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I haven’t seen my family in four and a half months, and if I don’t escape, I may never see them again.
Unless Peter gets killed, an insidious whisper reminds me, and my heart falters for a beat. Worry for my captor is a constant heavy band around my lungs, unbreakable and suffocating, and no matter how much I reason with myself, I can’t make the fear go away.
I don’t want my freedom.
Not at this price, at least.
I haven’t given up on the idea of escape, but given these new developments, my new plan is to get away in Cyprus. I don’t know what kind of security this Lucas Kent has in place, but there’s a chance he’ll be more careless than Peter and his men, less invested in keeping me away from the internet and phones. He might even have qualms about acting as my jailer, though I’m not counting on that.
Men in Peter’s world don’t seem to care about a woman’s freedom.
As the helicopter takes off, I watch our mountain retreat grow smaller in the window, but instead of hope, all I feel is dread. I should welcome this change, should seize the opportunities it offers, but while I intend to do precisely that, I can’t help wishing we weren’t going.
I can’t help fearing what happens next.
I don’t sleep on the plane this time—I can’t—and by the time we land on a private airstrip in Cyprus, my eyes burn from dryness and exhaustion. Peter didn’t sleep either, spending most of the thirteen-hour flight going over last-minute logistics with the twins, but he looks as fresh as the moment we stepped on the plane—and so do his men.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think all Russians are superhuman.
It’s pleasantly warm when we step off the plane, the tropical breeze carrying a hint of salt and sea. A black limo is waiting for us by the air strip, and it takes us on a scenic ride through a sparsely populated area. A couple of times, I even spot what looks like a wild donkey. The drive itself, however, makes me nervous. Not only do we drive on the left side of the road, like in the UK, but the roads are narrow and winding, occasionally stretching alongside some dangerous-looking cliffs.
Finally, we reach an automatic gate, and at the end of a long driveway, I see a Mediterranean-style house on a bluff overlooking the beach—Kent’s home, according to Peter. It’s large and beautifully maintained but not nearly as ostentatious as I expected from a wealthy arms dealer.
“Don’t let the size of the house fool you,” Peter says when I mention that to him. “Kent doesn’t like to have live-in staff, but he owns all the land as far as the eye can see, including the beach below, and he has extraordinary security measures in place. Right now, there are several dozen guards patrolling the area, and upward of fifty military-grade drones surveilling us. If Kent thought we were in any way a threat, we wouldn’t get within a kilometer of his place without getting blown into bits.”
“Oh.” I glance up, my stomach tightening. Though it’s only late afternoon in this timezone, the sky is covered with clouds, and that makes it even more threatening somehow, the fact that something so deadly is hovering above us unseen.
“Don’t worry,” Yan says, apparently divining my thoughts. He’s walking behind me and Peter, carrying a bag slung casually over his shoulder. “If Kent wanted us dead, we wouldn’t still be walking.”
“Shut it, you idiot,” his brother mutters, casting a worried glance at Peter, but his boss is not listening. Instead, he’s looking at the tall, broad-shouldered man who just opened the front door and is coming down the steps toward us.
I stare at him too, fascinated by the granite hardness of his features and the iciness of his pale eyes. His light-colored hair is worn short, almost in a buzz cut, and his skin is darkly tanned. Like Peter, he looks to be in his mid-thirties, and like my captor, he must also be former military. I can see it in the way he carries himself and the keen alertness of his gaze.
This is a man used to danger.
No, I realize as he comes closer, a man who thrives on danger.
It’s not anything specific that gives that impression—he’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, with no weapons or tattoos in sight—but I feel certain of my conclusion. There’s just something about men who are intimately acquainted with violence, a kind of fearless ruthlessness that civilized people lack. Peter and his teammates have it in spades, and so does this man.
“Lucas,” Peter says in greeting, stopping in front of him. “It’s good to see you.”
The blond man nods, his smile as hard as his face. “Sokolov.” His pale gaze flicks toward me. “And you must be Sara.”
