by Anna Zaires
“Any news?” I ask Yan as I sit down at the table. “Have you heard anything from them?”
The Russian shakes his head. “It’s eight more hours before they land.” His tone is light, but I catch a note of tension underneath.
In his own possibly psychopathic way, he’s worried.
My anxiety ratchets up again, my appetite disappearing, but I force myself to eat as Yan turns his attention back to the computer screen. Peter might be gone for a couple of days or more, and I can’t starve myself just because I’m worried sick. Nor does it make sense for me to worry about a man I should hate, but I’m giving up on that battle.
Foolish or not, I don’t want to see Peter hurt or dead.
Finishing my meal, I go upstairs and distract myself by reading and watching the music videos Peter downloaded onto the iPad for me. Between that and some light household chores, I keep busy until lunchtime, at which point I go downstairs again.
Yan is nowhere to be seen, so he must be either in his room or training somewhere outside. For a second, I’m tempted to repeat my escape attempt—the weather is much warmer now, and as far as I know, no storm is coming—but I decide against it. I’m still not familiar enough with the topography of this mountain, and blindly stumbling around cliffs doesn’t seem like a great idea, especially when I’m feeling shitty from my period.
At least that’s what I tell myself to explain why I push all thoughts of escape out of my mind and pop another Advil before making myself a sandwich.
When I come down again for dinner, Yan is there, finishing a bowl of leftover oatmeal and setting up what looks like audio recording equipment—a pair of bulky, over-the-ears headphones with an attached microphone that plugs into the computer.
“Anything?” I ask, walking over to the fridge after I take another Advil, and Yan shakes his head.
“Should be soon, though,” he says before gulping down the rest of his tea. “I’ll let you know when they land.”
“Thank you,” I say and get busy making myself a veggie stir-fry. I can feel the tension gathering between my shoulder blades, the anxiety I battled all day returning as I chop and dice vegetables before seasoning them liberally with soy sauce.
“Do you want some?” I ask Yan when he glances up to see what I’m doing, and he politely declines, putting on the headphones for what appear to be some audio reception tests. He still looks unusually tense, his expression grimly focused as his fingers fly over the keyboard of the laptop.
When the stir-fry is done, I sit down to eat and covertly observe Yan, my unease growing with each bite. By my calculations, it’s already been eight hours since breakfast, and the tension radiating off the usually suave Russian doesn’t help.
“Do you normally keep in touch with them throughout the mission?” I ask when I can’t bear the silence any longer. “Or do you wait for them to contact you?”
Yan looks up from the screen and removes the headphones. “I’m usually with them,” he says, swiveling the barstool to face me, and I realize why he seems so on edge.
He’s used to being there, in the thick of things, not watching from the sidelines.
“I’m sorry you had to babysit me,” I say, pushing my half-eaten plate away. I might as well try to get to know my remaining jailer instead of obsessing about Peter’s fate. “I’m sure you must be worried about your brother.”
Yan shrugs, an expression of cool amusement veiling the tension on his face. “Ilya can take care of himself.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Picking up my own cup of tea, I ask, “Is he your younger or older sibling?”
His amusement appears to deepen. “Older by three minutes.”
“Oh.” I blink. “He’s your twin?”
He nods. “An identical one, if you can believe that.”
“Wow. You guys don’t look anything alike.” Sipping the tea, I study his clean, vaguely aristocratic features. Now that I look closer, I see the similarities to Ilya’s bone structure, but there are quite a few differences too. Yan’s nose is straighter, and his square jaw is more proportional—not quite as chiseled as Peter’s, but still strong and nicely defined. The biggest difference, though, is the hair.
Yan has a full head of it, with not a hint of skull tattoos in sight.
“My brother’s been unlucky in some fights,” he explains, noticing my scrutiny. “Had his nose broken and his face bashed in quite a bit. Also, he did some steroids when we were young and stupid—wanted to bulk up.”
“I see.” Steroids would account for some of the differences, including that of size. Not that the man sitting before me is small by any means. He’s roughly Peter’s height, and just as muscular. His twin brother, however, is massive, as big as any bodybuilder I’ve seen.
“Is he your only sibling?” I ask, and Yan nods.
“Yeah, it’s just the two of us.”
I put down my cup. “Do you have any other family?”
“No.” His expression doesn’t change; there’s nothing to indicate either grief or regret. He might as well have been answering whether he has an extra pair of socks.
I want to dig deeper into that, but there’s another topic that interests me more. “When did you meet Peter?” I ask, leaning forward on my elbows. “You worked together before, right?”
“We did.” Yan closes the laptop, swiveling the barstool to face me fully. “Ilya and I were part of his team for three years prior to Daryevo.”
The mention of the village reminds me of the horrific images on Peter’s phone, and the stir-fry sours in my stomach. “Did you know them?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. “His wife and son, I mean?”
“No.” The Russian’s green eyes are as bright as gems, and just as cold. “Anton is the only one who’s met them. The rest of us didn’t know Peter had a family until they were killed.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say to that. Clearly, Peter didn’t trust the man sitting in front of me—at least not enough to risk exposing his most precious secret. Yet here they are, working together again.
“If I were him, I would’ve kept it on the down low too,” Yan says, a hard-edged smile spreading across his face, and I realize he caught on to my discomfort. “We don’t do families and babies in our world.”
“Really?” So it wasn’t a trust issue so much as a deviation from the accepted lifestyle on Peter’s part. “Then I take it none of you have ever been married?”
“Only Peter,” Yan confirms. “And you know how that turned out.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and reach for my tea again. “Yes. I do.”
Yan watches me drink the rest of the tea before saying quietly, “This won’t last either, you know.”
I lower the cup. “What do you mean?”
“This.” He waves his hand, indicating me and our surroundings. “Whatever this is, it won’t last.”
I stare at him, confused. “You mean… he’ll let me go?”
“No.” The Russian’s gaze is cold again, utterly unreadable. “That he won’t do. He’s an obsessive man, and you are his obsession. He’ll never let you go, Sara. Not unless one or both of you are dead.”
I suck in a sharp breath, but before I can respond, something pings and Yan turns away, facing the laptop.
“They landed,” he says, putting on the headphones. “Now the fun can begin.”
26
Peter
The first part of the operation proceeds smoothly. So smoothly, in fact, that I get nervous. It’s never a good sign when everything goes according to plan. There’s always a snag to be dealt with, some kind of kink to be worked out. Unforeseen obstacles are to be expected, because nothing is ever a hundred-percent predictable, and thinking that it is—believing that the plan, no matter how flexible, accounts for all variables—is the fastest way to get killed.
So when we get into the banker’s compound and quietly eliminate the exact number of guards we planned for, I begin to feel uneasy. And when we hijack all the cameras, g
iving Yan remote access, and make our way to the banker’s bedroom suite without encountering a single staff member deviating from his or her routine, my danger meter goes on high alert—and I’m not the only one.
“You smell it, right?” Anton mutters as we stop in front of the bedroom door.
“Smell what?” Ilya whispers, sniffing the air with a frown.
“The shit about to hit the fan,” I say in a low voice. “It’s too easy. Too much like what we planned.”
Comprehension lights Ilya’s gaze. “Fuck.”
None of us are superstitious, but we have a healthy respect for luck, and we all know that too much good luck can be just as deadly as an unlucky streak. A steady stream of small obstacles keeps one’s mind and reflexes sharp, while smooth sailing lures one into complacency. Not that we’re ever relaxed on a job—the adrenaline rush ensures we stay alert—but there’s a difference between regular battle alertness and the hyperawareness that comes along with fighting for our lives.
This job has been smooth sailing so far, and when we hit a rough patch—which we will, because luck is a fickle bitch—it’s going to suck extra hard.
There’s nothing we can do about it, though, short of aborting the mission, so I gesture to Anton to get ready, and Ilya steps in front of the door.
One hard kick from his massive foot, and the door flies off its hinges, crashing to the floor. Inside, there is a panicked squeal, and as the three of us rush into the room, we see our target on the floor, his fat folds jiggling while his naked mistress cowers behind the bed.
The banker’s tiny, pig-like eyes are white with terror, his round frame shaking as he scrambles to cover his deflating cock with a pillow. “Stop! Please, I can pay you. I swear, I can pay you. I’ll top whatever they’re paying you. What do you want? A hundred thousand euros? Half a million dollars? I have it. I have the money, I swear!” Seeing that we’re not stopping, he switches from English to an accented mixture of French and German, and then a Hausa dialect, frantically repeating the offer until Anton stabs him in the throat to shut him up.
“Omuya’s cousin sends his regards,” I say in English, watching the man flail about as he chokes on the blood spurting out of his neck. It takes mere moments for him to die—an easy death, all things considered.
The asshole’s mistress breaks into violent sobs behind the bed. Ignoring the noise, I snap a picture of the body as proof for the client, and then tell Ilya in Russian, “Tie her up and let’s go.” Normally, we’d eliminate the woman too, but I want a witness this time.
I want the authorities searching for us in Africa, far away from Sara and Japan.
Slinging the strap of his M16 over his shoulder, Ilya rounds the bed and reaches for the crying woman. Figuring he can handle it, I head for the door, my shit storm instincts still on high alert.
Suddenly, a shot rings out.
I spin around, my ears ringing from the blast, but it’s too late.
Ilya is on the floor, a dark red stain spreading out from his head.
27
Sara
I pace around the second floor, going from room to room as I battle my anxiety. The moment the team landed, Yan told me to leave him alone so he could focus on doing his part: monitoring the banker’s compound remotely in case of unexpected problems. And he wasn’t just trying to get rid of me. As I left the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of several security camera feeds on his computer screen, and what appeared to be a view from an aerial drone.
To distract myself, I tried to read again, then watched some music videos, singing along with some of my favorite artists. I even went to the unfinished dance studio and attempted a couple of ballet routines I learned as a child, along with some stretching at the barre to ease the period-induced tightness in my lower back. None of it held my attention for longer than fifteen minutes, so now I’m mindlessly going from window to window, as if by staring at the darkness outside, I can make the helicopter appear.
After about two hours, my cramps worsen and I’m a raw mess of nerves, so I go down to the kitchen to take more Advil. Yan is still sitting behind the counter with his computer, the headphones covering his ears, but there’s nothing cool about his expression now. He’s starkly pale, and lines of tension bracket his tight-lipped mouth as he speaks urgently into the microphone in Russian.
My heart stops, then launches into a panicked gallop.
Something went wrong.
Icy fear prickles through my body, my stomach twisting with an awful premonition, and I barely manage to stop myself from demanding to know what happened. That wouldn’t help, and I don’t want to distract Yan from what he’s doing. Instead, I rush across the kitchen and stop behind him, frantically peering at the screen over his shoulder.
He pays me no attention, all his focus on the computer as he barks out what sounds like instructions. At first, I can’t tell what’s going on, but then, on one of the camera feeds, I see it.
Two bodies sprawled next to a bed.
One is an obese dark-skinned man, his naked bulk swimming in a pool of red, and on the other side of the bed is a naked woman. Looking closer, I notice blood splattered around her as well.
They’re both dead.
Nausea rises in my throat, and I clap my hand over my mouth, trying to remain silent. Yan is still speaking in that urgent tone, and on another camera feed, two men in SWAT-like gear appear in a hallway. They’re walking fast and carrying a large man by his arms and legs.
It’s Peter and Anton carrying Ilya, I recognize with a mixture of horror and relief. Ilya’s head is bandaged with what appears to be a pillowcase, but I can see the blood seeping through.
Yan’s twin is severely injured, maybe even dead.
Scarcely daring to breathe, I bite my palm as I watch them round a corner. On yet another camera feed, a dozen armed men are rushing down another hallway, and I see the furious alarm on their faces as they stumble across more bodies. The other guards, perhaps? Either way, they regroup quickly, continuing down the hallway as Yan speaks even more urgently into the microphone.
Peter and Anton disappear from the camera view, then appear a moment later on another feed, and I see that they’re approaching a parlor with a door leading to a large garage. They’re all but running at this point, Ilya’s body swinging hammock-like between them, and with a sinking feeling, I realize the reason for their urgency.
The hallway with the armed guards leads to the same parlor.
It’s a race with the deadliest of stakes—and the guards appear to be winning.
I must’ve made a sound, because Yan glances over his shoulder, his jaw tightly clenched as his eyes lock with mine. He doesn’t say anything, though, just turns back to the computer, and I continue watching, unable to take my eyes off the horror unfolding half a world away.
On the drone feed, two explosions tear through a small structure next to the main house, and the guards halt before separating into two groups. One group continues toward the parlor while a few guards rush back—toward the bombs the team must’ve set as a distraction.
Still, the delay is not enough. The guards get to the parlor a couple of seconds before Peter and his team.
The Russians appear to be ready. Still running, they swing Ilya higher, and Peter crouches mid-stride, letting Ilya’s stomach land on his shoulder as Anton lets go of the unconscious man and grips his assault rifle. Grimacing with effort, Peter straightens, holding Ilya’s massive bulk draped over his shoulder, and I watch, stunned, as he resumes running, steadying Ilya’s body with one hand as he pulls a grenade out of his pocket with another.
With all the sound going through Yan’s headphones, I can’t hear the blast of automatic gunfire, but I see the bullets tearing through the walls as the Russians burst into the parlor with the guards. Two guards are mowed down by Anton’s fire, but the rest take shelter behind a column, and I bite back a scream as Peter stumbles, Ilya nearly flying off his shoulder. In the next instant, however, he recovers, hanging on to his hum
an burden, and I see the savage resolve on his face as he brings the grenade up and tears the pin off with his teeth.
Boom! A bright flash, and two camera feeds go dark. I’m not touching Yan, but I feel him jerk, as though he got shot. A stream of frantic Russian pours from his mouth as he pounds at the keyboard, bringing up more camera feeds, and it’s not until I spot movement on the bird’s-eye drone view that I take a breath and realize I’m crying, the tears leaving a burning trail on my ice-cold skin.
Yan must’ve spotted the same hint of movement, because he zooms in on the drone feed just as a huge SUV bursts through a slowly opening garage door, taking out a chunk of the door panel as it barrels toward the compound gate.
A sobbing breath hisses through my teeth, and I bite my palm again.
At least one of them is alive, and well enough to drive.
Shaking, I watch the SUV tear through the iron gate amidst a hail of bullets, then rocket down a narrow road with two guard SUVs in hot pursuit. The drone follows long enough to show one pursuing SUV careening off the road, as though they shot its tires, but after a few more seconds, the cars disappear in the distance, leaving the drone behind.
Yan mutters what sounds like a Russian curse and again pounds furiously at the keyboard. A new window pops up, this one with an audio feed graph, and I realize he must be tuning in to some radio signal. Sure enough, a minute later, he resumes speaking in frantic Russian, and I exhale a shaking breath.
Someone in that SUV must be alive.
Is it Peter? Are they hurt? How far to the plane? Is Ilya still alive? Is Peter hurt?
The questions threaten to burst out, but I dig my nails into my palms and remain silent, not daring to distract Yan as he pulls up a map and rattles off instructions in rapid-fire Russian. His posture is as tense as ever, his attention laser-focused on the screen, and I know they’re still in danger.
