“Julian, listen to me,” I continue as Sara and the twins stare at me intently. “I can take down Henderson, and I can do it quickly. All I need is a place to lay low for a bit and some of your resources, and I’ll prove that you had nothing to do with the explosion. By this time next month, you’ll be back in Uncle Sam’s good graces, and we’ll be out of your hair for good. Or you can try to deal with it on your own, and put up with every law enforcement agency coming after—”
“Fuck you and your team.” There’s no mistaking the fury in Esguerra’s voice. “You’re the reason for this whole fucking mess. And you know what? I bet if I hand over you and the other ‘terrorists’ on your team to Uncle Sam, that’ll go a long way toward mending that relationship.”
“Will it? Are you sure?” It’s my turn to sound coolly mocking. “A dangerous explosive—your explosive—was deployed on US soil against the FBI. Every agency is involved in this, every bureaucrat from high to low. Do you really think all will be forgiven and forgotten if you turn over your co-conspirators? Because that’s what they’ll believe, you know—that you’re just ratting out your cohorts. Unless you expose Henderson for what he is and clear your name quickly, you’re just as fucked as we are.”
There’s another long, tense silence on the line. Then Esguerra says harshly, “Fine. I can give you a place to lay low. I have a contact in Sudan. Once you get there—”
“Sudan won’t work,” I interrupt. “I have a different place in mind.”
“Oh?”
“Your compound. We’ll be there in an hour.”
And before he can reply, I hang up.
52
Sara
I watch, stomach in knots, as Peter calmly pockets the phone and walks back to the pilot’s cabin—presumably to inform Anton that we’re going to Esguerra’s compound, regardless of the arms dealer’s feelings on the matter.
“You know he’ll just shoot us down on approach,” Yan says when Peter reappears a minute later. “And that’s if our fuel lasts that long.”
“It will,” Ilya says confidently. “And he won’t. You heard Peter: Esguerra needs us to sort out this mess quickly.”
“Yeah, sure,” Yan mutters and heads over to the bathroom in the back of the plane.
My legs don’t feel entirely steady as I walk over to the couch and sit down.
Is this how we’ll die?
Not by a bullet, but in a plane crash?
The couch dips beside me, and a big, warm hand covers my knee. “It’ll be all right, ptichka,” Peter murmurs, raising his other hand to brush back my hair. His fingers graze my jaw, the touch so tender it makes me want to cry.
“How do you know?” I whisper, then chide myself for acting like a needy child.
Of course he doesn’t know.
He’s just saying it to make me feel better.
“Because I know Julian,” he says softly. He hasn’t shaved in days, and the dark stubble accentuates the unhealthy pallor of his skin. Nonetheless, he still somehow radiates his usual strength and self-assurance. I know it’s most likely a façade, but I can’t help but feel reassured as he presses his lips to my forehead, then wraps one powerful arm around my shoulders, tucking me against his uninjured side.
“You should be resting,” I murmur after a minute. As strong as my husband is, he’s not invincible. It was only days ago that he was at death’s door. But when I attempt to pull away, he holds me tighter, and I give up with a sigh, laying my head on his shoulder.
It’s not worth fighting over.
After all, this may be our last hour together.
53
Peter
The tailwind weakens just as we’re about to begin our descent. I learn about it via a terse announcement from Anton.
Excusing myself, I carefully extricate myself from Sara’s embrace and head over to speak to him, grateful that he had the foresight to speak Russian.
My ptichka is worried enough as is.
Ilya and Yan are already inside the cockpit, with Yan crouched next to Anton, holding a computer.
“How much are we going to fall short by?” I ask without preamble.
“Not much,” Anton says. “If the wind speed doesn’t drop more, we might have enough for a hard landing—or we might not. It depends on how well this plane runs on fumes.”
“Are there any landing strips closer?” Ilya asks. “A wide road would do as well.”
“I can’t find anything like that on the map,” Yan says, and I see him zooming in on a heavily forested region on Google Maps. “We’re right on the edge of the jungle; there’s nothing but trees, rivers, and narrow dirt roads.”
I bite back a vicious curse.
This is bad.
Really fucking bad.
If it were just us, I wouldn’t worry as much—people have been known to survive plane crashes—but even a hard landing could be too much for Sara and the baby.