We never had a chance to explore what might’ve been, and we’re certainly not going to get that chance now—not with a Russian assassin dominating my life and my heart.
“Thank you, Joe. I appreciate it.” I keep my tone light, pretending like the offer meant nothing, like he didn’t just indicate a willingness to involve himself in the terrifying mess that is my life. I don’t know what my parents have told the Levinsons about my situation, but between the “suspected terrorist” comment and having to get me from the FBI building downtown, Joe must have some idea of what he’d be facing.
He understands my dismissal for what it is and falls silent. For the rest of the ride to the hospital, we don’t speak, and it’s just as well.
There is no room in my life for Joe, and it’s not safe for him to think otherwise.
12
Peter
We don’t return to Japan—with Sara in the FBI’s clutches, it’s too risky. Instead, we fly to Prague, where our safe house is in a small village some twenty kilometers from the city. It snowed overnight, and the place looks remarkably picturesque, with a pristine white layer covering all the roofs and bare tree branches.
“Why couldn’t we have gone someplace warm?” Anton grumbles as he exits the car into a pile of snow. “Seriously, that safe house in India sounds fucking good right about now.”
If I hadn’t just let go of the woman who is my life, I’d have laughed at the disgusted look on his face. But I’m not in the mood for Anton’s bullshit, so I just say tersely, “Because Eastern Europe is where we need to be.” Not that I need to say it—he knows as well as I do why we’re here. During the flight, I rescheduled the meeting with Novak, moving it up to next week.
Henderson is still AWOL, and if I can’t spend time with Sara, there’s no point in putting the meeting off.
“I like it here,” Ilya says, looking around the snowy landscape. We don’t have as much privacy here as we did at Japan, but the house is sufficiently far from the neighbors to give us at least the illusion of having a private winter retreat. “It’s pretty.”
“I’m with Anton on this one. I’m sick and tired of the cold,” Yan says, heading toward the house. “At least we’ll be warm soon; I hear Esguerra’s compound in the jungle is nice and toasty.” He glances at me as he says this, but I don’t rise to the bait.
At this point, no one needs to know what I’m really planning.
It’s safer for everyone that way.
It’s not until we’re unpacked and settled into the new house that I allow myself to think of Sara and feel the agonizing emptiness that is her absence in my life. It’s only been a day, but I already ache for her, want her so much it tears me up inside. The Americans are keeping tabs on her, so I’ll be getting daily reports, but it’s not enough. I want her here, at my side. I want to hold her, to see her smile and hear her laugh. To fuck her until she’s too hoarse to scream my name and the raw burn in my veins subsides.
Soon, I promise myself as I head out to explore the area and set perimeter alarms. I will have my ptichka again soon.
For now, she can enjoy her former life.
13
Sara
“Mom!” I bend over her bed, smiling through the tears. Her eyes are cloudy with painkillers, but they’re open, and as I gently fold my fingers around her uninjured right hand, her cracked lips move.
“S-Sara?”
“It’s me, Mom.” The tears pour down my face unchecked, and I don’t bother wiping them away. I’m too relieved, too overjoyed.
After an entire night of touch-and-go, Mom has woken up.
“Here, drink.” I lift a cup with a straw to her lips, and she manages one sip before closing her eyes again.
I squeeze her hand and turn to Dad, who got to his feet behind me. His cheeks are wet as he stares at his wife.
“She’s going to be okay now, right?” His eyes are red-rimmed but hopeful as he glances at me, and I nod, not hiding my elation.
“Her vitals are stable and have been for the past three hours. Barring an infection, she’ll pull through.”
Mom’s fingers twitch in my hand, and I look back to find her eyes open again.
“Sara, are you really…?” She blinks and tries to focus through the lingering haze of anesthesia. “Darling, is that really you, or am I dreaming?”
“I’m really here, Mom.” My voice cracks. “I’m home.”
“She came back, Lorna.” Dad wraps an arm around my waist, his smile both tremulous and triumphant. “Our little Sara came back.”
“What…” She starts to cough, and I quickly give her another sip of water. “What happened?” Her confused gaze wanders from me to the pulleys holding up the casts on her legs and her left arm, and then back to me again.