Peter glares at Yan—did he think I need to be protected from this?—before turning to face me. “That’s right,” he says evenly. “Henderson must’ve hired the sniper to make sure I was killed during arrest. I’m guessing the plan was to frame me, then use the authorities to take me down, along with everyone who’s ever helped me—and to do so in a very public way, so nothing could be hidden from the media. If I’d been arrested, I might’ve been able to convince the authorities of my innocence by finding the real culprits, and then everything could’ve gone back to the way it was—and Henderson would’ve been in real trouble.”
“But if he had the sniper there, why not just shoot you instead of killing the SWAT agent?” I ask, suppressing a shudder as the image of Peter’s head exploding flits through my mind. “If that sniper was in position—”
“Well, for one thing, the angle wasn’t optimal to get me,” Peter says. “Or at least that’s what we’ve determined based on my recollections of the event. To get that shot, he must’ve been lying on the roof of the three-story house on the neighboring block. Remember, the white one, with the gray roof?”
I nod, and he continues. “Well, I was closer to our house, so the roof must’ve been shielding me, at least partially. But more importantly, if I had been shot by an unknown sniper, it would’ve raised all sorts of suspicions about who’s really behind the attack, and I’m guessing that’s the last thing Henderson wanted. But with the agent getting shot, it was almost certain that the cops would assume it was someone in cahoots with me, and I would be killed in the resulting shootout anyway.”
“And you very nearly were.” I can’t hold back a shudder this time. “You came so close to dying…”
Peter’s lips curve in a cold smile. “Yes, but unfortunately for Henderson, I didn’t quite get there.”
I stare at him, the fine hairs on the back of my neck rising at the dark promise in his voice. I haven’t forgotten this side of him, but it had been easy not to think about it when we were going about our suburban life. The Peter I’d agreed to marry hadn’t been all that different from the vengeful assassin who’d invaded my home to murder George, but it had been possible to pretend that he was—that he was no longer capable of the terrible things he’d done to avenge Tamila and his son.
Except he is.
He always will be.
And now he has one more reason to go after Henderson.
“How are you going to do it?” I ask, and even I’m surprised at how conversational I sound. “Do you have a plan in place already?”
Because Henderson will die for this. I know that as surely as I know that Peter loves me. My lethal husband will make his enemy pay tenfold, and as wrong as it is, I can’t muster up an ounce of moral outrage at the thought.
The recently awakened monster within me wants Henderson to suffer, to know pain and devastating loss.
Peter’s icy smile doesn’t waver. “Don’t worry about the particulars, my love. Suffice it to say, he won’t get away with this.”
“I know he won’t,” I say softly, holding my husband’s gaze. “You won’t let him.”
And getting up, I go to the bathroom to freshen up, cognizant of Peter’s eyes tracking me as I walk through the cabin.
49
Peter
People process trauma in different ways. Some fall apart and never pull themselves together. Others find a core of strength that gets them through the days. I’ve always known that Sara was of the latter persuasion, but I’ve never appreciated her inner steel more than I do now as I watch the bathroom door close behind her slender figure.
She’s a warrior, my little bird—as strong in her own way as any trained soldier.
“So do you still think she’s all sweetness and light?” Yan says in Russian as I look away from the door and meet his coolly amused gaze. “Because from where I’m standing, your perfect little doctor seems to have developed quite a thirst for blood.”
“Shut it, Yan,” Ilya snaps before I can respond. “Now’s not the time.”
Under any other circumstances, I’d already have my hands around Yan’s throat, but Ilya is right.
We’re about to start our descent, and there’s no time for bullshit.
“I’m going to do a last-minute check on the situation on the ground,” I tell Ilya, pointedly ignoring Yan. “Esteban promised we’ll be all set, but you know how much I trust that weasel.”
“Right.” Ilya snatches Yan’s phone from his brother’s pocket and hands it to me. “Good idea.”
I punch in the number of a Venezuelan police chief I’ve had on my payroll for the past three years and wait for the call to connect. If all is well, Santiago will be clueless as to why I’m calling. If not…