by Anna Zaires
We’re going to crash before we reach our goal.
Fuck, no. I’m not ready to die.
Cursing, I resume wrestling with the controls, ignoring the readouts that inform me of the futility of my efforts. The plane evens out under my guidance, the engines kicking in for a brief moment, but then we nosedive again. I repeat the maneuver, calling on all my years of piloting experience, but it’s futile.
All I manage to do is slow our descent by a few seconds.
They say your life flashes in front of your eyes before your death. They say you think of all the things you could’ve done differently, all the things you haven’t had a chance to do.
I don’t think about any of that.
I’m too consumed with surviving for as long as I can.
Beside me Esguerra is silent, his hands gripping the edge of his seat as the ground rushes toward us, the small objects below looming ever larger. I can make out the trees—we’re over a forest now—and then I see individual branches, stripped of leaves and covered with snow.
We’re close now, so close, and I make one last attempt to guide the plane, directing it to a cluster of smaller trees and bushes a hundred yards away.
And then we’re there, crashing through the trees with bone-shattering force.
Strangely, my last thought is of her.
The Russian girl I’ll never see again.
II
The Detainment
8
Yulia
Seven and a half hours.
The train was stuck in that tunnel for seven and a half hours. The relief I feel as the doors finally open at the next station is so strong, I actually shake with it.
Or maybe I shake from hunger and thirst. It’s impossible to tell.
Stepping out of the cursed train, I push through the herd of exhausted, stressed-out commuters and take the escalator upstairs. I need to call Obenko immediately; my handlers must be going mad with worry.
“Yulia? What the fuck?” As expected, Obenko’s furious. “Where are you?”
“At Rizhskaya.” I name the train station some twenty stops away from my destination. “I was on the Kaluzhsko-Rizhskaya line.”
“Ah, fuck. You got stuck because of that idiot.”
“Yeah.” I lean against an icy wall at the top of the stairs as people hurry past me. According to the last update from the train conductor, the reason for the delay was a hostage situation two trains ahead of us. A Chechen national got the bright idea to strap on a homemade bomb and threaten to blow himself up if his demands weren’t met. The police managed to subdue him, but it took them hours to do it safely. Considering the seriousness of the situation, it’s a miracle we were able to get off the train before nightfall.
“All right.” Obenko sounds a bit calmer. “I’ll get the team to return to the pickup location. Are the trains running again?”
“Not the Kaluzhsko-Rizhskaya line. They said it’ll resume running later tonight. I’m going to have to take a taxi.” I shift from foot to foot¸ my bladder reminding me that it’s been hours since I’ve had access to a bathroom. I need that, and food, with extreme urgency, but first, there’s something I must know. “Vasiliy Ivanovich,” I say hesitantly, addressing my boss by his full name and patronymic, “did the operation... succeed?”
“The plane was shot down an hour ago.”
My knees buckle, and for a dizzying moment, the station blurs out of focus. If it hadn’t been for the wall at my back, I would’ve fallen over. “Were there any survivors?” My voice sounds choked, and I have to clear my throat before continuing. “That is... are you sure the target’s been eliminated?”
“We haven’t received the casualty report yet, but I don’t see how Esguerra could’ve survived.”
“Oh. Good.” Bile rises in my throat, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. Swallowing thickly, I manage to say, “I have to go now, find that taxi.”
“All right. Keep us posted if there are any issues.”
“Will do.” I press the button to hang up and lean my head back against the wall, taking in gulps of cold air. I feel sick, my stomach roiling with acid and emptiness. I have a fast metabolism, and I’ve never handled hunger well, but I don’t recall ever feeling this bad from lack of food.
Pale blue eyes blank and unseeing. Blood running down a hard, square jaw...
No, stop. I force myself to straighten away from the wall. I won’t allow myself to go there. I’m just hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. Once I address these problems, everything will be fine.
It has to be.
* * *
Before trying to catch a taxi, I head to a small coffee shop next to the station and use their restroom. I also get a cup of hot tea and scarf down three meat-filled pirozhki—small savory pies. Then, feeling much more human, I go outside to see if I can find a taxi.
The streets around the station are a nightmare. The traffic appears to be at a complete standstill, and all the taxis look occupied. It’s not unexpected, given what happened with the trains, but still extremely annoying.
I begin walking briskly in the hopes that I can get to a less trafficky location on foot. There’s no point in getting into a car, only to crawl two blocks in two hours. Now that the plane has gone down, I need to get to my handlers as quickly as possible.
The plane. I suck in my breath as the sickening images invade my mind again. I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about this. I’d known Lucas for less than twenty-four hours, and I’d spent most of that time being afraid of him.
And the rest of that time screaming in pleasure in his arms, a small voice reminds me.
No, stop.
I pick up my pace, zigzagging around slower-moving pedestrians. Don’t think about him, don’t think about him... I let the words echo in my mind in tempo with my steps. You’re going home to Misha... I pick up my pace some more, almost running now. Moving this fast not only gets me to my destination quicker, but it also keeps me warm. Don’t think about him, you’re going home...
I don’t know how long I walk like this, but as the streetlights turn on, I realize it’s already getting dark. Checking my phone, I see that it’s nearly six p.m.
I’ve been at it for two and a half hours, and the traffic around me is as bad as ever.
Stopping, I look around in frustration. I’ve been walking along major avenues to maximize my chances of catching a cab, but that appears to have been a faulty strategy. Perhaps what I should do is get away from the main zones of traffic and try my luck on smaller streets. If I find a car there, the driver may be able to take me out of the city via some more obscure routes. I’ll pay him whatever extra money he demands.
Turning onto one of the cross streets, I see a park a block away. I decide to cut diagonally across it, and then go up one of the smaller avenues on the other side of it. I’ll still be heading in the right direction, but I’ll be away from the busiest area. Maybe I’ll find a bus there, if not a cab.
There’s got to be some way I can get to my destination in the next few hours.
My phone vibrates in my bag, and I fish it out. “Yes?”
“Where are you?” Obenko sounds as frustrated as I feel. “The team leader is getting nervous. He wants to be across the border by the time the Kremlin learns what happened.”
“I’m still in the city, walking for now. The traffic is impossible.” The snow crunches under my feet as I enter the park. They didn’t bother to clear it here, so all the walking paths are covered with a thick icy layer.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.” I try not to slip on the ice as I step over a pile of dog shit. “I’m doing my best to get there tonight, I promise.”
“All right. Yulia...” Obenko pauses for a second. “You know we’re going to have to pull the team if you don’t get there by morning, right?” His voice is quiet, almost apologetic.
“I know.” I keep my tone level. “I’ll be there.”
“Good. Make sure you do that.”
; He hangs up, and I walk faster, driven by increasing anxiety. If the team leaves without me and I get caught, I’m as good as dead. The Kremlin isn’t known to be kind to spies, and the fact that our agency is completely off the books makes the matters ten times worse. The Ukrainian government won’t negotiate to get me back, because they have no idea that I exist.
I’m almost out of the park when I hear drunk male laughter and the sound of shoes crunching on snow.
Glancing behind me, I see a small group of men some hundred meters back, with bottles clutched in their gloved hands. They’re weaving all over the walking path, but their attention is unmistakably focused on me.
“Hey, young lady,” one of them yells out, slurring his words. “Wanna come party with us?”
I look away and start walking even faster. They’re just drunks, but even drunks can be dangerous when it’s six against one. I’m not afraid of them—I have my gun and my training—but I don’t need trouble this evening.
“Young lady,” the drunk yells, louder this time. “You’re being rude, you know that?”
His friends laugh like a pack of hyenas, and the drunk yells again, “Fuck you, bitch! If you don’t want to party, just motherfucking say so!”
I ignore them and continue on my way, snaking my left hand into my handbag to feel for my gun, just in case. As I exit the park and step onto the street, the sound of their voices fades, and I realize they’re no longer following me.
Relieved, I take my hand out of my bag and continue up the street at a slightly slower pace. My legs are aching, and I feel like a blister is forming on the side of my heel. My flat boots are way more comfortable than heels, but they’re not made for three hours of speed-walking.
I’m in a more residential area now, which is both good and bad. The traffic here is better—only a few cars pass me on the street—but the streetlights are sparse, and the area is all but deserted. Distant male laughter reaches my ears again, and I force myself to go faster, ignoring the discomfort of tired muscles.
I walk about five blocks before I see it: a cab stopping next to a curb across the street some fifty meters ahead. A short, thin man is getting out. Relieved, I yell, “Wait!” and sprint toward the car just as he begins closing the door.
I’m almost next to the cab when I see lights out of the corner of my eye and hear the roar of an engine.
Reacting in a split second, I throw myself to the side, hitting the ground as a car barrels past me. As I roll on the icy asphalt, I hear the driver hooting drunkenly, and then something hard slams into the side of my head.
My last thought as my world goes black is that I should’ve shot those drunks after all.
9
Lucas
Voices. Distant beeping. More voices.
The sounds fade in and out, as does the buzzing in my ears. My head feels thick and heavy, the pain enveloping me like a blanket of thorns.
Alive. I’m alive.
The realization seeps into me slowly, in stages. Along with it comes a sharp throbbing in my skull and a surge of nausea.
Where am I? What happened?
I strain to make out the voices.
It’s two women and a man, judging by the differences in pitch. They’re speaking in a foreign language, something I don’t recognize.
My nausea intensifies, as does the throbbing in my head. It takes all my strength to pry open my eyelids.
Above me, a fluorescent light flickers, its brightness agonizing. Unable to bear it, I close my eyes.
A female voice exclaims something, and I hear rapid footsteps.
A hand touches my face, a stranger’s fingers reaching for my eyelids. Bright light shines into my eyes again, and I tense, my hands bunching into fists as agony spears through me again. My instinct is to fight, to lash out at whoever this is, but something is preventing me from moving my arms.
“Careful now.” The male voice speaks English, albeit with a thick foreign accent. “The nurse is just checking on you.”
The hand leaves my face, and I force my eyes to remain open despite the pain in my skull. Everything looks blurry, but after I blink a few times, I’m able to focus on the man standing next to the bed.
Dressed in a military officer’s uniform, he looks to be in his early fifties, with a lean, sharp-featured face. Seeing me looking at him, he says, “I’m Colonel Sharipov. Can you please tell me your name?”
“Where am I? What happened?” I ask hoarsely, trying to move my arms once more. I can’t—and I realize it’s because I’m restrained, handcuffed to the bed. When I try to move my legs, I can move my right, but not my left. There’s something bulky and heavy keeping it still, and tugging on it makes me hiss in pain.
“You’re in a hospital in Tashkent,” Sharipov says, answering my first question. “You have a broken leg and a severe concussion. I would advise you not to move.”
Tashkent. That means I’m in Uzbekistan, the country bordering our destination of Tajikistan. As I process that, some of the fogginess in my mind dissipates, and I remember what happened.
The screams. The smell of smoke.
The crash.
Fuck.
“Where are the others?” Abruptly enraged, I tug at my wrist restraints. “Esguerra and all the rest?”
“I will tell you in a moment,” Sharipov says. “First, I must know your name.”
The pounding agony in my skull isn’t letting me think. “Lucas Kent,” I grit out. There’s no point in lying. He didn’t seem surprised when I mentioned Esguerra—which means he already has some idea of who we are. “I’m Esguerra’s second-in-command.”
Sharipov studies me. “I see. In that case, Mr. Kent, you’ll be pleased to know that Julian Esguerra is alive and here in the hospital as well. He has a broken arm, cracked ribs, and a head wound, which doesn’t appear to be too serious. We’re waiting for him to regain consciousness.”
My head feels like it’s about to explode, yet I’m aware of a flicker of relief. The guy is an amoral killer—some might say a psychopath—but I’ve gotten to know him over the years and I respect him. It would be a shame if he were killed by some stray missile. Which reminds me—
“What the fuck happened? Why am I restrained?”
The colonel looks at me steadily. “You’re restrained for your own safety and that of the nurses, Mr. Kent. Your occupation is such that we didn’t feel comfortable putting the staff here at risk. It’s a civilian hospital and—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I clench my teeth. “I promise not to harm the nurses, okay? Remove these fucking cuffs. Now.”
We have a stare-off contest for a few seconds. Then Sharipov makes a short, jerky motion with his head and says something to one of the nurses in a foreign language. The dark-haired woman comes over and unlocks the cuffs, giving me wary looks the whole time. I ignore her, keeping my focus on Sharipov.
“What happened?” I repeat in a somewhat calmer tone, bringing my hands together to rub at my wrists as the nurse skitters away to the other side of the room. The pounding in my head worsens from the movement, but I persist in my questioning. “Who shot down the plane, and what happened to the other men?”
“I’m afraid that the exact cause of the crash is being investigated at the moment,” Sharipov says. He looks vaguely uncomfortable. “It’s possible there was a... miscommunication.”
“A miscommunication?” I give him an incredulous glare. “Did you shoot at us? You know we were to be granted safe passage through the region, right?”
“Of course.” He looks even more uncomfortable now. “Which is why we’re currently conducting an investigation. It’s possible that an error was made—”
“An error?” The screams, the smoke... “A fucking error?” My brain feels like a drummer took up residence in my skull. “Where the fuck are the others?”
Sharipov flinches, almost imperceptibly. “I’m afraid there were only three survivors besides Esguerra and yourself. They’re still unconscious. I’m hoping you
can help us identify them.” Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulls out his phone and shows me the screen. “This is the first one.”
My guts twist. I know the man in that photo.
John “The Sandman” Sanders, a British ex-con. Handy with knives and grenades. I’ve trained with him, played pool with him. He was fun, even when he was piss-drunk.
He might not be as fun anymore. Not with half of his face cooked extra crispy.
“The plane exploded,” Sharipov says, likely in response to my expression. “He has third-degree burns over most of his body. He’ll need extensive skin grafts—if he survives at all. Do you know his name?”
“John Sanders,” I say hoarsely, reaching up to take the phone. My body protests the movement, my temples throbbing with nauseating pain again, but I need to see the others. Bringing the phone closer, I click to the next photo.
This face is nearly unrecognizable—except for the scar at the corner of his left eye. He’s a recent recruit, someone I debated bringing on this mission.
“Jorge Suarez,” I say evenly before moving on to the next picture.
This time I can’t even venture a guess. All I see is burned flesh. “He’s still alive?” I glance up at Sharipov. I can feel the churning in my guts worsening, and I know it’s only partially because of my concussion.
The colonel nods. “He’s in a critical condition, but he might pull through. If you look at the next picture, it shows his lower body. It’s not as burned.”
Fighting my nausea, I do as he says and study the hairy legs covered by strips of torn protective suit. The explosion must’ve blasted through the protective gear; the material is meant to withstand a brief exposure to fire, not a plane blowing up. It’s hard to say who the man is from just his legs. Unless... I narrow my eyes, peering closer at the picture, and then I see it.