by Anna Zaires
“They’re good,” Misha says. “Same, you know.” His expression turns somber as he adds, “Mom’s been grieving for Uncle Vasya, but Dad said she’s doing better now. They’ve always known that his job was dangerous, so what happened wasn’t a huge surprise. It helped that Lucas contacted them back then and told them I’m okay.”
“Right.” Lucas’s message explained that I, Misha’s long-lost sister, had come out of a long-term undercover assignment to take Misha someplace safe for a while. “So what did they say about that?”
“Well, they had a million questions, as you would expect, but for the most part, they were just relieved I’m returning home and”—he gives me a slightly bashful look—“going back to school.”
I smile, more than a little relieved myself. It seems that the recent events have cooled some of my brother’s enthusiasm for nontraditional career paths—at least for a while. “Will you have to take any extra classes to catch up?” I ask. It’s already October, so Misha has missed at least a few weeks of ninth grade.
“No, I don’t think so,” he says, chowing down on the risotto. “We covered most of the subjects taught in school during UUR training.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right.” I’d almost forgotten that the reason why I’d been able to start college at sixteen was because the curriculum for trainees had included math, science, history, and language studies at levels far beyond those taught to kids that age. “So you’re more than caught up.”
Misha nods, reaching for a cup of water next to his plate. “Yeah, I should be fine.” He gulps down the water, and I study him, noticing again the leaner, harder lines of his face. With every day that passes, my baby brother grows up a little more, maturing right in front of my eyes. Soon, he won’t be a boy at all, just like he’s no longer the toddler of my memories.
My throat grows tight as I think again about him leaving. “I’m going to miss you,” I say, trying not to sound as choked up as I feel. “A lot.”
Misha puts down his cup. “I’ll miss you too, Yulia.” His expression is even more somber than before. “You’ll come to visit, though, won’t you?”
“Of course.” Unable to sit still, I get up, swallowing the tears stinging the back of my throat. “We’ll be just a three-hour flight away. Practically next door.” At least when we’re not traveling all over Europe, Asia, and the Middle East, as Lucas warned me we will have to. Pushing that knowledge aside, I say with forced brightness, “And you’ll come visit us. During summers, school holidays, and such.”
“Yeah, that’s going to be great.” Finishing his plate, Misha gets up too. “I’ll be the envy of all my friends, vacationing in Cyprus like that.”
“That’s right.” I smile, though all I want to do is cry. “You’ll be the most popular boy in school.”
“Oh, I was anyway,” he says with a total lack of modesty. “So it’s all good.”
I laugh and walk around the table to hug him. He lets me, and even hugs me back, his sinewy arms sturdy and strong. When I pull away and look at him, I realize my baby brother has grown another couple of inches in the last month and get all choked up again.
“Oh, come on,” Misha mutters as the tears I’ve been holding back spill out. Pulling me into another hug, he pats my back awkwardly. “Don’t cry. Come on, it’s going to be fine. We’ll see each other often, and we’ll email and Skype…”
“I know.” I pull away and smile at Misha, wiping the wetness on my cheeks with the back of my hand. “It’s just that I keep remembering how little you were, and now you’re growing up so fast, changing into this young man…” I sniffle. “I’m sorry. I’m just being silly.”
“Well, you are a girl,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “You’re allowed, I guess.”
I burst out laughing at that chauvinistic statement, and for the rest of the meal, we don’t discuss the separation again.
* * *
On the afternoon before our departure, I throw a big party in Lucas’s back yard, inviting all of my cafe’s customers and anyone else who wants to come. Using the remaining food supplies, I make a variety of hors d’oeuvres and, with Lucas, Eduardo, and Diego’s help, set up a couple of barbecue stations where I grill steaks, burgers, and lamb chops. Manning the grills is hot, sweaty work, but I feel elated as guard after guard comes up to me to say goodbye and express his gratitude for the gourmet meals.
“We’re going to miss you here,” one of the guards says gruffly. “Seriously, your cafe was the best food I’ve eaten.”
“Thank you.” I beam at him, then turn to smile at another guard who says something similar to me in Spanish. Most of these men are ex-soldiers of some kind, tough, scarred killers armed to the teeth, and to have them thank me like this touches me tremendously.
Of course, most guards here today are new recruits or those who didn’t have friends among the victims of the crash, but I don’t let that bother me. I know I’ll never be fully accepted at Esguerra’s estate—that’s why we’re leaving, after all—and to have so many people express regret at my departure is a gift beyond anything I could’ve expected.
“You’re one lucky son of a bitch,” a red-haired guard says to Lucas as I put a piece of medium-rare steak on his plate. “Seriously, man. Your girl’s the best.”
“I know,” Lucas says and wraps a possessive arm around my waist. “Now move along, O’Malley. You’re holding up the line.”
After all the barbecue is eaten and the last of the hors d’oeuvres disappear off the plates, the party starts to wind down. Lucas leaves to get on yet another call with new suppliers, and Diego, Eduardo, and Misha carry the empty platters inside and collect all the trash. Exhausted, I go in to wash my hands, and when I come out, I see that all the guards are gone. Only one person is standing in the middle of Lucas’s yard, her curvy figure clad in her usual black dress.
Stunned, I stare at the maid who helped me escape. “Rosa? What are you doing here?”
She casts a nervous glance at the house, where Misha and the two guards are still cleaning up, then says hesitantly, “Do you have a moment? I was hoping to talk to you alone.”
I automatically scan her for weapons. Finding nothing suspicious, I say, “Okay, sure. Want to take a little walk?”
She nods and disappears into the trees. I follow, both curious and uneasy. I’m fairly certain she won’t physically attack me, but I don’t know what she’s after and that makes me nervous. At the same time, I recall what Lucas told me about the events in Chicago, and sympathy tempers my wariness.
I may not know Rosa’s motivations, but I certainly understand what she’s been through.
When I catch up to Rosa, she stops and turns to face me. “Yulia, I…” She takes a breath. “I wanted to thank you for what you told Lucas. Nora said she spoke to you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d do it or not.”
“Well, Nora didn’t leave me much choice,” I say drily, recalling the petite girl’s graphic threat. “But you’re welcome. I assume you and Nora are both okay?”
Rosa nods, flushing. “Yes. I was under house arrest for a while, and I don’t have access to those keys anymore, but Señor Esguerra reinstated my position in the main house a few weeks ago.”
I smile, genuinely happy on her behalf. “Good, I’m glad. And I guess I should thank you for helping me that time. It was very nice of you—”
To my surprise, Rosa shakes her head. “It wasn’t nice,” she mutters. “It was stupid. I was stupid.”
The smile dies on my lips. “What do you mean?”
Rosa’s face is now dark red. “I had a crush on Lucas, and I thought that if you were gone…” Her hands twist in her skirt. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was just that I wanted to believe that he was different. But then he was keeping you like that and—” She stops, pressing her lips together.
“And it was ruining the image you had of him,” I say, finally beginning to understand. “You thought that if you let me go, you’d be doing somethi
ng good while increasing your chances with the man you want.” Seeing the stricken look on her face, I stop, then say gently, “Except he’s not really the man you want, is he?”
“No.” Her brown eyes darken. “He’s not. He never was. I made up the man I wanted, and I pinned him on the nearest handsome face.”
“Oh, Rosa…” Giving in to a sudden impulse, I step forward and give her hand a comforting squeeze. “Listen to me,” I say softly. “You’re going to find the right person for you, and he might not be whom you imagined, but you’ll want him anyway, flaws and all. It won’t be perfect, but it will be real, and you’ll know it—you’ll feel it. You’ll both feel it.”
She swallows thickly and pulls her hand away. “Is that what it’s like for you and Lucas?”
“Yes,” I say, and the truth of that sears through me. “It’s not tender and pretty like I thought it would be. Some might even say it’s ugly. But it’s us. It’s our reality, our version of perfect. And you will also have that one day—your own version of perfect. It might not be what you expect, or with whom you expect, but it will make you happy.”
The girl’s lips tremble for a second; then her face goes blank and she steps back. “You should go,” she says, her hands once again playing with the skirt of her dress. “They’ll be looking for you if you don’t return soon.”
“Right.”
I’m about to turn and go back when Rosa says quietly, “Goodbye, Yulia. I wish you and Lucas all the best. I really do.”
“Thank you—and the same to you,” I say, but Rosa is already walking away, her black-clad figure melting into the greenery of the rainforest and disappearing out of sight.
47
Lucas
I expected Yulia and her brother to sleep on our flight to Ukraine, but they spend the entire time talking. Whenever I stick my head out of the pilot’s cabin to check on them, they’re deep in conversation, and I go back, not wanting to intrude on their sibling time.
I’ll have Yulia to myself soon enough.
When we approach Ukrainian airspace, I make contact with our men on the ground. Last week, they finally tracked down the last three known UUR associates and eliminated them as per my orders. To my disappointment, none of them were harboring Kirill, which means Yulia’s former trainer is either completely off the grid or, as Yulia thought, the fucker ended up expiring from his injuries and we just haven’t found his body. The latter possibility brings me little joy—I wanted to kill the bastard with my own hands—but it’s better than the alternative. The men also tracked down the headmistress of Yulia’s orphanage. The woman was already in jail for child abuse and trafficking, so I had to settle for sending in an assassin who cornered her in a bathroom and demonstrated just how much her victims suffered. The video of her death—all three hours of it—was the highlight of my Wednesday last week. Someday, I might show it to Yulia, but for now, I’ve decided not to, to avoid bringing back bad memories for her.
“You’ve been cleared to land,” Thomas reports when I get him on the phone. I smile, satisfied that the bribe campaign we’ve been conducting is proving so effective. Despite the bloody war we’ve waged against UUR, most of Ukrainian bureaucrats are more than willing to look the other way—especially since Yulia’s former agency was strictly off the books.
Nobody cares about a few officially nonexistent spies when fat checks are in play.
When we land at the private airport, there’s an armored SUV waiting for us, and we go straight to Michael’s parents’ place. Thomas and two other guards ride along, while a dozen more of our men follow in other cars. I’m not expecting any trouble, but it’s always good to be cautious when in hostile territory.
Bribes or not, Ukraine has little love for anyone connected to the Esguerra organization.
“Are you sure my brother will be safe?” Yulia asked me last night, and I assured her that thanks to our hacking and subsequent destruction of UUR’s files, it’s all but impossible to connect the adoptive son of two civilians to her, and by extension, to me and Esguerra. Just in case, though, I personally hired two bodyguards to watch over Michael and his family over the next few months. I don’t think he’s in danger, but I know how much the kid means to Yulia. And, to be honest, he’s grown on me too. Yulia would probably be upset to hear this, but there’s something about Michael that reminds me of myself at that age.
Vasiliy Obenko hadn’t been entirely wrong to recruit him; the boy would’ve made an excellent agent had he completed his training.
On the ride from the airport, Yulia and Michael are both silent, and I know they’re thinking of the upcoming separation. Theoretically, I could’ve hired more men to ensure Michael’s safety and let him go home earlier, but I wanted to give Yulia more time with her brother, and I’m glad I did. The boy has come a long way from the defiant, sullen teenager who’d been fed lies about his sister. The two siblings are now as close as any I’ve seen, and I know that makes Yulia happy—which makes me happy in return.
If I could turn back the clock and wipe away all the pain in her past, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But since I can’t, I have to settle for making sure she never has to suffer again.
She’s mine, and I’m going to take care of her for the rest of our lives.
* * *
Michael’s parents live on the fifth floor of an apartment building on the outskirts of Kiev. The two bodyguards I hired greet us at the entrance to the building and report that all is quiet. I thank them and give them the rest of the day off before instructing Thomas and the others to wait downstairs. There’s no elevator, so Yulia, Michael, and I take the stairs.
Yulia walks a couple of steps ahead of me. She’s wearing flat boots and stylish skinny jeans—both are her recent online purchases—and I can’t tear my eyes away from her shapely ass, which flexes with every step she climbs.
“Dude, keep a lid on it for at least a few more minutes,” Michael mutters, climbing the stairs next to me, and I shoot him a grin, not the least bit embarrassed that he caught me lusting after his sister.
“Why?” I reply in a low voice. “Your sister is hot. You didn’t know that?”
“Ugh.” He grimaces in disgust, and Yulia gives us a suspicious look over her shoulder.
“What are you guys talking about?” she asks as we clear the third-floor landing.
“Nothing,” Misha says quickly, his face turning red. “Just guy stuff.”
“Uh-huh.” She gives us an exasperated look but doesn’t press further, and we clear the remaining two flights in silence. I’m glad we don’t run into any neighbors, because I have my M16 with me.
After what happened in Chicago, I don’t go anywhere without a weapon.
When we reach the fifth floor, Yulia stops in front of apartment 5A and rings the doorbell.
My first hint that something is wrong is the white face of the trim, dark-haired woman who opens the door. It’s Natalia Rudenko, Michael’s adoptive mother—I recognize her hazel eyes from the surveillance photos. Instead of smiling and stepping forward to embrace her son, she swings the door wide and steps back, her lipsticked mouth trembling.
Instantly, I see why.
Wrapped around her stomach and partially concealed by the apron she’s wearing is a tangle of wires and a black box with a blinking light.
“Mama?” Michael says uncertainly, stepping forward, and I instinctively grab his arm, yanking him back as I step in front of Yulia, shielding her from the bomb. My pulse jumps with a blast of adrenaline, terror and rage swamping me in a toxic shockwave.
Yulia, Misha, and a bomb.
Motherfucking fuck.
“It’s okay, let the boy in,” an accented male voice drawls in English. “He’s not any safer out there than in here. There’s enough to blow this whole building.”
I don’t move, though every instinct screams for me to rush in and attack, to protect Yulia and her brother. Only the knowledge that doing so means certain death for them keeps me still.
Cal
ling upon all my years of battle experience, I block out the hammering beat of fear and assess the situation.
In addition to the woman, there are two men standing in the hallway. One of them, a portly, middle-aged man, is wired the same way as Michael’s mother. I recognize his terrified face too. It’s Viktor Rudenko, Michael’s adoptive father. But he’s not the one who holds my attention.
It’s the massively built man standing behind him, his thin lips curled in a snarl of a smile.
Kirill Ivanovich Luchenko, the man we’ve been hunting.
He found us instead.
48
Yulia
I’ve never known terror this intense, this all-consuming. Lucas is a human wall in front of me, but I can see around his powerful body, and the surreal tableau makes my stomach drop to my feet.
Kirill is standing in the brightly lit hallway behind Misha’s parents, who are wrapped in tangled wires. There’s a gun in his right hand, and in his left, he’s clutching something small and black.
A detonator, I realize with nauseating panic.
He’s got his thumb on the detonator.
“Come on in,” he says in English, looking at Lucas and Misha before focusing on me. A grotesque smile stretches his mouth as his gaze meets mine. “Make yourself at home. We’re all one happy family here, aren’t we?”
Lucas doesn’t move a muscle, even when Misha tries to shove him aside, his young face contorted with the same terror that holds me paralyzed. I know what’s going through my brother’s mind; like me, he’s probably seen this kind of detonator in explosives training.
It’s UUR’s version of a suicide vest, one designed to be used only in the most desperate of circumstances. Kirill doesn’t need to press a button for the explosive to go off; he just needs to take his thumb off the button.
If his thumb slips—if he’s shot, for instance—the bomb will be triggered.
Lucas must’ve realized this too, because he’s not reaching for the M16 slung across his back.
