Yan leans against a nearby counter, his green eyes coolly amused as he crosses his trouser-clad legs at the ankles. “Why mid-December? It’s only early November.”
I shrug. “We’re not in a rush, and neither is he.” The latter is not true, actually. Novak wanted to meet next week, but I put him off until next month. Once we start the ball rolling, there’ll be no stopping it, and I’m not ready.
I want—no, I need—to spend time with Sara before I embark on this mission. Also, our hackers are hot on Wally Henderson’s trail and may uncover another lead soon. He’s the last name on my list, and by far the most elusive. He’s also the general who was in charge of the Daryevo operation—which makes him the person most directly responsible for the massacre of my wife and son. If not for Sara’s accident, we might’ve caught him in New Zealand when his wife’s picture appeared on Instagram, posted there by a clueless winery owner proud of his clientele. As it was, however, by the time we detoured to the Swiss clinic and I pulled myself together enough to send my men to capture Henderson, he’d performed his disappearing act again. Only this time, his trail is fresh, and our hackers have a better idea of where to look.
We’re going to find Walter Henderson III, and when we do, I’ll tear the sookin syn limb from limb.
Ilya frowns, his skull tattoos gleaming in the morning light as he sits down on a barstool. “Are you sure about this, man? A hundred million is juicy, but this is Esguerra we’re talking about. Kent’s going to get involved and—”
“Fuck Kent.” I break the next egg so viciously it splatters on the side of the mixing bowl. “That bastard deserves it after the way he fucked up with Sara.”
“But Esguerra?” Anton says, getting over his shock. “The guy’s got a small army on his payroll, and that jungle compound of his—you said yourself it’s impenetrable. How the fuck are we supposed to—”
“That’s why we’re meeting with Novak, to find out what he’s got up his sleeve.” I’m starting to lose patience. “I’m not fucking suicidal; we’ll only do this if we can make it out alive.”
“Really?” Yan crosses the kitchen and sits down on a barstool next to his brother. “Are you sure about that? Because Sara did get hurt on Kent’s watch.”
His voice is silky soft, but I know a challenge when I hear one.
Keeping my expression calm, I walk over to the sink and wash all traces of raw egg off my hands. Anton, who knows me best, prudently steps away, but the Ivanov twins don’t budge from their seats, regarding me with identical green stares as I casually round the bar and approach Yan.
“So you think I’m reasoning with my dick?” The softness of my voice matches his. “You think I’m willing to get us all killed to punish Kent for letting Sara crash?”
Yan swivels his barstool to fully face me. “I don’t know.” His expression is mildly amused, but his eyes are cold and sharp. “Are you?”
My lips stretch in a grim smile as my right hand closes around the switchblade in my pocket. “And if I were?”
Yan holds my gaze for a few tense seconds as the air in the room thickens with challenge. I like Yan, but I can’t let this insubordination stand. He knew what he was signing up for when he joined this team, was fully aware that to participate in the lucrative business I was building, he’d have to help me with my personal agenda. That was our deal, and I intend to hold him to it, even if it’s now Sara who motivates my actions instead of my dead wife and son.
“Yan.” Ilya’s voice is quiet as he rises to his feet and places a massive hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Peter knows what he’s doing.”
Yan remains silent for a moment longer, then inclines his head with a hard-edged smile. “Yes, I’m sure. He is the team leader, after all.”
His words are conciliatory, but I’m not fooled. I’ll have to be extra alert on this mission.
Yan could easily become a complication.
4
Sara
As the five of us eat breakfast, I can’t help but notice the tension at the table. I don’t know if something happened before I came down, or if everyone is as jet-lagged as I am, but the easy camaraderie I’ve observed between Peter and his men doesn’t seem to be there this morning.
Instead of bantering with each other and entertaining me with anecdotes about Russia, Peter’s teammates wolf down their omelets in silence and swiftly disperse, with Anton taking the chopper on a supply run and the twins heading out for a training session in the woods.
“What’s going on?” I ask Peter when we’re the only ones left in the kitchen. “Did you guys have a fight or something?”