by Cate Clarke
Chapter 24
Diana Weick
Flight No. 459
It was too difficult to sit still. Diana paced in the aisles, knocking back too many vodkas from the minibar. Other passengers glared at her, Rex included, but she kept her eyes forward. After hours and days of chasing Kennedy, one pursuit after the other, she was expected to sit in a plane for twelve hours. She could sleep. That’s what they told her. But she couldn’t face her dreams.
The designs on the navy aisle carpet were starting to make her dizzy, so she had to sit down.
“How you doing, Di?” Rex asked as she sat; he was working on a word search, pen teetering between his fingers.
“Not great,” she muttered. The alcohol was in her throat and chest like a bubble sitting on top of her heart. She wasn’t a drinker. But when the alternative was sitting in her thoughts, she’d take a screwdriver any day. Ordering another as the flight attendant walked by, Rex clicked his teeth at her.
“What?” Diana snapped.
“How many is that?” Rex asked without looking up.
“Does it matter?”
“Chill, Di,” Rex said, putting a hand on her bouncing leg. “I’m here to help you, remember?”
“How could I forget?” She leaned down in her seat, sinking into it and letting herself spread out as much as she could.
“I appreciate you asking me,” Rex said, taking his hand off her leg and looking at her. “I mean, I wasn’t sure you thought that much of me as a soldier, to be honest.”
“Well, I didn’t have many other options…” she muttered. Rex blinked and a sad look came over his eyes as he placed his pencil down in the middle of his word search book, sighing. Diana added, “I—I chose you because I can trust you, Rex.”
“You don’t trust Ratanake?”
Diana raised her eyebrows, her mouth parting slightly. “Ratanake? He would never come overseas now.”
“But if he was an option, you’d choose him. Wouldn’t you?”
“Rex, is this really what you want to do?” Diana asked. “Measure dicks?”
The flight attendant dropped the screwdriver down in front of her as Rex broke out into a laugh. She couldn’t and didn’t want to deal with Rex and Ratanake’s fragile egos. They had never really gotten along, but there was something stirring in both of them that she hated—jealousy.
This drink went down easier than the last two.
It did relax her legs a bit, but Rex belly-laughing at the Jack Black movie playing on the back of the seat kept her anxious. She was drunk. It was swirling in the thoughts in her head, and it had moved from her chest down to her stomach, stirring the empty bile, begging her to consume something other than Ritz crackers, coffee and vodka.
“Kennedy,” Rex said, after finishing his movie and taking off his headphones. “She’s waiting for us.”
“Not exactly,” Diana muttered, holding her chin in her hand and leaning her arm on the tray. “She’s in Romania. We’re going to Ukraine to visit Andriy.”
“Yeah, but we know where she’s headed…”
“On a hunch—”
“An educated hunch.”
Rex lifted one finger and pointed it in her direction. There was heat spreading across her whole body—her cheeks, her torso, her back and chest all splotched with red.
“Is that really why you asked me to come along?” Rex asked, leaning slightly across the seat and away from the stranger by the window seat. “Because you trust me?”
“Of course,” Diana said, raising one eyebrow. “You’re the father to my kids. If I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t be around them at all.”
“I guess that makes sense,” he said, laughing a little.
“Do you remember that summer in Vancouver? I had that client that put us up in his apartment and we were able to just actually relax and be a family for a couple of months,” Diana said. “You would take the kids out to the mountains for hikes, and I would work and then meet you guys for late-night dinners on Granville Island. The kids even ate fish while we were there. It feels like a dream…just a sliver of happiness between our traumas, or like we’re constantly on a clock. Some of the hours are light and neutral, but then the hand ticks and we’re in a dark zone. Again. Who knows what the next hour will be? Who knows if things will only get worse?”
Rex thought for a moment, not used to Diana talking this much but seemingly enjoying it. He asked, “What if things do get worse?”
“We get worse with it.”
They exchanged glances, Rex searching for something on Diana’s face—maybe it was empathy or self-awareness, both of which she was severely lacking right now. The flight attendant brought her another drink, one she didn’t remember ordering. She shot it back, the flight attendant giving her a forced smile as she walked away, working her way around the other antsy passengers in the aisles.
“I gotta pee,” Diana said and stood up from her seat. In the washroom, she was able to splash some water onto her flushed face, but it didn’t stop the room from spinning. She had a hard time determining the turbulence from the drunkenness, but one of the two almost made her vomit. Grabbing a napkin, she dabbed it all over her face and chest just as someone began to bang on the door.
“Hurry up! There’s people waiting!”
More water. Less nauseous. She splashed more onto her face, unsure if she was trying to sober herself up or cool herself off.
They knocked again.
“Hello?”
Diana peeled back the door. There was a man about her height, standing outside the bathroom, his fist raised in the air. Sunglasses were propped up on top of thinning blond hair, and he was wearing a sports blazer over top of a Henley and jeans. He stared at her with light eyes, glaring.
“You about done?” he asked.
“Are you?” Diana snapped.
“Excuse me?”
“Anyone ever teach you patience?”
Diana pushed past him, stumbling into the aisle, almost running into the opposite bathroom door. He half-caught her and then pushed her off of him.
“Holy shit.” He laughed, Ukrainian accent coming through. “You’re drunk too.”
Maybe it was the tone. Maybe it was the frustration of the search and the images of Kennedy at the airport and the motel. Maybe, it was Rex and Ratanake having the maturity of teenagers. Whatever it was, Diana didn’t stop her fist from flying into his face.
It slammed across his cheek, sending his head into the open bathroom behind him. Not expecting her retaliation, he fell to his knees, and Diana was on top of him, pushing her elbow into his neck. Her tunnel vision narrowed on his reddening face, slowly turning an uneven shade of purple. He grappled her, kicking her off with not much of a struggle because she was still drunk. Diana rolled backwards, smacking the side of her head against the rows of chairs in front of the bathrooms. She was spinning. The alcohol, the woods, the desert—Diana couldn’t tell up from down, and that became even more apparent as the man grabbed at her ankle, dragging her across the aisle. It felt like she was flying, falling down an empty black cylinder. People around were gasping and interjecting, but she couldn’t hear them. Rex was probably calling her name, but her focus had narrowed in on the man’s face.
With a flexed foot, she pushed her sneaker up into his nose. He surprised her when he immediately grabbed her foot and pushed it back down, climbing over top of her and turning her around at the same time. He pinned her arms behind her back and placed handcuffs around her wrist.
“Air marshal,” he hissed into her ear. “Stupid American bitch.”
Diana screamed into the carpet of the aisle, contesting his grip like a toddler in the hands of their father. She cried. It all came out of her—broken open, reckless and angry. No one’s fault but her own. Just as it had been that day at Kushkin’s compound—all of them dead because of her. Just as it had been with Kennedy—lost and alone because she hadn’t turned around on that trail.
The air marshal pushed down on the bac
k of her head and pulled her to her feet. All eyes were glued to her as he dragged her up and through the aisles, footsteps racing after them, trying to get the best shots on their iPhones.
There were sneakers behind them, running.
“Excuse me… Excuse me!” Rex’s voice. “Diana!”
The air marshal stopped his lugging to turn to her ex-husband. Diana’s head was keeled forward, her hair falling over her face, slightly covering the sobs that were streaking down her cheeks.
“She’s being detained,” the air marshal said. “When we land, I’ll take her to the right place.”
“You mean a Ukrainian jail?” Rex spat.
The air marshal smirked. “That’s exactly right.”
“Do you know who this is?” Rex pointed to her with one hand. “Do you know what she’s trying to do right now?”
“Rex—” Diana looked at him, locking her tired eyes with his. She held his gaze for more than a moment, shaking her head, trying to stop him before it was too late. The lens of every phone was pointed at them, showing everyone just how crazy, just how unhinged Diana Weick really was.
“Diana, I can’t just let him take you,” he hissed.
“Oh yes, you certainly can, sir,” the air marshal said, smirking again, tightening his grip on Diana’s forearm. “In fact, you don’t have a choice. So you can either sit down and wait in your seat until we land, or stand next to us in the aisle until the flight attendants force you to sit down.”
“I’ll stand then.”
And Rex did. For as long as he could, he stood next to Diana and the air marshal at the front of the plane. Diana’s wrist handcuffed to the emergency exit door. The air marshal making several calls, speaking in Ukrainian. Rex, standing firm in the aisle but moving out of the way for other passengers when necessary. He didn’t say anything. It was three hours of silent camaraderie before he graciously stepped back to his own seat when the flight attendants asked him to. Diana’s head was still spinning and pounding at her temple. There was still an unclear haze around everything, the alcohol not allowing her to clearly see the consequences of her actions yet. But one thing was clear, and that was Rex. Of all of her more qualified choices, she had made the right decision in bringing him along.
Chapter 25
Taras Kushkin
Kharkiv, Ukraine
A sip of red wine calmed his nerves. He picked at the mushroom risotto in front of him, Andriy across the table devouring his serving-plate-sized steak. Swallowing back his disgust, waiting for him to finish, Taras pushed away all of the meat dishes, shoving them toward his brother. He’d been a vegetarian for a long time—he couldn’t remember the day that he had made the switch, but the idea of that gaminess swirling around between his cheeks made him sick.
The back room of the restaurant was cloudy with cigar smoke, guards puffing by the door, clutching to their women and occasionally grabbing at the waitresses. L’Ultima Cena had moved into downtown Kharkiv only a few years ago, but Andriy had immediately sunk his jowls in the owners, wrangling the back room for their private use and their use only. Dark mahogany woods with maroon tapestries on the walls, antique lanterns hanging from bronze chains, bottles upon bottles of empty wine lining the ceiling. It was a setting that Taras found relaxing if not a little gauche.
So when he’d gotten word that the girl had landed where they needed her to, Taras had requested a table for lunch which had turned into dinner and now, a nighttime spent picking at dishes and too much booze.
“You will not be ready to go tonight,” Taras said to his brother, the guards laughing at the other end of the table, covering their conversation.
“Oh but I could, brother,” Andriy said, the scotch swirling behind his light eyes in a distant stare.
“You are drunk.”
“I can order us some coffees, and I’ll be good.”
“No. You are not prepared.”
“You want me to go get her? You don’t trust the Polack?” Andriy leaned back in the cushioned chair, spreading out his one arm across the back of it.
“Please,” Taras scoffed. “I trust him more than I trust you.”
Taking another spoonful of the risotto and another sip of wine to get it down, Taras leaned back in his chair as well, mirroring his brother, trying to steal some of his leisure. It didn’t work. The food was more terrible than he remembered, and the wine even worse.
“Why do we still come to this hovel?” Taras muttered, looking around the dust-covered room.
“The room.” Andriy waved to the long table that stretched across the length of a narrow room. “The drink. The women. The discount. You made the reservation, Taras.”
“I know I did,” Taras snapped, his eyes gliding over to his brother. “Won’t you go home to Maryna tonight?”
His gaze glued to a brunette across the room, Andriy shrugged.
“She is your wife, after all.” Taras wiped at the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin and then dropped it on the passing tray of a waitress.
“Well, that’s exactly it,” Andriy replied. “She’ll be there either way.”
Taras rolled his eyes and sighed. Andriy had no respect for love. If ever Taras were to marry, he would remain faithful. He would treasure him, treat him as his equal, show him the world he had built. And if he wore out his use, Taras wouldn’t subject him to infidelity—he wouldn’t stroll down the street and fuck the first bitch he met like his brother. No, he would divorce him. Find someone new.
He shook his head at himself. Was he really holding out for love? It would be a long time before Taras found someone good enough to both please him and to trust.
“But you will go meet them tomorrow,” Taras said. “After you go home and sober up…leave no later than noon, do you understand? You know how Alek feels about latecomers.”
Andriy laughed a little and said, “Yes. I think the last time someone showed up late to one of his meetings, he smothered them with a plastic bag.”
“He does his job,” Taras stated. “More than you can say.”
“I do my job, brother,” Andriy said and then with a twinge of bitterness, he added, “I do what you say.”
“If you did what I say then you would already be on the road. But instead, you’re here—”
“Getting drunk with you.”
Taras gave a small smile as they clinked their glasses together, both finishing them in three gulps. One of the guards at the end of the table whooped and hollered and downed his own drink as well. Soon, they had all followed suit. They were celebrating in some ways. The girl was here, only a few measly kilometers away, in the hands of Taras's most trusted employee, Alek Fedoruk. Jeremy Messer was dead. Girls were moving faster and more efficiently than ever. And the American bitch was on her way, doing exactly as they’d expected.
Everything was falling into place.
And for a brief moment, Taras wished his father was alive to see it. But that moment was fleeting.
Taras stood up. The table went quiet, only a few lingering giggles and flirtatious whispers. He sent his gaze around the chairs, locking eyes with each one of his employees and products. With a small flick of his finger, gesturing to Andriy, he topped each of their wineglasses. Taras took the stem into his hand and raised it.
“This is a moment we must remember,” Taras began, not being much of a public speaker but enjoying the attention. “These coming days will not be easy. When the struggle comes, take some time to remember this…remember all we gave you. The food, the wine, the company. I can’t help but be reminded of my parents—my father was a man of great celebration. He would celebrate the purchase of a new car, new girl…he would celebrate new napkins for his home.” There was a light polite laugh. The side door opened and a man slipped in, one that they all recognized. “My mother was quiet. If you felt you knew not much about her, just imagine how Andriy and I felt. She was sick for years, calling us to her bedside to regale us with her stories of our father’s investments and adventures. She
was proud of him, always, until the day of her death—two weeks before my father. It caused him to re-evaluate, to reconsider the money he was spending, and he almost made very stupid decision. In that way—I thank God or whomever for Diana Weick. She prevented him from shutting down all of this.” Taras gestured to the table and the girls in front of them, one of them topless, sitting on a guard’s lap. “What a life it would be without this. Do not allow yourself to be underestimated. They continue to think we are not much more than what we trade and sell. But we are not just sex. We are not just traffickers. We are not just drones. We are the product of our choices— We are Kushkins, and as we move forward, our goals clarify. Each decision becomes easier than the last to clear away all that haunts us. All that scares us. So I implore you to have no fear—think only of money, sex, or whatever motivates you as you serve Kushkin. For motivation to serve comes from greed, despite the American patriotism that they try to push down our throats. You do not serve your country. You do not serve me. You serve yourselves!”
Glasses raised around the table, cheers rang out as they all, once again, downed their drinks.
“To Taras!” someone exclaimed.
Someone else yelled, “To Kushkin!”
Taras sat back down on the chair, the rush of the wine and the speech cleansing him of his stress like he was being scrubbed with a sponge from the inside. Andriy was beaming at him, smiling up at him like he used to with their father. With one large hand, he clamped it onto Taras’s shoulder and gave him a light shake.
The man who’d come in through the side door, Stepanov, walked over to the brothers, lingering behind Andriy and waiting for permission to step forward. Taras lifted a hand to him, and Stepanov moved forward to whisper something in his ear.
“I have news of Weick,” he said.
“Good news?” Taras muttered.
A smile crept across Stepanov’s bearded chin. Taras raised his eyebrows and leaned his head into his lips as he whispered, telling him everything of Diana Weick’s most recent fate. How foolish she was. How easy it would be for him now.
