by Anna Zaires
I blink. “What?”
She smiles. “I’m going to do this”—she moves her hand rhythmically from side to side, as if checking my vision—“and you are going to track the movement with your eyes. Here, let’s practice.”
She resumes the side-to-side movement, and I follow her fingers with my gaze like a cat with a laser pointer. I don’t see how this is going to help anything, but I’m game to try.
“Okay, good,” she says when I have it down. “Now, let’s focus on a distressing memory… say, your most recent flashback. What was it that you saw earlier today? What event did you relive? Or if you’d rather not focus on that one, choose something else—or we can start from the beginning.”
I’m still tracking her hand movements with my eyes, and it somehow makes it easier to detach from the volcanic pressure building in my chest. I can feel the enormous weight of it, but it’s as if it’s happening to someone else.
My eyes dart from side to side, following her fingers as I begin speaking. Slowly, haltingly, I go through the events of that day, from the SWAT team showing up to the moment I first pulled the trigger.
It’s only there that I stop, unable to say another word because I’m shaking too violently. To my relief, Dr. Wessex doesn’t push it. Instead, she tells me to focus on how my body is reacting, and the thoughts I’m having in this moment. And all the while, she’s moving her hand back and forth, keeping me focused.
Keeping me distracted from the suffocating pain and grief.
By the time Peter comes inside the house to collect me, I’m so wrung out emotionally and physically that we go straight home, where I promptly fall asleep.
I wake up an hour and a half later to the muffled sound of male voices. Throwing on the robe, I creep up to the window and peek through the closed blinds.
It’s Kent, Esguerra, Peter, and Yan. They’re standing outside, discussing something.
Holding my breath, I try to make out what they’re saying.
“Nothing yet,” Kent says, looking disgusted. “Are we sure the message even got to him?”
“Oh, it got to him,” Peter says grimly. “The fucker’s just too chicken to do anything about it.”
Esguerra looks at Yan. “What about your hookup? When is she supposed to get here?”
Yan’s jaw tightens visibly, but then he seems to regain control. “Soon,” he says without any hint of emotion. “Very soon.”
“Good.” A terrifying smile curves Esguerra’s lips. “Once we have her, it might not matter whether Henderson does the noble thing or not. We’ll find the snake bastard anyway.”
And as the men disperse, I step away from the window, feeling slightly sick—yet excited—over what I heard.
69
Henderson
“You are a fucking psycho! You hear me? A psycho!” Bonnie screams, tears and snot running down her face. “Five people we care about are dead, and you don’t give a fuck!”
I duck as she throws a glass, and it crashes into the wall behind me, shattering on impact. Each word she flings in my direction is as lethal as her projectiles, and the answering rage combines with my migraine to dapple my vision with specks of red.
I shouldn’t have forgotten to refill her medication. She should’ve been doped up in bed, not going through my emails and watching the fucking news.
A plate whizzes by my ear, and I lose it.
“I do give a fuck!” I roar, rounding the table to grab her bony shoulders. “My cousin Lyle’s one of those dead people. But so what? They’ll kill all of them regardless. And you, and Amber, and Jimmy, too. You think I should just present myself to these killers on a platter? Is that what I should fucking do?”
I’m shaking her so hard her teeth are rattling in her empty skull, but she refuses to back off.
“Maybe you fucking should!” she screams, her spittle spraying in my face. “We’d all be better off if you were dead!”
Enraged, I shove her away—and she crashes into the fridge just as our eighteen-year-old daughter enters the kitchen.
“Mom? Dad?” Her wide blue eyes dart from me to Bonnie. “What’s going on?”
Fuck. Amber wasn’t supposed to see that.
Of my two children, she’s the one who’s always on my side.
“Nothing, sweetheart,” I manage to say calmly. “Your mom just needs her medicine, that’s all.”
And leaving Bonnie sobbing on the floor, I lead my daughter away, back to her room.
I can’t save everyone I care about, but I will protect my family.
Even if the ingrates make it fucking hard to do.
I’ve finally gotten my hands on the layout of Esguerra’s Colombian compound, and I’m analyzing it for possible points of entry when it occurs to me that the house is silent.
Too silent.
There are no videogame explosions in the living room, no clattering of dishes in the kitchen despite the fact that it is dinner time.
My blood pressure spiking, I go from room to room.
Nothing.
No one is here.
Our cabin in Iceland is as cold and empty as the snow-covered roads outside.
I run into the garage, and sure enough, the Jeep is missing. Bonnie must’ve taken it to go into town with the children.
That stupid bitch. I slam my palm against the wall. I told her a million times we can’t step a foot out of this place. Now that Sokolov is holed up at Esguerra’s with his whole crew, he’s more dangerous than ever—and more motivated to find me, too.
How could she take such a risk given what’s happening with all our friends and relatives? Doesn’t she realize my enemies will flay her rib from rib?
Unless… My chest seizes, the air evaporating in my lungs.
She wouldn’t.
She couldn’t.
She wouldn’t fucking dare.
Nonetheless, my legs carry me back inside the house, to her room. I looked inside it only briefly, only long enough to see that she’s not there.
So now I step in and truly look around—and my heart plummets to the floor.
On her nightstand, underneath her TV remote, is a small piece of paper with her handwriting.
We’re leaving, it says. We’d rather take our chances out there than be “safe” in here with you.
70
Peter
I step into the interrogation building, where a young woman sits bound to a chair. Her small face is decorated with bruises, and her lower lip is split, giving her a pouty look. Her gaze, however, is clear and defiant.
No pushover, this pretty sniper.
I wonder if Yan gave her those bruises during interrogation, or if they’re from the fight she put up during her capture yesterday.
Hearing footsteps, I turn around and see Yan and Ilya entering the room.
“We’ve just located the men whose names she gave us,” Ilya says, holding out his phone. “Our doppelgängers have quite a resume. All four are former Delta Force, same unit. They and a few of their buddies got court-martialed fifteen years ago for gang-raping a sixteen-year-old girl in Pakistan. Six of them got arrested, but the others broke them out and they all went on a lam. Since then, they’ve been doing random jobs here and there, everything from minor assassinations to planting bombs for terrorist organizations.”
As he speaks, I scroll through the photos on the screen. They’d clearly had great disguises while impersonating us. The faces looking at me bear very little resemblance to our own; at best, one looks vaguely like me—and even then, his hair is dirty blond.
An idea occurs to me. “Who did their makeup and disguises?” I ask the sniper, coming to stand in front of her chair. “It looks like it was someone very skilled.”
She claims not to know where Henderson is hiding, and that chicken-livered ublyudok didn’t cave, letting his friends and relatives die in his stead, so we’ll need to get to him some other way.
She’s silent for a moment; then she says sullenly, “Me. I did it.”
I raise my eyebrows skeptically. “Is that right?”
Her nostrils flare. “Why would I lie? I already gave you all those names. What’s one more in the grand scheme of things?”
Her English is as pure as any American’s. I wonder when and how a Czech girl learned to speak it so well.
“This will be easy to verify,” Yan says, stepping forward to stand next to me. “She can show off her skill on me tonight.”
“And on me.” Ilya’s hands twitch at his sides as he glares at his brother.
Great. They’re still at each other’s throats over who gets to fuck her.
Pushing my irritation aside, I ask the girl a dozen more questions, and she answers them all, albeit reluctantly. As she’s a private contractor with no particular loyalty to anyone, she’s wisely decided to cooperate with us in exchange for her life and eventual freedom.
I’m planning to off her anyway—Sara’s parents are dead because of her—but for now, I don’t mind letting her believe she’s going to walk away.
Either way, she’s not as useful as I hoped. She said she’s only met Henderson in person once, and has no idea where he could be hiding. Hopefully, we’ll have better luck with one of our impersonators.
Someone’s bound to lead us to our enemy.
When I get home, I’m relieved to see that Sara is still napping. She does this now every afternoon. Though she doesn’t want to admit it, the pregnancy and the accompanying morning sickness are taking a heavy toll on her.
Same goes for the therapy sessions with Dr. Wessex. Whatever the therapist is putting Sara through seems to be exhausting my ptichka to the point that she passes out as soon as she gets home. The good news is that over the past two days, ever since starting therapy, she hasn’t had any more flashbacks—none that I’m aware of, at least.
She still hasn’t cried or talked about what happened, but I’m hopeful that eventually she will.
Trying not to wake her, I quietly back out of the bedroom. Ever since the last flashback incident, I’ve been doing my best not to leave Sara alone for any measurable length of time. If I need to step out for any reason, I try to do it while she’s napping.
Sitting down in the living room, I open my laptop and check the encrypted email I used to reach out to Henderson’s contact in the CIA. All nineteen of our prisoners are now dead, so I’m not expecting to see anything—I’m checking more out of force of habit.
Which is why a message from an unknown sender catches me completely by surprise.
Suppressing a jolt of anticipation, I open the message and read it—then read it again, unable to believe my eyes.
71
Sara
“—clearly a trap,” I hear Ilya say as I exit the bedroom, yawning from my nap. “He’s trying to lure you out, that’s all.”
“Obviously, but we still have to pursue the lead,” Kent says as I stop just out of sight in the hallway and carefully peek into the living room.
Peter, Esguerra, Kent, and all three of my husband’s Russian teammates are crowded around a laptop on the coffee table, filling the small space with so much testosterone that I can almost taste it. “Lethal masculinity” are the words that come to mind as I view their tall, superbly fit bodies and hard faces.
Lethal, panty-slaying masculinity.
Of course, Peter is far more magnetic than the others, I decide as they continue talking, oblivious to my presence. Kent’s blond looks bring to mind a pillaging Viking, and I sense something decidedly cruel in Esguerra—and, to some extent, in Yan and Anton. Ilya is the only one who seems to have any shred of human kindness in him, and he’s definitely not my type—though I can see how many women would find those steroid-enhanced muscles and skull tattoos a turn-on.
“Are we even sure Peter is the one who’s supposed to come alone?” Esguerra says, crouching to peer at the laptop screen. “The email isn’t addressed to anyone specific.”
My breath catches in my chest, and all thoughts of the men’s looks evaporate.
Someone’s trying to get Peter to go somewhere alone?
“Our hackers are tracing the email now,” Yan says, looking at his phone. “We’ll know the IP address it was sent from soon.”
Peter waves dismissively. “It won’t be a real IP address. Henderson knows how to cover his tracks.”
“But what if it’s not Henderson?” Esguerra stands up. “What if it is his wife?”
Ilya snorts. “Yeah, sure. And if we believe that, he’s got a bridge he can—”
“No, Julian is right,” Peter interrupts. “Something about this is very un-Henderson-like. If he wanted to lure me out, he’d provide a more believable lead—by posing as, say, his CIA contact or some such. Signing that email with his wife’s name is like telling us straight out that it’s a trap. You don’t need to have worked for the agency to know it’s a tactic least likely to succeed.”
“Maybe that’s why he’s using it,” Kent says. “Because it’s so absurd and unbelievable.”
“Or maybe because he’s not the one who wrote the email.” Esguerra folds his arms across his chest. “I’m telling you, it could be from his wife.”
“Why would his wife contact Peter?” Anton asks, scratching at his beard. “We just killed nineteen of their friends and relatives and left the bodies for the cops to find. You think she has a death wish of some kind?”
“Maybe she does,” Yan says as I clap my hand over my mouth, suppressing a horrified gasp.
Nineteen people?
They killed nineteen people in their quest to get Henderson?
“Think about it,” Yan continues, oblivious to the sick hammering of my heartbeat. “We’ve been after her husband for years. Think of the stress the whole family’s been under. Isn’t this what we thought might happen when we fucked with those people the first time? Weren’t we hoping that someone in Henderson’s family—the wife, the daughter, the son—might slip up under pressure and make this kind of mistake?”
“This is more than a mistake,” Kent says. “We didn’t find her because she contacted her friends. She reached out to us—to the email address that only Henderson and his CIA contact would have.”
“Unless she accessed her husband’s email and saw the forwarded message from the CIA,” Esguerra says. “Then she would have it too.”
Still holding my hand over my mouth, I back away, careful not to make a sound.
I understand now why Peter didn’t want to tell me any specifics about their plan.
It’s not because of my mental state—it’s because what they did amounts to mass murder.
72
Peter
We’re in the middle of strategizing how to best approach the situation when Sara walks into the living room.
“There you are,” I say, smiling. “How was your nap?”
Her eyes briefly meet mine, then dart away. “It was fine. Hello, everyone.” She waves at the men without a smile.
“Let’s reconvene tonight,” Esguerra says, getting up from the couch. “Eight o’clock, my office.”
I glance at Sara, who’s slipped past us to the kitchen and is pouring herself a glass of water. I don’t want to leave her alone—that’s why I called everyone over here.
Discerning my dilemma, Esguerra says, “Sara, Nora was wondering if you’d be able to help her out with Lizzie tonight. Rosa has the evening off.”
Sara looks over, her face expressionless. “Sure, I’d be happy to.”
Esguerra nods, satisfied, and everyone swiftly clears out, leaving us alone. I’m glad—because I don’t like this strange mood Sara’s in.
Did something happen while she was napping?
“Ptichka…” I enter the kitchen and stop in front of her. “Did you have another flashback this afternoon?”
She blinks up at me. “What? No, I didn’t.”
I give her a dubious look. “Are you sure?”
Her delicate jaw tightens. “Yes. I’m fine.” Setting her water glass on the counter,
she turns away.
The pointed rejection is like a slap across my face.
She’s traumatized, wounded, and I’m to blame for that, I remind myself as my temper begins to simmer. Still, I can’t quite hide the tension in my voice as I grab her arm and demand, “Then what is it? What happened?”
She looks up at me with her soft hazel eyes, and I see a peculiar blankness there. “Nothing. Nothing happened.”
“Sara… don’t shut me out.”
Something flickers in her gaze before she veils it with that blankness. “I told you, it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing if you’re refusing to talk to me. Ptichka…” Releasing her arm, I lift my hand to stroke her soft cheek. “Please, my love, tell me what’s wrong.”
Her face tightens. “Nothing. Just leave it.”
Leave it? A sudden suspicion occurs to me. “When did you wake up?” I ask, going on a hunch.
She flinches slightly, her gaze sliding away from mine.
Ah. So she did overhear us. I try to remember what we said, exactly—and wince internally.
The nineteen dead bodies were definitely mentioned.
“I’m sorry you heard that,” I say quietly when she looks up at me again. “For what it’s worth, I was counting on Henderson trading himself for at least some of those people.”
She swallows thickly. “Yeah, sure.”
“Would you rather I did nothing? Do you want him to walk free after what he’s done?”
Her breathing speeds up, her pupils darkening as she stares up at me. “I should.” Her voice is tight. “A normal person would. Not walk free, but be arrested. Pay for his crimes in the normal way.”