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Shaking, I watch the SUV tear through the iron gate amidst a hail of bullets, then rocket down a narrow road with two guard SUVs in hot pursuit. The drone follows long enough to show one pursuing SUV careening off the road, as though they shot its tires, but after a few more seconds, the cars disappear in the distance, leaving the drone behind.
Yan mutters what sounds like a Russian curse and again pounds furiously at the keyboard. A new window pops up, this one with an audio feed graph, and I realize he must be tuning in to some radio signal. Sure enough, a minute later, he resumes speaking in frantic Russian, and I exhale a shaking breath.
Someone in that SUV must be alive.
Is it Peter? Are they hurt? How far to the plane? Is Ilya still alive? Is Peter hurt?
The questions threaten to burst out, but I dig my nails into my palms and remain silent, not daring to distract Yan as he pulls up a map and rattles off instructions in rapid-fire Russian. His posture is as tense as ever, his attention laser-focused on the screen, and I know they’re still in danger.
If they’re all alive, that is.
Taking a breath, I try to calm myself, to stop the tears from streaking down my frozen face, but the fear is too strong. I’m sick with it, poisoned by the surfeit of adrenaline. I’ve never known this kind of debilitating worry for another. My heart pounds violently in my ribcage, each beat marking another second of wretched waiting.
Peter has to be all right. He has to be.
One minute, two, three, ten… I stare at the tiny clock in the corner of the screen as Yan falls silent, joining me in waiting.
Twelve minutes.
Fifteen.
Eighteen.
I don’t move. I barely even breathe.
Twenty.
Twenty-two.
Yan’s posture changes, taking on a new alertness. Gripping the microphone, he speaks a few terse sentences in Russian, then removes the headphones and swivels to face me.
Ravages of stress still mark his features, but the tension I saw earlier is gone. “It’s over,” he says. “They’re in the air, on their way to Egypt. A bullet grazed Ilya’s skull, but they stopped the bleeding, and he’s already briefly woken up. With any luck, he’ll be okay.”
I grip the counter, bracing myself. “And Peter?”
“Bruised and a little bloodied, but not injured. Same goes for Anton.”
I exhale, dizzy with relief, and swipe at the wetness on my cheeks with the back of my trembling hand.
Peter is alive.
Bruised and bloodied, but alive.
I want to sink to the floor, the post-adrenaline slump hitting me like a bullet, but I steady myself against the counter, forcing my overloaded brain to function. “So why—” I clear my throat, chasing the hoarseness from my voice. “Why are they going to Egypt?”
“Ilya still needs medical attention, and there’s a clinic,” Yan explains, then gives me an arrested stare.
“What?” I ask, my heartbeat accelerating.
“You’re a doctor,” he says, cocking his head. “Aren’t you?”
“I… yes.” Doesn’t he know that? “I’m a licensed OB-GYN.”
“Do you know how to stitch a wound?”
I’m beginning to see where this is heading. “Yes, of course. I also did a rotation in ER during my residency, but—”
“Hold on.” He pivots to face the laptop and puts on the headphones.
“Wait, Yan. He needs a hospital,” I protest, but he’s already speaking into the microphone in Russian.
Frustrated, I wait for him to finish, and when he turns to face me again, I tell him firmly, “This is a bad idea. Your brother could have a concussion or internal bleeding. He needs a CT scan, antibiotics, proper medical equipment… He—”
“Has survived worse, believe me,” Yan interrupts, his face resolute. “What he needs is rest and recovery time, and we can’t give him that in the clinic—not with the authorities about to scour the African continent for us. We have antibiotics and basic medical supplies here—we stock that in all of our safe houses—and now we have a doctor too.”
I frown. “No, listen. It’s still not—”
“You should get some sleep, Sara,” Yan advises, reaching for his headphones. “You look tired, and we’ll need you sharp and rested when they land.”
28
Peter
Sara is standing by the helipad as we land, her slender figure small and fragile next to Yan’s solid frame. My chest squeezes at the sight, my longing for her painfully sharp, and it’s all I can do not to grab her as soon as our helicopter skids touch the ground. Instead, the first thing I do upon jumping out of the chopper is help Ilya out. The wound where the bullet grazed his skull is no longer bleeding, but he’s still weak from loss of blood and more than a little concussed.
If the banker’s mistress had used something other than a pearl-handled .22 revolver and had better aim, we’d be bringing him home in a body bag.
