by Anna Zaires
I miss my tormentor, ache for him with every fiber of my being—even as I fear his return.
Walking over to the bathroom counter, I turn on the light, staring at my pale face in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles, and my hair is a hot mess. I bet if Peter saw me right now, he wouldn’t be so eager to have me.
Of course, that assumes my looks are the reason he’s so fixated on me—a big, and likely incorrect, assumption. I know I’m attractive, but I’m nowhere near as beautiful as someone like Yulia. No, whatever it is that draws Peter to me—and vice versa—goes deeper than surface attraction. He knows it, and I know it too. It’s something within us that makes us fit together like two pieces of broken china… something dark and perversely needy that calls out to each other’s flaws.
I’m about to turn on the faucet to wash my face when a sound reaches my ears.
I freeze, listening intently, and then I hear it again.
A woman’s throaty moan, followed by a man’s muffled grunt.
My face heats up as I realize what I’m listening to.
This bathroom must be right underneath Lucas and Yulia’s bedroom, with the air vent connecting the two floors.
I know I should go back to bed and give them privacy, but my legs refuse to move. If nothing else, this is more entertaining than the thrillers Kent left for me to read. Blushing and feeling like a pervert, I listen as the sounds upstairs grow in volume before culminating in an obvious climax.
When silence reigns again, I turn on the faucet with unsteady hands and splash cold water on my overheated face. This was a bad idea, because not only did I violate my hosts’/jailers’ privacy, but I’m now so turned on I will definitely have trouble going back to sleep. My nipples are hard, and my sex is slippery with aching need.
I also miss Peter more than ever.
Groaning silently, I head back to bed. Predictably, I can’t fall asleep, so I reach under the blanket and play with myself until I come, thinking of Peter the entire time.
Despite my restless night, I wake up early the next morning, and as I’m getting ready to brush my teeth, I hear footsteps upstairs, followed by tense voices.
It sounds like the Kents are having an argument.
Unbearably curious, I put down the toothbrush and listen.
At first, their voices come across as muffled, as if they’re on the other side of the room, but then they come closer to the vent—and my heartbeat accelerates as I realize the topic of their argument.
Me.
“How can you be so sure?” Yulia says heatedly. “She’s his enemy’s widow. He killed her husband and kidnapped her. How is that not mistreatment? At the very least, he took away all her choices and ruined her career. The woman is a doctor—a doctor, Lucas. She’s not like you and me. She’s never been a part of this world—”
“And now she is,” Kent interrupts, his voice hard. “Not that it’s any of our business. I owe him a favor, and she is it.”
“She is a human being, not a favor. At the very least, let me talk to her, find out whether he’s mistreating her—”
“Why? So you could do what? Let her go and end up on his hit list? You know the kind of targets his team goes after these days. We don’t need to deal with that shit on top of the Novak situation.”
“No, of course not.” Yulia sounds frustrated. “But she’s an innocent civilian, Lucas, and she’s a guest in our home. I need to make sure that you’re right and she does want him—because I can’t live with myself otherwise. You understand that, right?”
Her husband is silent for a few moments, and I bite my thumb, my heart hammering as I listen for his reply. I was right to pin my hopes on Yulia; she is sympathetic to my plight.
“I understand,” he finally says. “But there’s still nothing I can do. I will not put your life in danger for this woman.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Sokolov asked me to keep her safe for him, and that’s precisely what I’m going to do.”
“Lucas…” Yulia’s voice softens, turning more cajoling. “Just let me talk to her. That’s all I ask. I’m not going to do anything without consulting you. I’m not stupid, and I don’t want to make an enemy of Peter either. I just want to make sure she’s okay… reassure her if she’s scared. That wouldn’t do any harm, would it? Just a little chat?”
There’s no response from Kent, though I hear rustling sounds, followed by something metallic—a belt buckle, maybe?—hitting the floor.
“Yulia…” Kent’s voice thickens. “Sweetheart, you don’t have to—oh fuck. Motherfucking fuck…” His words end on a groan, and I flush as I realize what I’m listening to again.
Feeling doubly like a pervert, I stay quiet—to see if they mention me again, I tell myself—but when all I hear for the next ten minutes are sex sounds, I force myself to finish brushing my teeth and go back into my room.
Maybe, just maybe, Yulia’s persuasion tactic will succeed, and I might find a way out of this predicament.
At least now I have some real hope.
45
Peter
We spend the day before the strike running through the different versions of the plan, calculating success probabilities and coming up with solutions to potential problems. Our plan is risky, but it has a good chance of working—assuming we get the timing right.
By night, we’re as ready as we’re ever going to be, and that’s a good thing, as our client, the Ukrainian oligarch, is getting impatient. In two days, Arslan is supposed to vote on a bill that will all but decimate our client’s business in Turkey, and we have to act before that happens.
As I close my laptop to catch a few hours of shuteye before my shift, Anton calls me over, his tone unusually excited.
“Look at this,” he says, and adrenaline floods my veins as I see a new email from our hackers.
Swiftly, I read through it on Anton’s screen, and a savage smile spreads across my face.
My adversary has finally made a mistake.
Walter Henderson III’s wife, Bonnie, was at a winery in Marlborough, New Zealand—something we learned thanks to a picture posted on Instagram by the clueless winery owner. Our hackers’ face recognition program picked it up within hours of it appearing online.
“Get ready,” I tell Anton and the twins when I finish reading through the email. “After we’re done here tomorrow, we’re going to New Zealand.”
“What about Sara?” Ilya asks. “Are you going to leave her with Kent?”
I hesitate, then shake my head. “No.” I can’t bear to be separated from her for even a day longer. “She’s coming with us.”
And before going to bed, I call Lucas to check up on her.
46
Sara
I spend the day pacing my room, my anxiety intensifying with each passing hour. By dinnertime, I’m ready to tear my hair out.
In less than twelve hours, Peter’s dangerous mission will begin, and Yulia still hasn’t come by to talk to me—nor has her husband brought me the promised pill.
“I should have it later today,” he told me when he delivered my lunch. “Though it could be tomorrow as well.”
By tomorrow, it would be too late, but I kept my mouth shut, not wanting my jailer to know that I truly need that pill. If nothing else, I can stash it away for future use, and pray that my fertile window wasn’t so fertile this month.
A quiet knock on the door interrupts my pacing.
“Sara?” a woman’s voice asks. “May I come in?”
My pulse leaps with joy. “Yes! Please, come in.”
The door opens, and Yulia backs into the room, holding a heavy-looking tray with covered dishes.
“Here, let me help you.” I rush toward her, barely containing my excitement as I assist her in setting the tray onto the dresser.
She smiles at me. “Thank you. How is your stay so far?”
“It’s good,” I answer, beaming back at her. “And obviously, the food is wonde
rful. Thank you so much for that.”
Yulia’s blue eyes gleam with pleasure. “You’re welcome. And how is everything else? Do you have everything you need? Lucas said you asked for a couple of medicines…”
I nod, then decide to just go for it. With Peter potentially returning tomorrow, I have no time to waste, and I already know Yulia is on my side. “I need the morning-after pill,” I say bluntly. “And today is the last day I can take it.”
Her beautiful mouth rounds in surprise. “Oh. Wow. Lucas didn’t mention anything about that. He sent one of his guards into town today to pick up a few things, but I know that something came up and the guy was distracted. Let me check to see if he got it, okay?”
“Wait.” I grab Yulia’s slender arm as she turns to leave. “Please. I need your help.”
Her expression turns carefully blank. “What do you mean?”
I drop my hand. “I have to leave. Now. Tonight. Before Peter returns. Please, it’s very important. I’m not his girlfriend; I’m his captive. He kidnapped me, and now he—”
“Wait, Sara. Please.” She lifts her hand, palm out. Though her manner remains calm, I can tell she’s distressed. She must not have expected me to plead for help so openly. “Is he abusing you? Has he hurt you?” she asks carefully.
“He cut me with a knife and waterboarded me,” I say, and immediately feel a twinge of guilt at the horror on Yulia’s face. I should probably mention that the torture took place before our relationship, such as it is, began, but if I’m to get her help, I can’t afford to paint my captivity in a rosy light.
As kind and sympathetic as Yulia seems, I can’t forget that she’s an arms dealer’s wife and may have a different view of morality than most people.
“He also wants to force a child on me,” I continue, pressing my point while she’s still in shock. “That’s why I need the morning-after pill today. In another couple of hours, I’ll be outside the thirty-six-hour window. Not that the pill would help if I’m still here when Peter returns. He’ll do what he wants with me, and nobody will stop him. Please, Yulia”—I catch her arm again—“you don’t even have to let me go. Just let me make one phone call or send an email. Nobody would even know it was you who helped me. Please.”
She pales more with every word I speak, and I almost feel bad. I understand the impossible position I’m putting her in. Though she seems willing to look the other way when it comes to her husband’s deadly business, Yulia is not like him—or at least she possesses enough empathy to put herself in my shoes. At the same time, she knows how dangerous Peter is and what she would be risking by double-crossing him.
“Are you—” She clears her throat. “Are you ever with him willingly? That first night, at dinner, I could feel the tension between the two of you, but the way he looked at you… And then the way you looked when you were saying good-bye… I was in and out of the kitchen, but I thought I saw— Did I get the wrong impression? Is he hurting you? Forcing you every time?”
My face heats with embarrassment at the private question, and I drop my hand again. “That’s not— I mean, he kidnapped me. What do you think?”
To my surprise, she looks uncomfortable. “I think it’s complicated sometimes,” she says after a moment. “Not every relationship follows the same path, and there are times when—” She stops, as if thinking better of it.
Frowning, I stare at her. There’s a story there, but whatever it is, I can’t afford to focus on it. I have to persuade her to help me before it’s too late.
“Yulia, please,” I say. “This is my only chance. You are my only chance. If he returns and I’m here, I’ll never see my parents again, never have any control over my own life… Please. I know you understand my situation. Peter Sokolov killed my husband and tortured me. He stalked and kidnapped me, and he’s been keeping me captive for almost five months. I have to leave before he returns, and all you need to do is let me have access to a phone. Just for a second. I could contact the FBI and then—”
“And then we’ll have every law enforcement agency targeting our home,” Kent says, pushing the door open without knocking. His square jaw is clenched with fury, his pale eyes narrowed into slits as he crosses the room and grabs Yulia’s hand in a white-knuckled grip. “Let’s go,” he tells his wife through gritted teeth, and I watch in growing despair as he drags her out of the room.
“I’m sorry,” she mouths before he slams the door, locking me in again, and I know it’s over.
My one chance at escape is lost.
I cry for two hours before I finally fall asleep—and promptly sink into a series of nightmares. I don’t know why this is happening to me again, but as I wake up, shaking and sweating from another vivid dream about drowning in my kitchen sink, I know I won’t be able to sleep tonight.
Throwing off the blanket, I swing my legs over the bed to get up when the lock on the door clicks and the door quietly swings open.
Startled, I grab the blanket to cover myself, but no one enters my room.
Wrapping the blanket around myself, I rush to the door, and at the far end of a hallway, I see a tall, slender figure disappearing around the corner, her blond hair glowing like a beacon in the moonlit darkness.
Yulia.
She came through for me.
I have no idea how she managed to sneak away from her husband, but I don’t waste time questioning my good fortune. Quickly throwing on a dress and a pair of flat sandals, I slip into the hallway and head toward the kitchen, being careful not to make any noise.
I need to find a phone or a computer—anything that would let me contact the outside world.
“Here.” A pair of keys are suddenly thrust into my hand, and I suppress a squeak as Yulia appears in front of me, seemingly melting out of the wall to my right. With the moonlight streaming through the big windows, her pale face resembles something otherworldly. “The Mercedes is right outside,” she whispers urgently before I can recover from my shock. “I disabled the perimeter alarms, opened the automatic gates, and directed the drones to the beach. You have ten minutes, do you understand? There’s a gas station seven kilometers to the southwest. Drive straight there, and you’ll find a phone.”
I nod, my heart racing as I clutch the keys she gave me. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Go.” Throwing a worried glance behind her, Yulia pushes me toward the front door, and I don’t delay a second longer.
Keys in hand, I run out of the house and jump into the car.
47
Peter
“Five minutes,” I whisper into my headpiece. “Get ready.”
It’s been exactly twenty minutes since the lights appeared on the second floor of Arslan’s mansion. That means our target will walk out of his front door and get into his bulletproof car between five and ten minutes from now. As we’d hoped, he’s a creature of habit, his morning routine nearly the same every weekday morning. The time he leaves the house varies, as does the route he takes to work and where his bodyguards leave his car, but this—the time he spends at home, feeling safe and secure as he eats his breakfast—is entirely predictable.
In a few short minutes, there will be a small window when he’s out in the open with his bodyguards, and that’s when we’re going to strike.
“The RPG is loaded, and Ilya has the car ready,” Yan reports in my headpiece. He’s on the roof of the house across the street from the one where Anton and I are.
“Good.” I glance over at Anton, who’s lying on his stomach next to me, peering into the scope of his sniper’s rifle. “You ready?”
He nods without taking his eye off the target. “I’m going for head shots in case they’re wearing vests.”
“Good.” Turning my attention to my own M110, I adjust my scope. Head shots are tricky, especially once your targets start to react, but they’re the best way to ensure a professional stays dead.
Body armor is too often concealed under clothing these days.
The seconds tick by, each one st
retching longer than the next. It’s easy to get impatient at a time like this, so I focus on steadying my breathing and making sure nothing obstructs my line of sight.
This is too important to fuck up.
Unbidden, thoughts of Sara steal into my mind. I wonder what she’s doing, if she’s still sleeping or if she’s already up. As exciting as this is for me—and it is exciting, I can’t lie—I’d much rather be home in Japan, holding her warm, naked body as she comes awake. In just a few short months, my little songbird has become more important to me than anything else in the world, my passion for her crowding out everything else that once interested me.
The sound of a door opening wrenches me out of my thoughts.
“He’s coming,” Yan whispers in the headset, and I force myself to focus.
There will be time for Sara later.
If we survive today, that is.
48
Sara
Ten minutes. The car’s tires squeal as I zoom down the long driveway and barrel through the open gates, gripping the wheel so hard my fingers dig into the leather.
I have only ten minutes.
That is, assuming Yulia’s estimate was correct. I don’t know how she escaped from her lethal-looking husband and disabled all those security measures, but it’s entirely possible he’s already on my heels.
There are no lights along this one-lane road, no signs—nothing to tell me where I’m going. The moon and my car’s headlights are the only sources of illumination. I have no idea which way southwest is, so when I reach a two-lane road, I randomly turn left, going on instinct.
If I just turned the wrong way, I’m screwed.
My heart feels like it’s going to hammer through my chest, my breathing loud in my ears. Sweat forms in my armpits and drips down my sides, and my knee trembles as I floor the gas pedal. Driving on the left side of the road, with the wheel on the left side of the car, is beyond confusing for an American like me, but I don’t dare slow down.