Fuck. Amber wasn’t supposed to see that.
Of my two children, she’s the one who’s always on my side.
“Nothing, sweetheart,” I manage to say calmly. “Your mom just needs her medicine, that’s all.”
And leaving Bonnie sobbing on the floor, I lead my daughter away, back to her room.
I can’t save everyone I care about, but I will protect my family.
Even if the ingrates make it fucking hard to do.
I’ve finally gotten my hands on the layout of Esguerra’s Colombian compound, and I’m studying it for Operation Air Drop when it occurs to me that the house is silent.
Too silent.
There are no videogame explosions in the living room, no clattering of dishes in the kitchen despite the fact that it is dinner time.
My blood pressure spiking, I go from room to room.
Nothing.
No one is here.
Our cabin in Iceland is as cold and empty as the snow-covered roads outside.
I run into the garage, and sure enough, the Jeep is missing. Bonnie must’ve taken it to go into town with the children.
That stupid bitch. I slam my palm against the wall. I told her a million times we can’t step a foot out of this place. How could she take such a risk given what’s happening with all our friends and relatives? Doesn’t she realize my enemies will flay her rib from rib?
Unless… My chest seizes, the air evaporating in my lungs.
She wouldn’t.
She couldn’t.
She wouldn’t fucking dare.
Nonetheless, my legs carry me back inside the house, to her room. I’d looked inside it only briefly, just long enough to see she wasn’t there.
So now I step in and look around—and fury nearly boils me alive.
On her nightstand, underneath her TV remote, is a small piece of paper with her handwriting.
We’re leaving, it says. We’d rather take our chances out there than be “safe” in here with you.
77
Peter
I step into the interrogation shed, where a young woman sits bound to a chair. Her small face is decorated with bruises, and her lower lip is split, giving her a pouty look. Her gaze, however, is clear and defiant.
No pushover, this pretty sniper. I wonder if Yan gave her those bruises during interrogation, or if they’re from the fight she put up during her capture yesterday.
Hearing footsteps, I turn around and see Yan and Ilya entering the room.
“We’ve just gotten the files on the men whose names she gave us,” Ilya says, holding out his phone. “Our doppelgängers have quite a resume. All four are former Delta Force, same unit. They and a few of their buddies got court-martialed fifteen years ago for gang-raping a sixteen-year-old girl in Pakistan. Six of them got arrested, but the others broke them out and they all went on the lam. Since then, they’ve been doing random jobs here and there, everything from minor assassinations to planting bombs for terrorist organizations.”
As he speaks, I scroll through the photos on the screen. They’d clearly had great disguises while impersonating us. The faces looking at me bear very little resemblance to our own; at best, one looks vaguely like me—and even then, his hair is dirty blond.
An idea occurs to me. “Who did their makeup and disguises?” I ask the sniper, coming to stand in front of her chair. “It looks like it was someone very skilled.”
She claims not to know where Henderson is hiding, and that chicken-livered ublyudok didn’t cave, letting his friends and relatives die in his stead, so we’ll need to get to him some other way… maybe through the team he used to plant the explosive.
She’s silent for a moment; then she says sullenly, “Me. I did it.”
I raise my eyebrows skeptically. “Is that right?”
Her nostrils flare. “Why would I lie? I’ve already given you all those names. What’s one more in the grand scheme of things?”
Her English is as pure as any American’s. I wonder when and how a Czech girl learned to speak it so well.
“This will be easy to verify,” Yan says, stepping forward to stand next to me. “She can show off her skill on me tonight.”
“And on me.” Ilya’s hands twitch at his sides as he glares at his brother.
Great. They’re still at each other’s throats over who gets to fuck her.
Pushing my irritation aside, I ask the girl a dozen more questions, and she answers them all, albeit reluctantly. As she’s a private contractor with no particular loyalty to anyone, she’s wisely decided to cooperate with us in exchange for her life and eventual freedom.
I’m planning to off her anyway—Sara’s parents are dead because of her—but for now, I don’t mind letting her believe she’s going to walk away.
Either way, she’s not as useful as I hoped. She said she’s only met Henderson in person once, and has no idea where he could be hiding. Nor does she know where our impersonators are, though she’s frequently worked with them in the past.