“Thank you. It should be—I’ve had a lot of exposure to the Russian language lately,” I say, stacking the rinsed plates in the dishwasher. I’m hoping she’ll ask about that, but Yulia merely smiles and carries the first set of desserts out into the dining room before returning to the kitchen for more.
I don’t get a chance to talk to her again, because she keeps going back and forth, getting everyone tea and coffee to go along with dessert. Frustrated, I go back to the table, where the men are now discussing the situation in Syria and the continued turmoil in Ukraine. I try to follow their conversation, but they might as well be speaking Russian. Every other word is a place or name I don’t know, alongside strange initials like UUR. The only thing I learn is that Kent’s business thrives on conflict of all kinds, from small-scale rivalry between drug cartels to full-blown wars between nations.
Every man at this table contributes, in one way or another, to death and suffering around the globe.
By now, I should be used to that—I’ve been living with a team of assassins for months—but it’s still startling to realize how normal this is to them, and how utterly unconcerned they are with such banalities as good and evil. Where I come from, people feel ashamed if they don’t recycle or donate their used clothes, much less say or do anything to hurt another. The bad men in my world cheat on their wives, drive drunk, or refuse to give up their seat for a pregnant woman. They don’t kill for money or sell weapons that can wipe out entire towns.
That’s a whole other level of evil.
Yet even as I tell myself that, I can’t help being aware of the treacherous passage of time, of how each minute brings us closer to the end of this meal and Peter’s departure. Given everything, it should be a relief to have him leave, but I can’t suppress the anxiety simmering underneath my fear and anger.
No matter what, I can’t stop worrying about the monster I should hate.
All too soon, the desserts are consumed—most of them by Anton—and the tea is finished. Getting up, Peter and his men thank Yulia, praising the meal in glowing terms, and then Anton and the twins head to the exit, accompanied by our host. Yulia disappears into the kitchen, and I find myself alone with Peter for the first time since his revelation.
Coming up to me, he gently brushes his knuckles across my cheek. “I have to go,” he says quietly, and I nod, trying to ignore the painful lump expanding in my throat.
“Okay,” I manage to say semi-calmly. “Good luck.”
Be careful. Come back to me. I need you. The aching confession is on the tip of my tongue, but I hold the words back, suppressing the urge to step into his embrace and kiss him. He’s not my lover going off to war; he’s my kidnapper, my captor. By the time he returns, I might be gone, and if I’m not, we’ll have the biggest battle on our hands. What Peter wants—to impregnate me against my consent—is worse than kidnapping, more terrible than torture.
It would deprive me of the most basic choice of all and bring an innocent child into the twisted mess of our relationship.
Peter holds my gaze, and I can tell he’s waiting. For what, I don’t know, but when I continue to stand there silently, his face tightens and he drops his hand.
“I will see you soon,” he says grimly, turning away, and I watch, my heart breaking into pieces, as he leaves the room.
42
Peter
It’s just before midnight when we land on a private airstrip near Istanbul, less than five miles from our target’s suburban mansion. Our task for tonight is to scope out the area in person, as we’ve been going by satellite and drone imagery so far.
If all goes well, we’ll strike in a few days.
We’re all tired and jet-lagged—it’s already morning in Japan—so we keep our reconnaissance brief. Anton and Yan drive around the gated community where the mansion is located, noting key landmarks and potential escape routes, while Ilya and I enter the community on foot, using the guard shift change to scale the ten-foot fence near the main gate.
This level of security is designed to keep out ordinary criminals, not former Spetsnaz assassins.
The difficult part will be the security at Arslan’s mansion. Though the place masquerades as just another residence in this wealthy community, it’s protected with everything from motion detectors to a small army of bodyguards. Retina scanners, weight sensors, silent alarms, backup generators—there are redundancies upon redundancies in the security of the place, and for a good reason.
When you double-cross the ruthless oligarch who put you in power, you know to prepare for the worst.