“Yes, Dr. Cobakis,” a male voice answers, and I flinch instinctively, my pulse jumping before I recognize the voice. “But you’re safe now. It’s over. This is a private facility where we treat our agents; you’re safe here.”
Carefully turning my aching head, I gaze at Agent Ryson, and my stomach hollows at the expression on his pale, weathered face. Bits and pieces of my ordeal are filtering in, and with the memories comes a surge of terror.
“George, is he—”
“I’m sorry.” The creases in Ryson’s forehead deepen. “There was an attack on the safe house last night as well. George… He didn’t make it. Neither did the three guards.”
“What?” It’s as if a scalpel punctured my lungs. I can’t take in his words, can’t process the enormity of them. “He’s… he’s gone?” Then the rest of his statement sinks in. “And the three guards? What… how—”
“Dr. Cobakis—Sara.” Ryson steps closer. “I need to know exactly what happened last night, so we can apprehend him.”
“Him? Who’s him?” It’s always been them, the mafia, and I’m too dazed for the sudden change in pronoun. George is gone. George and three guards. I can’t wrap my mind around that, so I don’t try. Not yet, at least. Before I let the grief and pain in, I need to recover more of those memories, piece together the horrifying puzzle.
“She might not remember. The cocktail in her blood was pretty potent,” the nurse says, and I realize she must be with Agent Ryson. That would explain why he’s speaking so freely in front of her when he’s usually discreet to the point of paranoia.
As I process that, the woman steps closer. I’m hooked up to a vital signs monitor, and she checks the blood pressure cuff around my arm, then gives my forearm a light squeeze. I look at my arm, and a cold fist grips my chest when I see a thin red line around my wrist. The other wrist has it too.
Zip tie. The recollection comes to me with sudden clarity. There was a zip tie around my wrists.
“He waterboarded me. When I wouldn’t tell him where George was, he stuck a needle in my neck.”
I don’t realize I spoke out loud until I see the horror on the nurse’s face. Agent Ryson’s expression is more restrained, but I can tell I shocked him too.
“I’m so sorry about that.” His voice is tight. “We should’ve foreseen this, but he hadn’t gone after the families of the others, and you didn’t want to move away… Still, we should’ve known he wouldn’t stop at anything—”
“What others? Who is he?” My voice rises as more memories assault my mind. Knife at my throat, wet cloth over my face, needle in my neck, can’t breathe, can’t breathe…
“Karen, she’s having a panic attack! Do something.” Ryson’s voice is frantic as the monitors start to beep. I’m hyperventilating and shaking, yet I somehow find the strength to glance at those monitors. My blood pressure is spiking, and my pulse is dangerously fast, but seeing those numbers steadies me. I’m a doctor. This is my environment, my comfort zone.
I can do this. Suck in air. Let it out. I’m not weak. Suck in air. Let it out.
“That’s good, Sara. Just breathe.” Karen’s voice is soft and soothing as she strokes my arm. “You’re getting the hang of it. Just take another deep breath. There you go. Good job. Now another. And one more…”
I follow her gentle instructions as I watch the numbers on the monitors, and slowly, the suffocating sensation recedes and my vitals normalize. More dark memories are edging in, but I’m not ready to face them yet, so I shove them aside, slam a mental door on them as tightly as I can.
“Who is he?” I ask when I can speak again. “What do you mean by ‘the others?’ George wrote that article by himself. Why is the mafia after someone else?”
Agent Ryson exchanges looks with Karen, then turns to me. “Dr. Cobakis, I’m afraid we weren’t entirely truthful with you. We didn’t disclose the real situation to protect you, but clearly, we failed in that.” He takes a breath. “It wasn’t the local mafia who was after your husband. It was an international fugitive, a dangerous criminal your husband encountered on an assignment abroad.”
“What?” My head throbs painfully, the revelations almost too much to take in. George started off as a foreign correspondent, but in the last five years, he’d been taking on more and more domestic stories. I’d wondered about that, given his passion for foreign affairs, but when I asked, he told me he wanted to spend more time home with me, and I let it drop.
“This man, he has a list of people who have crossed him—or who he thinks have crossed him,” Ryson says. “I’m afraid George was on that list. The exact circumstances around that and the identity of the fugitive are classified, but given what happened, you deserve to know the truth—at least as much of it as I’m allowed to disclose.”
I stare at him. “It was one man? A fugitive?” A face pops into my mind, a harshly beautiful male face. It’s hazy, like an image from a dream, but somehow I know it’s him, the man who invaded my home and did those terrible things to me.
Ryson nods. “Yes. He’s highly trained and has vast resources, which is why he’s been able to stay ahead of us for so long. He has connections everywhere, from Eastern Europe to South America to the Middle East. When we learned that your husband’s name was on his list, we took George to the safe house, and we should’ve done the same with you. We just thought that—” He stops and shakes his head. “I suppose it doesn’t matter what we thought. We underestimated him, and now four men are dead.”
Dead. Four men are dead. It hits me then, the knowledge that George is gone. I hadn’t registered it before, not really. My eyes begin to burn, and my chest feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise. In a burst of clarity, the puzzle pieces click into place.
“It’s me, isn’t it?” I sit up, ignoring the wave of dizziness and pain. “I did this. I somehow gave away the safe house location.”
Ryson exchanges another look with the nurse, and my heart drops. They’re not answering my question, but their body language speaks volumes.
I’m responsible for George’s death. For all four deaths.
“It’s not your fault, Dr. Cobakis.” Karen touches my arm again, her brown eyes filled with sympathy. “The drug he gave you would’ve broken anyone. Are you familiar with sodium thiopental?”
“The barbiturate anesthetic?” I blink at her. “Of course. It was widely used to induce anesthesia until propofol became the standard. What does—oh.”
“Yes,” Agent Ryson says. “I see you know about its other use. It’s rarely utilized that way, at least outside the intelligence community, but it’s quite effective as a truth serum. Lowers the higher cortical brain functions and makes the subjects chatty and cooperative. And this was a designer version, thiopental mixed with compounds we haven’t seen before.”
“He drugged me to make me talk?” My stomach churns with bile. This explains the headache and the brain fog, and the knowledge that this was done to me—that I was violated like that—makes me want to scrub inside my skull with bleach. That man didn’t just invade my home; he invaded my mind, broke into it like a thief.
“That’s our best guess, yes,” Ryson says. “You had a lot of this drug in your system when our agents found you tied up in your living room. There was also blood on your neck and thighs, and they initially thought that—”
“Blood on my thighs?” I brace myself for a new horror. “Did he—”
“No, don’t worry, he didn’t hurt you that way,” Karen says, shooting Ryson a dark look. “We did a full-body examination when you were brought in, and it was your menstrual blood, nothing more. There were no signs of sexual trauma. Other than a few bruises and the shallow cuts on your neck, you’re fine—or you will be, once the drugs wear off.”
Fine. Hysterical laughter bubbles up my throat, and it takes all my strength not to let it escape. My husband and three other men are dead because of me. My home was broken into; my mind was broken into. And she thinks I’m going to be fine?
&nbs
p; “Why did you make up that lie about the mafia?” I ask, struggling to contain the expanding ball of pain in my chest. “How would that protect me?”
“Because in the past, this fugitive hadn’t gone after the innocent—the wives and children of the people on his list who weren’t involved in any way,” Ryson says. “But he did kill one man’s sister because that man confided in her and involved her in the cover-up. The less you knew, the safer you were, especially since you didn’t want to relocate and disappear alongside your husband.”
“Ryson, please,” Karen says sharply, but it’s too late. I’m already reeling from this new blow. Even if I could be forgiven for my drug-induced blabbing, my refusal to leave is solely on me. I’d been selfish, thinking of my parents and my career instead of the danger I could pose to my husband. I believed my safety was on the line, not his, but that’s no excuse.
George’s death is on my conscience, just as much as the accident that damaged his brain.
“Did he—” I swallow thickly. “Did he suffer? I mean… how did it happen?”
“A bullet to the head,” Ryson answers in a subdued tone. “Same as the three men guarding him. I think it happened too quickly for any of them to suffer.”
“Oh God.” My stomach heaves with sudden violence, and vomit rushes up my throat.
Karen must’ve seen my face leach of color, because she acts fast, grabbing a metal tray off a nearby table and shoving it in my hands. It’s just in time too, because the contents of my stomach spill out, the acid burning my esophagus as I hold the tray with shaking hands.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. Here, let’s get you cleaned up.” Karen is all brisk efficiency, just like a real nurse. Whatever her role with the FBI is, she knows what to do in a medical setting. “Come, let me help you to the bathroom. You’ll feel better in a second.”
Setting the tray on the bedside table, she loops an arm around my back to help me off the bed and leads me to the bathroom. My legs are shaking so hard I can barely walk; if it weren’t for her support, I wouldn’t have made it.
Still, I need a moment of privacy, so I tell Karen, “Can you please step out for a moment? I’m okay for now.”
I must sound convincing enough because Karen says, “I’ll be right outside if you need me,” and closes the door behind her.
I’m sweating and shaking, but I manage to rinse out my mouth and brush my teeth. Then I take care of other urgent business, wash my hands, and splash cold water on my face. By the time Karen knocks on the door, I’m feeling a tiny bit more human.
I’m also keeping my mind blank. If I think about the way George and the others died, I’ll throw up again. I’ve seen a number of gunshot wounds during my residency stint in the ER, and I know the devastating damage bullets inflict.
Don’t think about it. Not yet.
“Have my parents been notified?” I ask after Karen helps me return to the bed. She’s already removed the tray, and Agent Ryson is sitting in a chair next to the bed, his craggy face lined with weary tension.
“No,” Karen says softly. “Not yet. We wanted to discuss that with you, actually.”
I look at her, then at Ryson. “Discuss what?”
“Dr. Cobakis—Sara—we think it might be best if the exact circumstances of your husband’s demise, as well as the attack on you, were kept confidential,” Ryson says. “It would save you a lot of unpleasant media attention, as well as—”
“You mean, it would save you a lot of unpleasant media attention.” A spurt of anger chases away some of the haze in my mind. “That’s why I’m here, instead of a regular hospital. You want to cover this up, pretend it never happened.”
“We want to keep you safe and help you move past this,” Karen says, her brown gaze earnest on my face. “Nothing good can come of blasting this story to all the papers. What happened was a terrible tragedy, but your husband was already on life support. You know better than anyone that it was only a matter of time before—”
“What about the other three men?” I cut in sharply. “Were they on life support too?”
“They died in the line of duty,” Ryson says. “Their families have already been informed, so you don’t have to worry about that. With George, you were his only family, so…”
“So now I’ve been informed too.” My mouth twists. “Your conscience is appeased, and now it’s cleanup time. Or should I say ‘cover your ass’ time?”
His face tightens. “This is still largely classified, Dr. Cobakis. If you go to the media, you’ll be stirring up a hornet’s nest, and trust me, you don’t want that. Neither would your husband, if he were alive. He didn’t want anyone to know about this matter, not even you.”
“What?” I stare at the agent. “George knew? But—”
“He didn’t know he was on the list, and neither did we,” Karen says, laying her hand on the back of Ryson’s chair. “We learned about that after the accident, and at that point, we did what we could to protect him.”
My head is throbbing, but I push the pain away and try to concentrate on what they’re telling me. “I don’t understand. What happened on that assignment abroad? How did George get involved with this fugitive? And when?”
“That’s the classified part,” Ryson says. “I’m sorry, but it’s really best if you leave it alone. We’re searching for your husband’s killer now, and we’re trying to protect the remaining people on his list. Given his resources, that’s not an easy task. If the media is on our heels, we won’t be able to do our job as effectively, and more people may die. Do you understand what I’m saying, Dr. Cobakis? For your safety, and that of other people, you have to let it drop.”
I tense, recalling what the agent said about the others. “How many has he already killed?”
“Too many, I’m afraid,” Karen says somberly. “We didn’t find out about the list until he got to several people in Europe, and by the time we were able to put the proper safeguards in place, there were only a few individuals left.”
I draw in a shaky breath, my head spinning. I’d known what George did as a foreign correspondent, of course, and I’d read many of his articles and exposés, but those stories hadn’t felt entirely real to me. Even when Agent Ryson approached me nine months ago about the supposed mafia threat to George’s life, the fear I experienced was more academic than visceral. Outside of George’s accident and the painful years leading up to it, I’d led a charmed life, one filled with the typical suburban concerns about school, work, and family. International fugitives who torture and kill people on some mysterious list are so far outside my realm of experience I feel like I’ve been dropped into someone else’s life.
“We know it’s a lot to take in,” Karen says gently, and I realize some of what I’m feeling must be written on my face. “You’re still in shock from the attack, and to learn about all this on top of that…” She inhales. “If you need someone to talk to, I know a good therapist who’s worked with soldiers with PTSD and such.”
“No, I…” I want to refuse, tell her I don’t need anyone, but I can’t make my mouth form the lie. The ball of pain inside my chest is choking me from within, and despite my mental wall, more horrible memories are filtering in, flashes of darkness and helplessness and terror.
“I’ll just leave you his card,” Karen says, stepping up to the bed, and I see her give the beeping monitors a worried glance. I don’t need to look at them to know that my heart rate is spiking again, my body going into an unnecessary fight-or-flight mode.
My lizard brain doesn’t know that the memories can’t hurt me, that the worst has already happened. Unless—
“Will I have to disappear?” I gasp out through a tightening throat. “Do you think he’ll—”
“No,” Ryson says, immediately understanding my fear. “He won’t come for you again. He got what he wanted from you; there’s no reason for him to return. If you’d like, we can still look into relocating you, but—”
“Shut it, Ryson. Can’t you see she’s hy
perventilating?” Karen says sharply, gripping my arm. “Breathe, Sara,” she tells me in a soothing tone. “Come on, honey, just take that deep breath. And one more. There you go…”
I follow along with her voice until my heart rate steadies again, and the worst of the memories are locked behind the mental wall. I’m still trembling, however, so Karen wraps a blanket around me and sits next to me on the bed, hugging me tight.
“It’ll be okay, Sara,” she murmurs as the pain overflows and I begin to cry, the tears like streaks of lava on my cheeks. “It’s over. You’ll be okay. He’s gone, and he will never hurt you again.”
Chapter 5
Peter
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
The priest’s droning voice reaches my ears, and I tune him out as I scan the crowd of mourners. There are over two hundred people here, all wearing dark clothes and somber expressions. Under the sea of black umbrellas, many eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, and some women are audibly crying.
George Cobakis was popular during his lifetime.
The thought should anger me, but it doesn’t. I don’t feel anything when I think of him, not even the satisfaction that he’s dead. The rage that’s consumed me for years has quieted for the moment, leaving me strangely empty.
I stand at the back of the crowd, my black coat and umbrella like those of the other mourners. A light brown wig and a thin mustache disguise my appearance, as do my slouched posture and the flat pillow padding my midsection.
I don’t know why I’m here. I’ve never attended any of the funerals before. Once a name is crossed off my list, my team and I move on to the next one, coldly and methodically. I’m a wanted man; it makes no sense to linger here, in this little suburban town, yet I can’t make myself leave.
Not without seeing her again.
My gaze travels from person to person, searching for a slender figure, and finally I see her, all the way at the front as befits the wife of the deceased. She’s standing next to an elderly couple, holding a big umbrella over the three of them, and even in a crowd, she manages to look remote, somehow distant from everyone.
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