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Not for the first time, I think about the morning-after pill I gave her and the condoms we’re continuing to use. Maybe it was a mistake to listen to the remnants of my conscience and give in to Sara’s pleas in this regard. When her period came two weeks ago, I felt like I lost something, and no matter how hard I try to force the idea of Sara with child out of my mind, I can’t stop dwelling on it.
I can’t stop wanting it.
My little bird, pregnant. I can picture it so clearly when I look at her—the swollen belly and the full, ripe breasts, the glow of life developing inside her… Her pretty nipples would get extra sensitive, her slim body lush and soft, and when the child would be born, she’d love it.
She’d care for our baby, the way my birth mother never cared for me.
It’s tempting, and the desire gnaws at me more each day. Up here, Sara is completely in my power. If I left the condoms off, there’d be nothing she could do, no morning-after pill she could get from somewhere on her own. She’d have my child and she’d love it, and then someday, she’d grow to love me too.
We’d be a family, and I’d finally truly have her.
She’d be mine, and she’d never want to leave.
The night before Ilya and I depart for Nigeria, I make a special dinner for Sara and the team, whipping up each person’s favorite dishes, along with a couple of Japanese recipes I’ve been itching to try out.
“Why don’t we eat like this every day?” Anton complains, scooping up a second serving of vinegret—a traditional beet-based Russian salad. “Seriously, man, you’ve got to step it up. All we had yesterday was rice and fish.”
I give him the finger, and the Ivanov twins laugh before tucking into their favorite dish—lamb kebobs done the Georgian way, complete with a spicy dipping sauce. Even Sara smiles as she loads her plate with a little bit of everything, including my attempt at tempura vegetables.
As we eat, the guys and I discuss some of the job’s logistics, and Sara quietly listens, as is her habit during mealtimes. The distance she keeps from me extends to my men; she rarely talks to them, at least when I’m around. The only one she seems to like is Ilya, and even with him, she’s reserved, her manner polite but far from warm. I think she feels uncomfortable around my teammates; either that, or she hates them for being my accomplices.
I don’t mind her attitude toward them. In fact, I prefer it. Over the past six weeks, I’ve caught all three eyeing Sara with varying degrees of interest, and I’ve barely stopped myself from slitting their throats. I know they don’t mean anything by looking—any red-blooded male would appreciate Sara’s trim, graceful beauty—but I’m still tempted to kill them.
She’s mine, and I don’t share. Ever.
In any case, I’m glad it’s Yan who’s staying behind. Of the four of us, he has the coolest head, and though I trust all three of my teammates, I have the greatest confidence in Yan’s self-control. He wouldn’t touch Sara, no matter the temptation, and that’s precisely what I need.
I have to know she’s safely guarded, so I can focus on the job.
“So what about the townspeople?” Yan asks as Ilya outlines our escape route after the hit. We’re all speaking English out of deference to Sara, and to my surprise, I see her face whiten as I explain about the bombs we’re planning to set off as a distraction.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s worried for us.
We go through more of the bombing logistics and are in the middle of discussing contingency plans when Sara abruptly stands up, her chair scraping across the floor.
“Please excuse me,” she says in a shaky voice, and before I can stop her, she runs to the staircase and disappears upstairs.
23
Sara
I feel sick, literally ill with anxiety. My stomach is cramping, and it feels like a truck drove over my chest. Ever since Peter told me about the Nigerian banker, I’ve been trying not to think about the danger, but tonight, listening to the men talk about the insane security at the banker’s compound and what they’ll do in case one of them gets injured or killed, I couldn’t ignore it any longer.
Tomorrow, Peter and his teammates will go up against a monster in his heavily guarded lair, and there’s no guarantee they’ll come out alive.
Locking myself in the bathroom, I hurry to the sink and splash cold water on my face, trying to breathe through the suffocating tightness in my throat. It feels like a panic attack, only the fear I’m feeling has nothing to do with my own situation—a situation that could, in fact, be resolved by Peter’s death.
