music, and I smile uncomfortably. This is not what I had in mind when I agreed to this outing with Marsha.

  “I’m going to go use the restroom,” I say, leaning in so Marsha can hear. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Wait, I’ll come with you.” Marsha abandons her companions without a second look and follows me through the crowd.

  It’s still early in the night, so the line to the ladies’ room isn’t too bad. As we wait, Marsha tells me all about the club she went to with Tonya last weekend and the hot guy she met there. I listen, smile, and nod, marveling the entire time at how different my friend’s life is, how straightforward and uncomplicated. When was the last time my biggest concern was whether a guy is likely to call me? College, maybe? When I met George, my dating life ground to a halt, and I didn’t resume it after his death.

  Peter claimed me before I got the chance.

  We finally make it to the bathroom, take care of business, and then return to the dance floor. It’s even more crowded now, so after a half hour of being shoved around and having drinks spilled on us, Marsha yells in my ear, “Let’s get out of here.”

  I gratefully follow her out, and we go to a lounge a couple of blocks down the street, where we plop down at the bar and listen to a live band playing eighties rock songs interspersed with recent Top 100 hits. “You sing, right?” Marsha asks after we knock back a couple of shots, and I nod, my head spinning from the alcohol.