“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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fucker 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.”
“Yan, do we have those camera recordings?” I ask when the other twin opens his own laptop. “The ones from Sara’s parents’ house? We need to see if the Feds spoke to them yet.”
“Downloading them now,” he responds without looking up from the screen. “This satellite connection is slow as fuck. Says it’s going to take forty minutes to get the files off the cloud.”
“All right, then let’s eat first,” I say, turning off the stove. “Anton, can you set the table for the five of us? I’m going to go get Sara.”
My men keep their silence as I head toward the stairs, but when I’m halfway up the steps, I see Yan lean toward Ilya, whispering something in his ear.