I read through these articles, looking for mention of any specific evidence linking Peter to the bombing, but there’s nothing—nor is there anything about his real background and motivations.
Some news outlets claim that he’s a Russian spy, and that the bombing was Putin’s unofficial response to the sanctions. Others speculate that Peter is an assassin for the Russian mafia, and that the bombing had to do with an ongoing investigation. George is mentioned too, as a brave journalist whose story about the Russian mob resulted in his murder.
There’s nothing about the small village of Daryevo or Peter’s family, not a single word about the terrible error that led to their deaths.
A few articles talk about my parents’ deaths and their neighbors’ reactions to the shootout, but I can’t bring myself to read those. Each time I try, my throat closes up, and my heart starts beating in an irregular rhythm. The horror and the grief are too powerful, too fresh—as is the stomach-twisting guilt.
I failed my parents, failed to shield them from the darkness I brought into their lives, and I can’t face that yet, any more than I can imagine a world without them in it.
It’s easier to push it all down, to lock it up tight and focus on surviving moment to moment—to worry about the one person I love who is still alive.
Stopping my pacing, I sit on the edge of Peter’s bed and feel his forehead. He’s still burning up, his body battling the infection that’s causing the wound in his side to look red and inflamed.
I change his bandages, then crush the next dose of penicillin into powder and carefully feed it to him with spoonfuls of water. He’s almost totally unresponsive, but I manage to get most of the medicine down his throat. It’s not enough—he needs much stronger stuff—but it’s the best I can do for now.
“Hang in there, darling,” I whisper, running a damp towel over his face to cool him down. “Help is coming. Just hang in there, and all will be well.”
It has to be.
I can’t bear to think otherwise.
I’m nodding off next to Peter when the front door opens with a loud creak.
The adrenaline blast is so strong I’m on my feet before I can even process the sound. “Wha—”
“It’s just us,” Ilya says, stepping through the doorway with Yan. “We have to go. Now.”
I realize I’m panting, one hand pressed to my wildly hammering heart. “You’re here. You came.”
Yan is already standing over Peter. “Help me,” he orders his twin brother, and Ilya hurries over. Together, they lift Peter off the bed and swiftly carry him out of the cabin.
My brain belatedly switches on, and I grab the first-aid supplies, then run after them.
Outside is a dark-colored SUV with its headlights off but its motor running. “Get in the back with him,” Yan tells me as he and Ilya deposit Peter in the backseat, then go around to the front.
I scramble to obey. “There are some weapons in the Toyota,” I say breathlessly as Yan gets behind the wheel. “Should we get them or—”
“No time,” Ilya says as Yan slams on the gas, and the car rips forward. “If we don’t make it out of US airspace before eight a.m., they’re going to shoot down our plane.”
I suck in a sharp breath and shut up, focusing on protecting Peter from the worst of the jolting. He’s lying in the back seat with his head on my lap, and with every pothole we hit at full speed, I’m terrified that he’ll fly off the seat and tear his stitches.
At first, I have no idea how Yan can see well enough to drive without headlights, but after a few minutes, my eyes adjust and I begin to make out the shapes of trees and bushes in the faint light of the crescent moon flickering through the clouds.
“Where’s the plane?” I ask when we finally turn onto a paved road and the teeth-rattling torture ceases. “How far is it from here?”
“Not far,” Ilya says, glancing back at me as Yan turns on the headlights—probably to blend better with the few cars that are out at this time. “Just a little longer, that’s all.”
“Okay, good.” Peter is feverishly mumbling something again, and I wouldn’t be surprised if at least some of his stitches got torn. “Do you think we’ll be able to—”
“Quiet.” Yan’s order is knife sharp. “I can’t miss this turn.”
I fall silent again, letting him concentrate on getting us to our destination. Before long, we turn off on another dirt road, and Yan switches off the headlights as we embark on another bone-rattling adventure.
I keep Peter as still as I can while stroking his sweaty hair. It seems to soothe him, and it helps keep me calm as well. As relieved as I am that we’re no longer alone, I know we’re not out of the woods yet—literally or figuratively. The tension in the car is palpable, the adrenaline thick in the air.