“Give me your phone,” Peter says to Yan. “I’ll reach out to Esteban. In the meantime, tell Anton to set course for Venezuela. One way or another, we’re landing there.”
46
Peter
Esteban, the greedy little fucker, demands no less than three million euros to make the appropriate arrangements, but we don’t have any room to argue.
If we don’t land at his little airport, we’re fucked.
Finally, all the logistics are ironed out, and I make my way over to Sara’s seat. It’s big enough for two men, and she looks tiny curled up in it with her knees drawn up to her chest as she stares out the plane’s window.
“Ptichka.” I sink to my haunches in front of her, ignoring the pulling pain in my calf and side as I rest my hands on her ankles. “My love, are you okay?”
She focuses on me, blinking. “What are you doing? You should be lying down.”
“I’m fine,” I say, but she’s already on her feet, pulling me up and toward the couch. Sighing, I let her—because I do feel like shit.
“Lie down with me,” I say as I stretch out on the couch. “I want to hold you.”
She frowns. “But your side—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I pull her down until she has no choice but to stretch out beside me. Rolling onto my uninjured side, I spoon her from the back, inhaling the delicate perfume of her hair as Ilya and Yan pointedly turn away in their seats, giving us a modicum of privacy.
She’s rigid at first, undoubtedly worried about bumping into one of my injuries, but after a minute, some of the stiffness leaves her muscles. And that’s when I feel it.
An almost imperceptible trembling in her body.
She’s shaking all over.
My chest squeezes in agonized sympathy. My little songbird is not physically injured—that was the first thing I made sure of when we got on the plane—but that doesn’t mean she got off scot-free.
What she’s just been through is enough to give PTSD to a seasoned soldier, much less a civilian woman.
A pregnant civilian woman.
“How are you feeling, my love?” I ask softly, placing my hand on her belly. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it feels flatter than usual, as if she’s lost some weight. And maybe she has.
Between the unpredictable morning sickness and all the stress, she might not be eating properly.
“I’m fine,” she murmurs, even as her breath hitches on a betraying quiver. “It’s just…”
“The adrenaline aftermath, I know.” I keep my voice low and soothing as I move my hand from her stomach to stroke her hip. “It’ll pass.”
She draws in a deeper breath. “I know. It’ll be fine.”
“It will be,” I promise. “We’ll get to our safe house, and everything will be just fine.”
It’s the first time I’ve outright lied to her, and judging by the renewed stiffness of her body, my ptichka knows it.
Because it won’t be fine.
Nothing can undo what has been done and bring back Sara’s parents.
All I can do is seek vengeance—and that, I’ll do.
Henderson will pray for death long before I’m done with him.
47
Henderson
Escaped again.
Fury mixes with growing fear in my chest as I read the latest email from my contact.
They escaped, all of them, right from under Interpol’s nose.
Another minute, and Sokolov and his Russian friends would’ve been surrounded. Interpol could’ve gotten all four of them at once. Instead, they’re now in the air, on their way to fuck knows where.
And that’s not to mention Kent’s successful escape to Esguerra’s compound in the Amazon jungle, which even the Colombian government considers impenetrable.
If they all have a chance to regroup, I’m fucked—because by now, they’re bound to have figured out what went down and how.
Taking a breath to control a surge of panic, I begin composing an email to my CIA contact.
There’s still time to intercept Sokolov’s plane.
We just have to reach out to all the airports worldwide and get them to crack down on all air traffic control officers who might be even remotely amenable to taking bribes.
48
Sara
I must’ve drifted off in Peter’s embrace because I wake up to the low murmur of voices speaking Russian. Opening my eyes, I see my husband in a seat with a computer on his lap and the twins standing next to him. He’s pointing to something on the screen and talking in his native language.
“What’s going on?” I ask, sitting up. I feel groggy, as if I’ve been out for hours. And for all I know, I have been.
It’s a long flight from Switzerland to Venezuela.
The men glance in my direction. “Just trying to figure out where the sniper was hiding,” Yan says at the same time as Peter says, “Nothing, my love. Don’t worry about it.”
“A sniper?” A fresh spike of adrenaline sends me to my feet. “What sniper?” Then it dawns on me. “Oh, you mean whoever shot at the agent arresting you, causing all of them to panic and start shooting? I was wondering about that. I initially thought it might’ve been someone trying to help you, but they weren’t, were they? They were trying to cause trouble.”