I lick my lips, tasting the salt of my tears. “I…” I swallow thickly. “I didn’t want to see you dead.” Even now, the horrifying images won’t leave me, my brain visualizing how everything might’ve gone down in grisly detail. I can almost smell the coppery tang of blood as the SWAT team’s bullets rip through Peter’s muscled body, can almost see the armor-clad agents bursting through the bedroom door and dragging him off my bed.
Can almost feel the stark, crushing loneliness that would’ve been my life without my tormentor.
No. No, no, no. I shake off the thought, push it away like the lunacy that it is. I did not want this. Just because I missed Peter when he was on one of his assassination missions doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have moved on eventually. And it wasn’t even him I missed. It was the deceptive comfort he provided, the illusion of love and caring. What I felt for him wasn’t real, and neither is what he thinks he feels for me. A sick lie is all it’s ever been between us, a pathological obsession on his end and an equally perverse neediness on mine.
Peter’s eyes narrow, his hands tightening on my shoulders as he processes what I said. “So you warned me out of the goodness of your heart? You were being a Good Samaritan?”
I nod, blinking rapidly to hold back a fresh wave of tears. That wasn’t the only reason for my lapse of judgment, but it’s the only one I’m willing to admit to.
My captor’s face hardens, and he drops his hands, stepping back. “I see.”
If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought I hurt him.
In the next instant, however, he continues as if nothing happened. “This is our bedroom.” His voice is cold and flat, utterly emotionless. “The bathroom is through there.” He gestures at a door in the back of the room. “You can wash up and relax while we unpack some supplies and prepare breakfast. I’ll have clothes brought here for you tomorrow, but in the meantime, there should be a robe in the bathroom and some of my clothes in the closet.” He nods toward a set of doors on the opposite side of the room. “If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs. Breakfast will be ready in a half hour.”
I bite my lip. “Okay, thanks.”
He exits the room, and I walk over to the window, my chest aching with grief for everything I lost—and for what I just glimpsed in Peter’s eyes.
Pain.
I did hurt him, and for some reason, that hurts me.
6
Peter
* * *
“She’s not happy, huh?” Anton says quietly in Russian as I take out an oversized carton of eggs he just loaded into the fridge, set it on the counter next to the stovetop, and begin hunting for a frying pan.
“No.” I barely restrain myself from slamming the cupboard door when I don’t find the frying pan there. “But she’ll get used to it.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
I finally locate the pan in one of the pull-out drawers by the stove. “Then she’ll stay f*cking miserable.” Grabbing the pan, I shove the drawer shut, then curse myself when I see a hairline crack appear in the glossy white wood. Renovating the house one helicopter load at a time was a bitch, and I can’t afford to vent my anger on the kitchen counters. Anton’s face at training later today will be a much better target.
“You know this had to happen, right?” my friend continues, as though oblivious to the rage simmering in my gut. “That suburban bullshit couldn’t continue forever. It’s a miracle they didn’t bust us sooner. If you want this girl long term—and you do, right?—this is the only way.”
I clench my jaw so hard my molars ache. “Drop it, Anton. This is none of your f*cking business.”
“All right. Just reminding you of the facts. I know it sucks that she’s upset and all, but—” He stops, apparently realizing I’m half a second away from kicking his teeth in. Taking out his Swiss army knife, he slices through a netted bag of oranges and puts the fruit into a big wooden bowl on the counter. Then, eyeing the carton of eggs with interest, he asks, “What’s for breakfast?”
“For you? Not a thing.” I crack five eggs into a mixing bowl, pour in a little milk, and add seasoning before stirring. “You and the twins can fend for yourself.”
“That’s harsh, man,” Yan says, entering the kitchen. He’s carrying a huge box filled with more fruits and veggies, as well as bread and frozen meat—food supplies that our local contact loaded onto the chopper before sending it our way.
“Ilya and I are starving, and you like to cook,” Yan continues when I don’t respond. “How hard is it to make some extra? I promise, I will keep my mouth shut about your pretty doctor.”
Fighting the urge to snap at him, I crack a dozen more eggs into the bowl. I don’t usually feed the guys, but Yan is right: it would be petty to deprive my team of a good breakfast after such a long trip.
I just need them to shut up about Sara, because if I hear one more word on the topic, I’ll rip their f*cking heads off.
Wisely, both Yan and Anton remain silent, unpacking the rest of the food as I cook the omelet, and by the time, Ilya walks in, I’m almost calm—if one doesn’t count the sporadic urge to put my fist through the white quartz countertop.
Ilya sits down on one of the stainless-steel barstools and opens his laptop, reminding me that we have issues besides Sara to worry about.
“What did the hackers say?” I ask when I see him frowning at the screen. “Any leads on that ublyudok?”
“Nope.” Ilya’s face is grim as he looks up. “No credit card transactions, no attempts to contact any friends or relatives, nothing. The f*cker is good.”
My hand tightens on the handle of the frying pan, my fury returning. The last name on my list—one Walton Henderson III, aka Wally, of Asheville, North Carolina—is the general who was in charge of the NATO operation that went sideways and resulted in the deaths of my wife and son. It was he who gave the order to act without verifying the validity of the supposed lead on the terrorist group, and it was he who authorized the soldiers to use whatever force was necessary to contain “the terrorists.”
I already killed all the soldiers and intelligence operatives involved in the Daryevo massacre, but Henderson—the one who has the most to answer for—is still at large, having disappeared with his wife and children as soon as rumors of my target list reached the intelligence community.
“Tell the hackers to do a deep dive on all his friends and relatives, no matter how distant the connection,” I say as Yan walks over to sit down on the barstool next to his brother. “They should look for anything out of the norm, like large cash withdrawals, purchases of extra phones, out-of-town trips, property acquisitions or vacation rentals, anything and everything that could indicate they’re in league with that bastard. Someone has to know where Henderson went, and my bet is on some random cousin. If in a few months, there’s still nothing, we might need to start making in-person visits to Henderson’s connections, flush him out that way if need be.”
“You got it,” Ilya says, his thick fingers flying over the keyboard with surprising agility and grace. “It’ll cost us, but I think you’re right. People have trouble breaking ties completely.”