by Anna Zaires
I laugh, then throw him in the air a few more times, ignoring the pain in my bruised ribs. I spent the last week hunting down a group of insurgents, and we finally found them yesterday. In the resulting gunfight, I caught a couple of bullets in my vest. Nothing serious, but I could use a few slow days. Still, I wouldn’t miss this playtime for the world.
My son is growing up too fast as is.
I wake up with a bittersweet ache swelling my chest. I don’t need to open my eyes to know where I am, or to realize I was dreaming. The pain of losing Pasha is too sharp, too deeply embedded for me to mistake the dream-memory for anything else, though it is the first time I’ve experienced a pleasant dream so vividly.
Usually, my dreams about my family are soft and blurry—at least until they turn into graphic nightmares.
I lie still for a few moments, listening to Sara’s even breathing and absorbing the feel of her slender body curled up in my arms. She’s finally asleep, her overactive mind at rest. She didn’t talk to me this evening, just lay there rigidly for almost an hour, and I knew she was beating herself up over what happened in the shower. I thought about talking to her, distracting her from her thoughts, but with the memories fresh in my mind and my body hard and aching, I didn’t want to risk the conversation venturing into painful territory.
If she started to defend her husband, I might’ve lost control and taken her, hurting her in the process.
Inhaling, I draw in the sweet scent of her hair and let the familiar surge of lust chase away the lingering tightness in my chest. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but I’m certain Sara is the reason why, for the first time in five and a half years, I dreamed of my son without also dreaming of his death. Though holding her naked body without fucking her is a form of self-torture, Sara’s presence in my bed has the same effect on my dreams as her nearness on my waking moments.
When I’m with her, the agony of my losses is less acute, almost bearable.
Closing my eyes, I blank out my mind and let myself sink back into sleep.
If I’m lucky, I’ll meet Pasha in my dreams again.
24
Sara
* * *
Like yesterday, Peter is gone by the time I wake up. I’m glad, because I don’t know how I would’ve faced him this morning. Every time I think about what happened in the shower, I die a little bit inside.
I betrayed George, betrayed his memory in the worst possible way. I met my husband when I was barely eighteen. He was my first serious boyfriend, my first everything. And even when things had begun going south, I remained loyal to him and to our marriage.
Until last night, George had been the only man I’d had sex with, the only one who’d ever made me come.
The pain slams into me, the grief so sharp and sudden it feels like a physical blow. Gasping, I bend over the sink, my toothbrush clutched in my fist. For the past six months, I’ve been so busy coping with my anxiety and panic attacks, with the guilt of knowing I caused George’s death, that I haven’t had a chance to truly grieve for my husband. I haven’t processed the empty gap that is his absence in my life, haven’t dealt with the fact that the man I’d been with for the better part of a decade is gone.
George is dead, and I’ve been sleeping with his killer.
My stomach roils with nausea as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, hating the image looking back at me. The ease with which I orgasmed last night fills me with red-hot shame. Peter barely touched me, barely did anything. He didn’t even restrain me that much. If I tried, I might’ve been able to push him away, but I didn’t try.
I just stood there and gave in to the pleasure, and then I slept in my torturer’s arms for the second night in a row.
The pain congeals into a thick knot of self-disgust, and I look away from my reflection, unable to bear the censure in the hazel eyes staring back at me. I can’t do this, can’t play this sick, twisted game Peter is forcing on me. It doesn’t matter if he has his reasons, or thinks he does. No amount of suffering excuses what he’s done to George, or what he’s still doing to me.
My tormentor might be hurt and damaged, but that only makes him more dangerous—to my sanity as well as my safety.
I have to figure out a way out.
No matter what it takes, I have to get rid of him.
* * *
I spend most of my on-call shift on autopilot. Thankfully, I don’t have any surgeries or anything else critical; otherwise, I might’ve had to ask another doctor to step in. For once, my mind is not on the needs of my patients, but on what I’m going to have to do to deal with my stalker.
It won’t be easy, and it will certainly be dangerous, but I don’t see any other choice.
I can’t spend another night in the arms of a man I hate.
I’m almost finished for the day when I run into Joe Levinson in the hallway. I walk past him at first, but he calls out my name, and I recognize the tall, lean man with sandy hair.
“Joe, hi,” I say, smiling. We had a good time chatting at my parents’ dinner on Saturday, and pretty much every other time we’ve run into each other over the years thanks to the Levinsons’ friendship with my parents. Under different circumstances—say, if I hadn’t been married, then violently widowed—I might’ve considered going out on a date with Joe, both to please my parents and because I genuinely like him. He doesn’t make my pulse race, but he’s a nice guy, and that counts for a lot in my book. “What are you doing here?”
“This,” he says ruefully, raising his right hand to display a thickly bandaged finger.
“Oh, no. What happened?”
He makes a face. “I got into a fight with a food processor, and the food processor won.”
“Ouch.” I wince as I picture that in my mind. “How bad is it?”
“Bad enough that they can’t put in stitches. I’m going to have to wait for the bleeding to stop on its own.”
“Ooh, sorry. So you came into the ER with this?”
“Yeah, but I obviously overreacted. I mean, there was blood everywhere, and the tip of the finger is pretty much pulp, but they said it’ll heal and I might not even have that bad of a scar.”
“Oh, that’s good. I hope it heals up soon.”
He grins at me, his blue eyes twinkling. “Thanks, me too.”
I smile back and am about to continue down the hallway when he says, “Hey, Sara…”
I cringe internally at the hesitant expression on his face. “Yes?” I hope he’s not about to—
“I was going to call you, but since I ran into you… What are you doing this Friday?” he asks, confirming my suspicion. “Because there’s this really great art exhibit downtown, and—”
“I’m sorry. I can’t.” The refusal is automatic, and it’s only when I see the crestfallen look on Joe’s face that I realize how rude I’m being. Feeling terrible, I backtrack. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but I might be on call on Friday, and I don’t know if—”
“It’s okay. No worries.” He puts on a smile that I instantly recognize as fake. I often wear one just like it when covering up emotional turmoil.
Shit. He must like me more than I realized.
“Do you want to do something else instead?” I offer before I can think better of it. “Not Friday, but maybe in a couple of weeks?”
Joe’s smile turns genuine, his eyes crinkling attractively at the corners. “Sure. How about dinner the weekend after this one? I know this little Italian place that makes the best lasagna.”
“That sounds good,” I say, already regretting the impulse. What if I don’t manage to resolve my stalker situation by then? It’s too late to back out now, though, so I say, “How about we nail down the day and time closer to then? My schedule changes all the time, and—”
“Say no more. I completely understand.” He gives me a big grin. “I have your number, so I’ll just give you a call next week, and you let me know what time works best for you, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you then
,” I say and hurry down the hallway before I can stick my foot in my mouth again.
I have one last patient to see, and then I can carry out my mission.
If all goes well, by tomorrow, I’ll be free.
25
Peter
* * *
“Are you going to see her again tonight?” Anton asks in Russian, looking up from the laptop as I enter the living room. As usual, the former pilot is dressed in black from head to toe and armed to the teeth, even though our suburban hideout is as safe as it gets. Like the rest of my crew, he’s a lethal motherfucker, and though we often rib him about his hipster-ish long hair and thick black beard, he looks exactly like what he is: a former Spetsnaz assassin.
“Of course,” I reply, also speaking Russian.
Stopping by the coffee table next to the couch where Anton is sitting, I take off my leather jacket and remove the arsenal of weapons attached to my vest. When I go see Sara, I only bring one gun and a couple of knives with me, all strategically hidden in the inner pockets of my jacket so she doesn’t spot them when I’m dressing or undressing. I don’t want to scare her or remind her of what I am; she’s too intimately acquainted with my skills as is. Besides, I’d be an idiot to trust her around real weapons.
Even a novice can fire a gun and score a lucky shot.
“Yan will be taking the first shift tonight,” Anton says, turning his attention back to the computer on his lap. “I have to work out some of the logistics for this Mexico job.”
I frown as I remove my bulletproof vest. “I thought we had everything ready.”
“Yeah, I thought so too, but it seems Velazquez got into a little altercation with your old buddy Esguerra, and he’s beefing up security like crazy. I think he’s expecting an attack from Esguerra. Has nothing to do with us, obviously, but still. Complicates matters.”
“Fuck.” Julian Esguerra’s involvement, however indirect, definitely complicates matters, and not just because he inadvertently spooked our target. The Colombian arms dealer holds a serious grudge against me. Though I saved the bastard’s life, I endangered his wife in the process, and that’s not something he’ll ever forgive. He’s not actively hunting me down, but if he catches word that I’m in Mexico, so close to his turf, he might make good on his promise to kill me.
Come to think of it, I’m close to his turf here in Illinois, too. His wife’s parents live in Oak Lawn, not too far from Sara’s place in Homer Glen. I doubt he’ll visit here anytime soon, but if he does, and our paths cross somehow, I may have no choice but to deal with him.
Oh, well. I’ll worry about that if it happens. There’s no way I’m leaving here until I’m done with Sara.
“Yeah,” Anton mutters, glowering at the computer. “Fuck, indeed.”
I leave him to it and head into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge. Today, I handled a local job personally, leaving Yan’s twin brother Ilya to watch over Sara, and I’m still hopped up on adrenaline, my senses extra sharp and my mind starkly clear. It’s strange that killing can make one feel so alive, but it does.
As anyone in my field of work knows, life and death are but a slice of a blade apart, and wielding that blade is one of the greatest thrills there is.
I gulp down half a bottle of beer, eat a handful of nuts from a bowl on the counter, and go back to the living room. In a little bit, I’ll head over to Sara’s house to make dinner for us, and the snack should tide me over until then. Before that, however, Anton and I have to catch up.
The Mexico job is a big one, and we can’t afford to fuck it up.
“So what’s the latest?” I ask, sitting down next to Anton on the couch. Placing my beer on the coffee table, I peer at the computer screen. “How much of our plan are we going to have to scrap?”
“Pretty much all of it,” Anton growls. “The guards’ schedules are a mess, there are new security cameras everywhere, and Velazquez is instituting patrols around the compound perimeter.”
“All right. Let’s get to it.”
Over the next hour, we come up with a new plan of attack on Velazquez, one that takes into account the heavier security on his compound. Instead of coming in to assassinate him at night, as originally planned, we’re going to go in at lunchtime because that’s when only a few newbie guards will be on watch. It’s stupid, but most people, including Mexican cartel leaders who should know better, feel safer in the daytime. It’s one of the most common problems I’ve encountered during my security consultant days, and I’ve always advised my clients to have equally strong protections in place regardless of whether the sun is up or down.
“Did the transfer go through?” I ask when we’re done, and Anton nods.
“Seven million euros as agreed, with the other half to come upon job completion. Should keep us in beer and peanuts for a while.”
I chuckle dryly. Anton and two other members of my old team—the Ivanov twins—joined me two years ago, after I got my list and approached them for help, promising to make them wealthy in return for throwing in their lot with me. They agreed, both out of friendship and because they’d been growing increasingly disillusioned with the Russian government. With the team in place, I switched from security consulting to more lucrative—and flexible—wet work, using my connections to get high-paying gigs for us. I needed the money to finance my revenge and stay ahead of the authorities, and the guys needed a new challenge. While elimination of the people on my list took priority, we carried out a number of paid hits along the way and built up our reputation in the underworld. Now we specialize in eliminating difficult targets all over the world and get paid enormous sums of money for jobs everyone else is too scared to touch. Most often, our clients are dangerous, insanely rich criminals, and our targets tend to be that too—like Carlos Velazquez, head of the Juarez Cartel.
As far as my crew is concerned, there isn’t much difference between tracking down terrorists and taking out crime lords. Or bumping off whoever gets in our way. We’ve all lost whatever passes for conscience and morality ages ago.
“Heading out?” Anton asks, closing the laptop when I get up and put on my jacket. “Going to be with her all night again?”
“Probably.” I pat my jacket, making sure my weapons are well concealed. “Most likely.”
Anton sighs and stands up, leaving the laptop on the couch. “You know this is nuts, right? If you want her so much, just fucking take her and be done with it. I’m tired of these local ten-grand gigs; the stupid thugs don’t even put up a fight. If we don’t have another real job before Mexico, I’ll go out of my fucking mind.”
“You’re always welcome to strike out on your own,” I point out, and suppress a chuckle when Anton gives me the middle finger in reply. Even if we weren’t friends, he wouldn’t leave the team. My connections are the reason we get all this lucrative business. In the process of obtaining the list, I’ve ventured deep into the criminal underworld and gotten to know many of the key players. As skilled as my guys are, they wouldn’t be half as successful without me, and they know it.
“Have fun,” Anton calls out as I head for the exit, and I pretend not to hear as he mutters something about obsessed stalkers and poor tortured women.
He doesn’t understand why I’m doing this to Sara, and I’m not inclined to explain.
Especially since I don’t understand it myself.
26
Sara
* * *
The mouthwatering smell of buttery seafood and roasted garlic greets me when I walk into the house, my handbag hanging casually over my shoulder. As I hoped, once again the dining room table is set with candles, and a bottle of white wine is chilling in a bucket of ice. Only the food is different today; it looks like we’re having seafood linguini for the main course, with calamari and a tomato-mozzarella salad for the appetizers.
The setup couldn’t be more perfect if I tried.
Act normal. Stay calm. He can’t know what you’re planning.
“Italian night, huh?” I
say as Peter turns from the kitchen counter, where he was chopping up something that looks like basil. My heart is thumping erratically in my chest, but I succeed in keeping my tone coolly sarcastic. “What’s tomorrow? Japanese? Chinese?”
“If you wish,” he says, walking over to the table to sprinkle the chopped basil on the mozzarella. “Though I’m less familiar with those cuisines, so we might have to order in.”
“Uh-huh.” My gaze falls to his hands as he brushes the remnants of the basil off his fingers. A warm, shivery sensation curls through me as I remember how those fingers touched me with devastating pleasure, making me unravel in his arms.
No. Don’t go there.
Desperate to distract myself, I focus on his outfit. Today, he’s wearing a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and my throat goes dry at the sight of his tan, muscular forearms, the left one covered by tattoos all the way down to the wrist. Inked guys aren’t normally my thing, but the intricate tattoos suit him, emphasizing the power flexing under that smooth, hair-dusted skin. I’ve always been drawn to strong, masculine forearms, and Peter has the best I’ve ever seen. George worked out, so he had nice arms too, but they were nowhere near as powerfully cut as these.
Ugh, stop. Self-disgust burns in my throat as I realize what I’m doing. At no point should I be comparing my husband, a normal, peaceful man, to a killer whose life revolves around violence and vengeance. Obviously, Peter Sokolov is in better shape; he has to be, to kill all those people and evade the authorities. His body is a weapon, honed by years of battle, while George was a journalist, a writer who spent most of his time with his computer.
Except… if I were to believe Peter, my husband wasn’t a journalist. He was a spy operating in the same shadow world as the monster puttering around my kitchen.