He nodded slowly, and Drake stood up to give the boy some time alone. In truth, he needed to be by himself too.
* * *
Anya was outside. She’d found Alex sitting on the same patch of grass where they had spoken two days earlier. He had barely said a word during the journey, but she could tell Lauren’s death had hit him hard.
‘It will be dark soon,’ Anya said, looking towards the setting sun. Already the temperature was starting to drop.
‘I don’t care.’
Anya sat down beside him. ‘Do you want to talk to me about it?’
‘She was never supposed to be there, Anya,’ he said, his voice heavy with guilt and grief. ‘Why did she come back?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe she thought she could help us. We will never know.’
‘People keep dying around me,’ he said, as if pleading with her to make sense of it. ‘Most of them don’t deserve it, but people like Cain and Hawkins are still here. Where’s the fucking fairness in that?’
Anya felt a deep sense of grief and longing at the mention of Cain’s name, which she struggled to contain. Instead she reached into her pocket and held something out to him. It was a set of dog tags.
Her dog tags.
‘I promised you once this was all over that I would tell you where these came from,’ she said. ‘They belonged to my unit. We were deniable, expendable if we were caught, so we did not wear them in battle as most soldiers do. Instead we left them behind, with people we trusted and cared about. Those people would keep them if anything ever happened to us. And one by one, each set ended up with me. I’m all that’s left now, Alex.’ She sighed and looked up at the darkening sky. ‘There is no luck, no right or wrong, no justice in who lives and who dies. The life we live isn’t fair. All we can do is keep going.’
Alex said nothing. She knew he understood, and that was enough for her now.
There was one person she had yet to speak to.
* * *
Unable to be around the others any longer, Drake was in the basement. He was weary and hurting, but couldn’t bring himself to rest. There was a fire of rage still burning that needed to be quenched.
He slowly circled the heavy bag, waiting for a moment before throwing a succession of left and right hooks, laying into it harder and harder until finally he backed away, breathing hard. He was sweating profusely, his injuries burning and stinging as it soaked in.
He didn’t care. He wanted that pain. He needed it.
* * *
There could be no denying it now. Samantha had been working against them the whole time.
‘No…’ Drake said, looking at the floor to avoid Hawkins’ triumphant smile.
‘Women, huh? Never can trust them,’ Hawkins said. ‘Anyway, now we’ve got that out of the way, you and I have other business to attend to.’
* * *
He went in again, swinging hard, thudding his gloved fists into the bag over and over.
* * *
Hawkins pressed the gun against Mason’s head. Drake’s eyes met them in that final instant, seeing not fear but acceptance. And gratitude.
‘No!’ Frost screamed as Hawkins pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed around the room, drowning out Drake’s cry of grief and agony as his friend slumped to the floor.
* * *
Drake’s breathing was erratic, his punches growing weaker as he hammered at the bag with increasing futility. It swayed and lurched but remained upright as the broken, furious man vented his anger.
‘Your punches are sloppy,’ a voice chastised. ‘I expected better from you.’
Drake felt his body stiffen as Anya descended the stairs. They had said little since their reunion in Berlin, the tension between them gradually intensifying as the day wore on.
Now that they were alone, it was magnified tenfold.
‘I don’t need company,’ he announced.
She stared searchingly. ‘You have been avoiding me, Ryan. Why?’
‘You don’t want to know,’ he said, turning away and laying into the bag again.
She laid a hand on his shoulder and he whirled around, fists clenched. His look of wild anger simmered down quickly, but she’d seen it all the same.
Anya took a step back, as if resigning herself to some unpleasant fact. She turned away, and for a moment Drake thought she was going to leave.
Only when she slipped on a pair of lightly padded gloves did he see what she had in mind. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded.
‘If you won’t talk to me, fine,’ Anya said, tightening the Velcro straps. ‘But you will listen. We have unfinished business, you and I.’
‘Anya, you don’t want to—’
He didn’t get a chance to finish. Anya’s left fist lashed out and landed a stinging blow on the point of his chin, snapping Drake’s head back and almost causing him to lose balance. It was intended to get his attention rather than cause real damage, but the effect was the same.
Anya was hunched over slightly with her gloves up, muscles taut and ready for fighting.
‘You owe me a round, Ryan,’ she said, moving a step closer. ‘Well, I want it. Now!’
‘Don’t try it,’ he warned, though it took every ounce of his willpower to hold his anger in check.
Ignoring his warning, she swung again with a left hook that reopened a cut over his right eye. ‘Fight me, you coward!’ she snarled, laying into his midsection with a series of sharp body shots. ‘Or are you afraid? Afraid of hurting me, or afraid I’ll beat you – like I always have?’
That was it for Drake. Something snapped inside him. As Anya moved to attack again, he leapt in, batted her punch aside like he was swatting a fly, drew back his fist and slammed it into her face. He was wearing padded gloves that softened the blow to a degree, but it was delivered with such ferocity that Anya was knocked to the ground.
‘Is this what you wanted?’ he yelled, standing over her, shaking with fury. ‘Is this enough for you?’
Anya looked at him, blood dripping from her nose.
‘Don’t get up. Stay down. I won’t hold back next time.’
She was skilled in most forms of unarmed combat, but when it came to boxing there could be only one victor. They both knew that, but still Anya rose to her feet.
‘You still don’t understand,’ she said, raising her gloves. ‘I don’t want you to hold back.’
Drake came at her again, drawing back his fist for another haymaker. Ducking aside, Anya lashed out with a right cross that sailed over his guard and caught him with a glancing blow across the cheek. She followed with a pair of hard strikes to the ribs that nearly doubled him over.
* * *
Yasin turned his big, liquid brown eyes towards him. The look in them was heartbreaking. ‘She died for me,’ he said quietly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Lauren. I tried to charge at that man with the gun, tried to distract him. He was going to kill me, but she stepped in his way. She died to protect me.’ He swallowed hard, his voice close to breaking. ‘Why would she do that?’
* * *
‘Is that all you’ve got?’ she demanded. ‘Get up, Ryan! Get up and finish this!’
Ignoring the pain and fatigue, Drake straightened up. They each lashed out with wild, brutal strikes, no longer giving any thought to protection. This was no longer about attack and defence, strategy and counter-strategy: it was a slugging match, pure and simple.
It was just a question of who could take more punishment.
* * *
‘The things we could have done together, Anya,’ he said, his tone one of profound regret. ‘The things we could still do.’ She saw hope rise within him suddenly as he whispered, ‘It’s not too late.’
She could feel it then. The young woman she’d once been: the idealistic, impulsive, vibrant and passionate young woman who had died in that prison in Afghanistan. Anya felt that young woman stirring deep within her once more, felt the s
ame longing, the same desire to be part of something bigger than herself.
To share that future with someone who truly understood her.
* * *
They were both still swinging, but their blows were having less and less effect as fatigue set in.
Drake swung again, landing a clumsy punch to Anya’s shoulder that almost knocked her off her feet. However, slowed by exhaustion and accumulated damage, he was unable to block the counterblow, and white light exploded across his vision as his legs threatened to give way.
But Drake still had a little left, and he laid into her with punch after punch. He could barely raise his arms to throw them, but his pent-up emotions drove him on, and Drake held nothing back.
* * *
Smoke and haze. Silent, faceless men with drawn weapons. Drake was running, stinging smoke and heat rasping his throat. A blood-red sun casting its glow on everything.
A blood red sun, growing stronger and darker. Growing black, absorbing everything, until the world was swallowed up around him.
Screams in the darkness.
* * *
Weakened and hurting and no longer capable of defending herself, Anya finally succumbed and fell to her knees. The fury and adrenaline that had driven Drake this far was leaving him now, and he collapsed beside her as he was swinging his last punch.
Bruised and bloodied, exhausted and broken, the barriers between them were finally gone. Anya clung to him, her head resting against his shoulders, and she did something she hadn’t done for a long time. She cried.
She cried for the young woman who had died because of her, and for the old man who was alive because she couldn’t bring herself to pull the trigger. She cried for the teammates Drake had lost. She cried for everything they had sacrificed, and for everything that might have been.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’
Drake held her tightly, his eyes shining with tears. They sat there clutching each other, their bodies bruised and aching, their emotions spent. There was no need to speak now. It was enough to know that whatever awaited them, they would face it together.
Chapter 70
Washington DC – 25 March 1989
It was a sunny spring day in the capital, only a few white clouds drifting across the clear blue sky. The sun glinted on the Tidal Basin, looking out towards the great white columns of the Lincoln Memorial. A pleasant day to be out walking.
The weather was lost on Cain as he listened to the young woman, forcing himself to hear every word, no matter how difficult it was to accept.
‘I wanted to tell you,’ Anya said once she’d finished. She’d confessed everything: all of it, from the loss of her parents to her recruitment into the KGB, her eventual arrival in America and her induction into Task Force Black. It had all come pouring out. ‘I wanted to, but I was afraid. I knew you would never trust me again.’
Trust, Cain thought bleakly. It seemed that neither of them had lived up to the trust they’d placed in each other. Everything that had seemed so certain and immutable had proven all too easy to destroy.
But if his personal life was in ruins, at least his career had gone from strength to strength. Freya, the mysterious woman he’d encountered just a few months earlier, had made good on her promise to turn his fortunes around. Mere days after Cain accepted her offer, Simmons had announced his resignation as director of Special Activities Division, citing a desire to spend more time with his family.
His regular visits to escorts had had nothing to do with it, apparently. But with the position vacant, Simmons had been good enough to recommend Cain for the role, resulting in his immediate promotion. From a minor case officer on the brink of resigning, Cain became a major player in the Agency.
But as with all good things, his rapid rise came at a cost.
Using a potent mix of bribes and promises, Cain had convinced Vizur Qalat not to reveal the devastating information about Anya’s past, though Cain was motivated as much by protecting his own career as hers. If it ever emerged that he’d allowed a Soviet spy to infiltrate the CIA, everything he’d worked for would be lost.
Cain turned to look at her, standing in the midst of the cherry blossom trees overlooking the Potomac near the Jefferson Memorial. They were in full bloom as the world slowly returned to life after a long winter. Anya, too, had fought her way back from the brink of death after they brought her to a hospital in Pakistan – sick, terribly injured and malnourished.
Over the past few months she had regained weight, recovered most of her once robust health, and even started training again with her former zeal. But she was different now – older, more reserved, more distant. Some wounds never fully healed, some experiences could never be forgotten.
‘And what would you have me do now?’ he asked. ‘Where are we supposed to go from here?’
Anya opened her mouth to reply, but the look of lingering sorrow and accusation in Cain’s eyes stopped her. He didn’t forgive her. Even after everything she’d said, everything she’d told him, he couldn’t move past it. Whatever she’d intended to say, whatever vision of the future she’d still held on to vanished in that moment.
It was over.
She lowered her head, as if acknowledging that their chance had come and gone. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking out across the bay as a breeze stirred the trees and cherry blossoms began to fall. ‘I should have had more faith in you, Marcus. Maybe then you would have shown more in me.’
Cain wanted to respond, but a different voice spoke up. A woman’s voice, with a British accent.
‘But we do have faith in you, Anya,’ Freya said, approaching from the Jefferson Memorial building, where she had been observing the exchange. ‘That’s why I’m here today.’
Anya regarded this new arrival as if she were a deadly enemy. Freya merely smiled that same dazzling, disarming smile that she’d offered Cain several months before.
The smile of a chess player about to take another piece.
‘Who are you?’ Anya demanded, her eyes flicking accusingly to Cain.
‘My name is Freya,’ she said. ‘And I’m the reason you’re not rotting in a prison cell right now. I came because Marcus spoke up on your behalf, said you were someone with great potential, and I’m inclined to agree with him.’
Anya’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Want? I want to give you a chance the Agency never did. A chance to live up to your potential. We’re going to do great things together, Anya.’
* * *
George Washington and Jefferson National Forests – 7 April 2010
Marcus Cain felt like he’d been living in a daze, still coming to terms with everything. Yesterday he’d buried his daughter, and today here he was, sitting by the banks of a river near a small cabin he maintained about a hundred miles west of DC. No guards, no protection, no intrusions.
Langley was still in crisis mode after the bomb blast in Islamabad. A memorial service had already been held for those lost, even before the inquests began.
Naturally, Cain had made sure that his own involvement was untraceable, so the current theory was that Quinn had overstepped his authority by neglecting to search the Pakistani delegation, allowing one rogue ISI agent to smuggle in a bomb.
Still, the loss had played right into the CIA’s hands. Already there were murmurings of a crackdown on dissident elements within the ISI, and a new regime spearheaded by the only senior leader to survive: Vizur Qalat.
Cain heard his private cell phone ping. A message from none other than Qalat himself.
Congratulations, everything going to plan. You will have the information you sought within the week.
Cain felt nothing. No elation, no excitement at the victory that would soon be his. No victory could be worth the price he’d paid.
He heard a car pull up. It wasn’t the kind of big 4 x 4 suitable for the difficult forest roads in the area, but a luxury Lexus sedan, its silver paintwork splattered with mud.
The door opened and Director Wallace emerged, glancing around at the trees and water as if the environment were alien to him. His demeanour lacked its usual brisk aggression, and for once he appeared almost sympathetic.
‘Director,’ Cain said. ‘What brings you out here?’
‘You turned off your work cell, not that I blame you. I came to offer my condolences for your loss,’ he explained. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like, losing a daughter.’
‘I appreciate the sentiment, but I’ll be back at the office next week,’ Cain said, waving it off. Such platitudes meant nothing, and he sensed there was another reason Wallace had driven all the way out here. ‘What can I do for you?’
Wallace looked at the ground before speaking. ‘I was hoping to deal with this discreetly. That’s why I came, to speak alone.’ He paused. ‘We are alone, right?’
‘Nearest hunting cabin is five or six miles that way,’ Cain said, pointing north. ‘What exactly do we need to deal with?’
Wallace wasted no time sugar-coating it for him.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to step down as deputy director, Marcus,’ he said. ‘There’s no need to make a big deal of it. You can step down quietly, citing personal issues. Nobody would question it after what happened to your daughter. You can leave with full honour, but leave you must.’
Cain mounted the river bank, his hands trembling. ‘May I ask why you’re firing me, Director?’
Wallace flinched. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘The truth is, I’m hearing rumours about Islamabad, Marcus. Rumours that you ordered Quinn to set up that meeting. Nothing definitive, but enough to start alarm bells ringing.’
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