Neither twin has gotten back to me yet—and neither has Anton.
I check the clock again. It’s 11:33 p.m.—only two minutes later than the last time I looked. Sara is asleep next to me, her chestnut waves spread over my pillow, and as much as I want to join her in peaceful slumber, I can’t bring myself to close my eyes.
My instincts are on high alert again.
Careful not to wake Sara, I push up to a sitting position and swing my legs to the floor. Slowly and carefully, I stand up, ignoring the pulling pain at my side and the ache in my calf. The room spins around me as I take the first step, but my legs are able to support me.
Good.
I can’t afford to be flat on my back if something goes down.
At my request, a couple of guns have been delivered to my room, so I walk over to the closet to inspect them. It’s nothing fancy—just an M16 and a couple of Glocks—but it’s better than nothing.
I check each weapon and load it, then take out a pair of pants from the closet and pull them on under my hospital gown, careful not to dislodge the bandage on my leg. My heart is beating too fast from the exertion, and I’m sweating like a hog, but I throw off the hospital gown and pull on a loose sweater, followed by a pair of socks and boots.
“Peter?” Sara’s sleepy voice reaches me as I’m strapping one of the Glocks to my left ankle. “What are you doing?”
I look up from where I’m crouched. “Just getting dressed, ptichka. Don’t worry.”
“What?” Sara sits up, the drowsiness evaporating from her voice as she takes in my appearance. “Why are you getting dressed? You need to be in bed, resting, not—”
“I think we need to leave.” I stand up slowly, breathing through the pain. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
Sara turns into a statue on the bed. “You think we’re not safe here?”
“I don’t think we’re safe anywhere right now,” I say as I sling the M16 over my shoulder and stuff the other Glock into my waistband. “However, it worries me that I haven’t heard from Yan or the others.”
“You haven’t?” She pads across the room with bare feet and stops in front of me, the color of her face matching the white T-shirt she’s wearing in place of pajamas. “Could they just be busy?”
“Anything is possible.” For all I know, the twins are in the middle of a hit, and Anton is having reception issues on the plane. “In our situation, though, better safe than sorry.”
“But where will we go? Three days ago, you were out of your mind with the fever. You need to be in a hospital, healing—”
“I’m fine now,” I interrupt. Framing her delicate face with my palm, I say in a softer tone, “Don’t worry, my love. You did your part, and now it’s time for me to do mine.”
And as she stares up at me with huge, scared eyes, I drop a kiss on her tempting lips, then reach into the closet to take out her clothes.
43
Sara
I get dressed while Peter tries reaching Anton and the twins again. My hands are cold from stress, my fingers clumsy, and it takes two attempts to tie the shoelaces on my sneakers.
“Anything?” I ask when I’m done, and Peter shakes his head, his face dark.
“Nothing. I’m going to try Kent, see if he’s heard anything.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea.” I chew on my lip as he punches in some number and waits, phone pressed to his ear.
“It’s Peter,” he says tersely. “Have you—wait, what?”
He listens in tense silence as Kent fills him in on whatever’s happened, and when he lowers the phone, I take a step back at his expression.
“Interpol raided Yulia’s restaurants. All of them,” he says tightly. “Lucas barely managed to get Yulia out before they came to his house in Cyprus. Now they’re on their way to Esguerra’s compound in Colombia—the only place that may be semi-safe for them.”
“Oh, God.” I feel a sudden wave of nausea. “Do you think Yan and the others…?”
“They might’ve already been taken, yes. Either way, we don’t have a minute to waste.”
Gripping my hand, he leads me out of the room, his strides as strong and sure as if he hadn’t been on the verge of dying mere days ago.
I have to jog to keep up with the pace he sets as we hurry down the corridor and into the staircase. “No elevator?” I ask, panting as we briskly head down, and he shakes his head, tightening his hold on my hand.
“Too easy to get trapped.”
I want to remind him of his wounds and beg him to take it easy, but now is not the time. If the authorities have gone so far as to come after Kent—Esguerra’s right-hand man and thus another untouchable—Peter is right about the clinic not being safe.