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I nod, my heart racing as I clutch the keys she gave me. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Go.” Throwing a worried glance behind her, Yulia pushes me toward the front door, and I don’t delay a second longer.
Keys in hand, I run out of the house and jump into the car.
47
Peter
“Five minutes,” I whisper into my headpiece. “Get ready.”
It’s been exactly twenty minutes since the lights appeared on the second floor of Arslan’s mansion. That means our target will walk out of his front door and get into his bulletproof car between five and ten minutes from now. As we’d hoped, he’s a creature of habit, his morning routine nearly the same every weekday morning. The time he leaves the house varies, as does the route he takes to work and where his bodyguards leave his car, but this—the time he spends at home, feeling safe and secure as he eats his breakfast—is entirely predictable.
In a few short minutes, there will be a small window when he’s out in the open with his bodyguards, and that’s when we’re going to strike.
“The RPG is loaded, and Ilya has the car ready,” Yan reports in my headpiece. He’s on the roof of the house across the street from the one where Anton and I are.
“Good.” I glance over at Anton, who’s lying on his stomach next to me, peering into the scope of his sniper’s rifle. “You ready?”
He nods without taking his eye off the target. “I’m going for head shots in case they’re wearing vests.”
“Good.” Turning my attention to my own M110, I adjust my scope. Head shots are tricky, especially once your targets start to react, but they’re the best way to ensure a professional stays dead.
Body armor is too often concealed under clothing these days.
The seconds tick by, each one stretching longer than the next. It’s easy to get impatient at a time like this, so I focus on steadying my breathing and making sure nothing obstructs my line of sight.
This is too important to fuck up.
Unbidden, thoughts of Sara steal into my mind. I wonder what she’s doing, if she’s still sleeping or if she’s already up. As exciting as this is for me—and it is exciting, I can’t lie—I’d much rather be home in Japan, holding her warm, naked body as she comes awake. In just a few short months, my little songbird has become more important to me than anything else in the world, my passion for her crowding out everything else that once interested me.
The sound of a door opening wrenches me out of my thoughts.
“He’s coming,” Yan whispers in the headset, and I force myself to focus.
There will be time for Sara later.
If we survive today, that is.
48
Sara
Ten minutes. The car’s tires squeal as I zoom down the long driveway and barrel through the open gates, gripping the wheel so hard my fingers dig into the leather.
I have only ten minutes.
That is, assuming Yulia’s estimate was correct. I don’t know how she escaped from her lethal-looking husband and disabled all those security measures, but it’s entirely possible he’s already on my heels.
There are no lights along this one-lane road, no signs—nothing to tell me where I’m going. The moon and my car’s headlights are the only sources of illumination. I have no idea which way southwest is, so when I reach a two-lane road, I randomly turn left, going on instinct.
If I just turned the wrong way, I’m screwed.
My heart feels like it’s going to hammer through my chest, my breathing loud in my ears. Sweat forms in my armpits and drips down my sides, and my knee trembles as I floor the gas pedal. Driving on the left side of the road, with the wheel on the left side of the car, is beyond confusing for an American like me, but I don’t dare slow down.
Eight minutes.
Seven minutes.
I can do it.
I can make it.
Headlights from an oncoming car blind me, sending my adrenaline levels surging. Is it Kent? His guards?
The car passes by without stopping, and I exhale in relief, lifting my foot off the gas pedal as the road curves sharply in front of me. The last thing I need is to lose control of the car and go through the guardrail, like George did that terrible night. As is, even with reduced speed, I’m going 110 kilometers an hour. If the gas station is seven kilometers away, I should make it with time to spare.
Another minute passes before the road curves again, and I see it.
More headlights, this time behind me.
Gripping the wheel tighter, I floor the gas pedal again.
The car behind me accelerates as well.
My stomach climbs into my throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a speed limit sign. It’s 50kmh—over sixty, no, seventy kilometers less than my current speed. And if that car is catching up to me, it’s going even faster.
