Forever Mine

by Anna Zaires

  78

  Sara

  * * *

  He’s careful with me tonight, unusually gentle, and for once, the tenderness is exactly what I want. Ever since this morning, when Peter told me he’s leaving for London, I’ve been paralyzed with fear, so terrified for him that I can scarcely breathe.

  He’s still not fully healed, though he acts as if the wounds don’t matter. Over the past two days, he’s resumed training with Anton and the twins, performing feats of strength and endurance that few uninjured athletes could’ve matched. Despite that, I’m acutely aware that he’s not superhuman—that he can bleed and die from bullets, just like anyone.

  I spoke to Nora after lunch, while Peter was finalizing the logistics with her husband and the others. She was outwardly calm, but I could tell that she was just as worried, that her anxiety ran just as deep. She told me some more details of their plan—about how Kent and Esguerra would be heading up the backup teams, how six dozen of their best-trained guards would be involved in the entire operation. How the men have run through over fifty different simulations, preparing for everything under the sun.

  It should’ve reassured me, but the sucking pit of fear in my stomach has only gotten worse since that conversation, because it impressed on me just how dangerous this whole endeavor is—particularly for Peter and his teammates.

  As most wanted fugitives, they’re heading straight into a lion’s den.

  Closing my eyes, I try not to think about it, to focus only on Peter’s lips trailing sensuously over my back. I’m on my stomach, and he’s kissing every vertebrae on my spine, his calloused palms sliding over my skin with delicious roughness, stroking and massaging me all over. Each touch of his sculpted lips sends tingly warmth spreading through my body, each stroke of his big hands relaxing and arousing at once.

  “You’re so sweet,” he whispers reverently, raining kisses on the dip of my waist, the curve of my ass, the sensitive underside of my buttocks. “So beautiful all over.” His deep, faintly accented voice is like brushed velvet to my ears, adding to the heat building in my veins and the pulsing tension growing in my core.

  His fingers slip between my legs, finding my slick opening, and I moan as he penetrates me with two fingers, stretching me, filling me until I throb with need. I’m already so turned I’m on the verge of coming, and as he curls those fingers inside me, pressing on my G-spot, my body spasms, the release sweeping through me like a warm tidal wave.

  I’m still coming down from the high when he rolls me over and covers me with his muscular body. “I love you,” he murmurs, looking down at me as he holds himself propped up on one elbow. His free palm curves around my jaw, his thumb softly stroking my cheek, and the tenderness in his metallic gaze melts me all the way down to the bone.

  “I love you too,” I whisper back, my chest aching. “And I always will, my darling… no matter what fate throws our way.”

  His pupils dilate, his eyes darkening, and when he leans in to kiss me, there’s a new fierceness in his kiss, a hotter, darker kind of hunger. His hand leaves my face and slips between our bodies, and I feel his cock press against my entrance as he wedges his knees between my legs, parting them wide.

  Lifting his head, he captures my gaze with his and then thrusts in, penetrating me all the way in one smooth stroke. I suck in a breath at the sudden fullness, at the heat and pressure of him so deep inside.

  “Tell me again,” he orders thickly. “I want to hear you say it as I fuck you.”

  “I love you,” I gasp as he withdraws and again plunges deep. “I love you.” He thrusts in again. “I’ll always love you.” My voice sounds more breathless with every stroke. “Forever and ever, for as long as we’re both alive.”

  79

  Peter

  * * *

  All my senses are on high alert as I approach the restaurant where I’m supposed to be meeting Bonnie Henderson. Thanks to the captured sniper’s skill with disguises, I look nothing like myself. My stomach is as round as a barrel, and not only am I freckled with reddish-blond hair, but I’m also sporting a receding hairline and a double chin.

  It’s so extreme of a difference that I don’t recognize myself in the mirror.

  Thirty-six of Esguerra’s men are positioned all around the restaurant, securing a ten-block radius against snipers and law enforcement officials alike. For now, there doesn’t seem to be any unusual activity happening, but that doesn’t mean anything—which is why Kent and Esguerra are camped out nearby, each with a backup team in case Henderson pulls a fast one.

  And I’m fully expecting him to pull a fast one.

  What complicates the situation is that a woman matching Bonnie Henderson’s description was spotted walking into the restaurant fifteen minutes earlier. I highly doubt it’s her—there’s no way Henderson would use his own wife like this—but it does mean I have to get close to the Bonnie lookalike to rule out the small possibility that any of this is for real.

  When I’m directly across from the restaurant, I stop and make sure my concealed weapons are within easy reach.

  I see her in the restaurant immediately. She’s at a small table in the back, facing the door. My disguise works: her gaze slides right past me as I inform the hostess about my reservation using a nasal British accent. They have it ready—Yan’s made sure of that—and I follow the hostess to a table that’s some dozen feet from where my target is sitting.

  I take a seat facing her. Opening the menu, I surreptitiously study her, searching for clues as to her real identity. The damnedest thing is, she looks just like all the pictures and videos of Henderson’s wife that I’ve studied over the years. Every little thing matches—even the fact that she seems older than in all those pictures, her thin face weary and aged. She’s still an attractive woman—I can see why Henderson married her all those years ago—but life on the run has clearly taken its toll.

  Or maybe that’s what Henderson wanted me to think when he got this CIA agent or whoever to stand in for his wife.

  The waiter comes over to my table, and I order an appetizer and a main dish at random as I keep studying my target. It’s still ten minutes before we’re supposed to meet, but the woman seems to be getting antsy, looking at the door, then around the restaurant with increasing nervousness.

  Her gaze touches on me once, but without any particular suspicion.

  The waiter brings me the appetizer, and I make a production out of devouring it with gusto, though I scarcely taste whatever it is. If this “Bonnie,” or whoever else Henderson has planted in the restaurant, is looking for any abnormal behavior, they won’t find it at my table.

  It’s five past noon when she starts getting really nervous. She gets up, as if to leave, then sits down again.

  Not very professional for a CIA agent.

  My main dish comes out, and as I cut into my steak, she gets up, her thin body taut with anxiety. Chewing on her lip, she looks around again, then starts heading for the exit.

  Well, that’s interesting.

  Acting on instinct, I grab her hand as she passes by my table.

  “Bonnie Henderson?” I say, keeping the British accent, and she goes completely stiff, fear twisting her face.

  “Let me go,” she hisses in a low, terrified tone. “I’m not going back to him. Let me go, or I will fucking scream.”

  Even more interesting. “I’m Peter Sokolov,” I say with my normal accent, releasing her bird-like wrist. “You wanted to meet me?”

  She freezes again, gaping at me. “But you…”

  “It’s a disguise,” I say calmly. “Please, sit.”

  She fumbles with the chair across mine, her hands shaking as she pulls it out. If I were a gentleman, I’d get up and help her, but that’s not what I’m here for.

  If this really is Henderson’s wife—and I’m starting to think it might be—she’s going to lead me to her husband one way or another.

  The waiter comes over, curious about the sudden addition to my table, and I ord
er two glasses of wine just to get him to leave. Something strange seems to be happening with Bonnie/whoever.

  Now that she’s sitting across the table from me, she looks calmer and more composed—at least if you ignore the fine trembling of her hands.

  “You emailed me,” I say as soon as the waiter is gone. “Why?”

  She takes a deep breath. “Because I had to. This madness has to end.”

  “I agree.” I smile coldly. “How nice of you to hand yourself over like this.”

  “You misunderstand.” She squeezes her hands into a tight ball on the table, hiding the tremors. “I’m not handing myself over. I’m giving you what you want: my husband.”

  I cock my head. “In exchange for what?”

  She lifts her chin. “For you leaving me and my children alone.”

  Ah. I was beginning to suspect it might be something like that. Still, this doesn’t fully make sense. Why betray her husband and expose herself to such danger?

  “Why would I accept that bargain when I already have you?” I ask curiously. “Unless you think you’re safe because we’re meeting in public?”

  Her throat bobs as she swallows. “I’m not an idiot. I know what you’re capable of.”

  “And yet you’re here. Interesting.”

  “He won’t turn himself over for me.” Her voice shakes slightly. “So you can forget about using me as a bargaining tool. It won’t work any better than with any of the other hostages.”

  So she knows about that. This is getting more intriguing by the second.

  “So what are you proposing?” I ask. “I promise not to kill you and your children, and you lead me to your husband’s hideout?”

  “Yes. Well, not exactly.” She drags in a breath. “I can’t lead you to him outright because I don’t know where he is. He will have fled our last hideout as soon as he learned that I ran off with the kids—in case you found us, you see.”

  “So what are you proposing? And why did you run off?”

  She hesitates, then says quietly, “Do you know how Wally and I met?”

  I try to recall if I’ve come across that information in the huge file I have on Henderson. “No,” I admit after a moment. “I don’t.”

  Her lips press together. “I thought so. No one really knows about that. Wally likes to tell people we met at a bar, but that’s not the case. I mean, we got together at a bar, but we met earlier—when I was a brand-new trainee at the agency, and he was its star operative… and my teacher.”

  I conceal my surprise. I might’ve initially thought her an agent playing the part of Henderson’s wife, but I did not expect Henderson’s actual wife to be CIA.

  She’s way too convincing as a nervous socialite.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not an agent,” she says quickly, as if afraid I’m going to shoot her for that revelation. “I dropped out of the training program after Wally got me pregnant. I ended up miscarrying that child, but I never went back. You see, Wally and I got married, and he left the agency shortly after, wanting to pursue a career in the military so he could have a more stable family life—which meant I had to stay home with the children.”

  I lift my eyebrows. “And you’re telling me all this why?”

  “Because I want you to understand why I’m here.” Her hands are clenched so tightly together, her knuckles are white. “I joined the agency because I’m a patriot, Mr. Sokolov. Because I wanted to protect our country from threats both foreign and domestic… from terrorists who’d blow up a building just because.”

  The puzzle pieces finally click together. “When did you find out?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.

  “That Wally was behind the FBI bombing in Chicago? A few days ago—at the same time as I learned that he let all our friends and relatives die rather than give in to your demands.” She sounds almost calm as she says this, but I can see what it’s costing her.

  However she came across that information, it must’ve been a painful shock.

  “When I first spoke to you, you thought I was someone your husband sent,” I say, examining her curiously. “I assume that means he’s been looking for you. How is it that he didn’t find you already, with all of his connections?”

  Her face tightens. “I have connections of my own, Mr. Sokolov. My husband has never understood that. He thinks his success is due to his own brilliance, but I’ve been at his side all along, smoothing the way, making friends with all the right people, schmoozing with their wives at all the right—” She stops, as if realizing how pointless these bitter recollections are. “In any case,” she continues, “I’ve been preparing for the past two years, just in case I ended up as a widow with you on our tail. I had documents for myself and the kids, money, everything required to disappear… But then this happened.”

  “And you used your emergency stash to run from your husband instead.”

  Her mouth thins. “Right. So tell me, Mr. Sokolov, do we have a bargain? If I deliver my husband to you, will you let us be?”

  I cock my head. “You just said you don’t know where he is.”

  “I don’t—but I know what he values more than anything in the world.”

  “And that is?”

  She gives me a level look. “Our daughter. Amber. She’s the only he really loves.”

  I have to hide my surprise again. Is this woman actually considering giving us her teenage daughter as a hostage?

  Is she fucking insane?

  “All right,” I say slowly. “That does sound like a good plan—and yes, if we succeed in luring him out with your daughter, I will leave you and your children alone.” And I mean it, too. I was never after Henderson’s family; it’s his head on a spike that I want.

  “In that case, here you go.” She takes out a phone and pushes it across the table toward me. “This is all you should need for now, but there’s more where that came from—as long as you let me leave here today.”

  I press “play” on the video on the screen, and a minute in, I realize Henderson’s wife is not insane—and that while she’s left the agency, the agency’s never left her.

  80

  Henderson

  * * *

  I’m going over the logistics for Operation Air Drop when a notification pops up on my screen. It’s an email from my CIA contact.

  Sorry, it reads.

  Everything inside me turns to ice as I see the text and the video attachment it’s forwarding.

  Feeling like I’m about to vomit, I press “play.”

  My daughter’s dirty, tear-streaked face fills the screen. “Daddy,” she sobs as the camera zooms out, showing her tied to a chair in a nondescript room with white walls. “Daddy, please help me. They said they will kill us. Please, Daddy, help!”

  The video cuts out, leaving me wheezing for air.

  Sokolov has her. He has all of them.

  It’s now a fact.

  Shaking, I read the forwarded text.

  You know what I want, it says. London docks, 3pm Thursday. Be there or watch her die.

  I expected this, knew it had to be coming, but it still hits me like a knife to the gut.

  Amber. My sweet, darling daughter.

  That monster will kill her. He won’t spare her, even if I do what he says.

  There’s no more time to plan the logistics, no chance to work out the kinks.

  Operation Airdrop can’t wait until Saturday.

  It has to happen tonight.

  81

  Sara

  * * *

  I pace around the Esguerras’ dining room, anxiety drilling a hole in my chest. Nora and Yulia are both here, as is the young guard, Diego. He’s receiving live updates about the ongoing operation through his headphones, so I know that Peter has just entered the restaurant, braving the likely trap.

  “He’s talking to her now,” Diego says, glancing up from his laptop screen after twenty agonizing minutes, and I rush over to see a blurry image of a man who looks nothing like Peter sitting across a table from
a thin woman.

  “This is from a long-range camera,” Diego explains. “We don’t want to spook them by getting too close.”

  “But all is still quiet?” Yulia asks, leaning over his shoulder, and he nods.

  “Henderson’s spooks are either supernaturally good—or there’s no one around.”

  I look over at Nora. Unlike Yulia and me, she’s sitting still, not asking questions. If not for her death grip on Lizzie’s stroller, I’d think she’s taking all this in stride.

  Turning my attention back to the screen, I see that disguised Peter and the woman are still talking.

  “Don’t worry,” Yulia says to me quietly. “If anyone in the restaurant so much as sneezes wrong, our snipers will get them.”

  “Yes, I know.” I smile wryly. “It’s amazing how reassuring having snipers can be.”

  She grins back, and we share a moment. When I glance over at Nora, however, she’s not looking at either of us.

  Of course. With all this, I’d forgotten she’s on the outs with Yulia.

  I wonder if she resents the fact that I’m not.

  “He’s coming out of the restaurant,” Diego says suddenly, and my head whips back to the screen.

  Sure enough, Peter’s already on the street.

  Diego falls silent, listening intently to whatever information the London team’s relaying to him, and as I watch a big smile creep across his face, my knees go weak with relief.

  The email was from Henderson’s wife.

  Peter and the others are safe.

  “Do you think it could still be a trap?” I ask Nora as we’re swimming in her Olympic-sized pool an hour later. With the immediate crisis over, Yulia has gone back to her room, tactfully sparing Nora her presence, so it’s just the two of us by the mansion’s gorgeous lanai.

  Well, and Rosa with Lizzie, but they’re both napping in the shade.