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To maintain my sanity, I intensify the search for Henderson, the last and most elusive person on my list. The fact that we haven’t already found him and his family substantiates the rumor about his CIA background. The fucker is good at this—as good as someone in my profession.
It may be time to turn up the heat.
“We’re going to North Carolina,” I announce at the breakfast table the following morning. “Going to shake things up in Asheville, see if we can flush the fucker out the hard way.”
My teammates look up from their plates with identically unsurprised expressions. This has been the fallback plan all along. We’d rather not involve innocents—Henderson’s friends and distant family members who had nothing to do with the Daryevo massacre—but given our target’s elusiveness, it’s the only option left.
“He’ll be expecting us,” Anton says, pushing his plate aside. “It’s most likely a trap.”
I smile grimly. “I know.”
The difficulty of this operation is what I’m looking forward to the most. Not only will we have to get in and out of the country undetected, but Henderson will undoubtedly have the Feds keeping an eye on his connections. Logistically, this will be similar to stealing Sara back, only instead of kidnapping one woman, we’ll be interrogating half a dozen people, all of whom are likely watched by Henderson’s buddies from the FBI, and maybe even the CIA.
“Should be fun,” Yan says, his green eyes gleaming. “Beats sticking around here.” He waves his hand to indicate the rustic cabin where we’ve been staying for the past week—our safe house in eastern Poland.
Ilya shoots him a glare and resumes eating. He’s been on the outs with his brother for the past week, ever since Yan fucked a Budapest waitress Ilya also wanted. It’s not the first time the situation has arisen—the twins have a similar taste in women—but in the past, they would just amicably share, either by double-teaming the girl or taking turns. I have no idea what made this waitress different, but Ilya has been pissed with Yan ever since we got here.
I’m not about to get in the middle of that dispute, so I just pretend not to notice the tension at the table. “Get ready,” I tell the guys. “I want to be in Asheville before the end of the week, so we need to have a viable plan by tomorrow.”
And getting up, I go to email my US contacts.
21
Sara
I meet Marsha at a club in the West Loop neighborhood of Chicago. It’s new, trendy, and so loud my ears throb from the music blaring from the speakers. Marsha is already on the dance floor, grinding against two young banker types, so I make my way to the bar and order myself a gin and tonic. I’m hoping the alcohol will soothe the ever-present ball of tension in my stomach.
Any day now. Any day. I’ve been telling myself this for weeks, yet I’m still here, still in this unsettling limbo. Five days ago, Mom walked the entire distance from her bed to the bathroom with only her crutches for assistance, and yet I’m still here, living in my parents’ house with no idea when—or if—Peter is coming back for me.
Could it be? Could the lies I’ve been telling the FBI have turned out to be the truth? Maybe my Russian assassin did get bored with me. Maybe my clinging to him at the clinic made him lose interest. I know he thrives on danger and challenges of all sorts, and maybe that’s all I meant to him: a challenge. After all, what greater achievement is there than winning the affection of your enemy’s widow, a woman who has every reason to hate your guts?
The thought keeps invading my mind, and I keep pushing it away, remembering the look on Peter’s face when he vowed to return for me. “As long as there’s breath in my body,” he said, and I didn’t doubt him for a moment—not after the lengths he went to in order to make me his.
I still don’t doubt him—not really—and that means only one thing.
If Peter hasn’t returned for me, it’s because he can’t.
It’s because something happened.
I’ve been trying not to think about that, to force the terrifying possibility from my mind, but I can no longer ignore it. Peter’s life is such that he might as well be a soldier in a war zone. Between the authorities hunting him worldwide and the powerful criminals he deals with all the time, he defies the odds just surviving from day to day. And when his “jobs” are added to the mix, the chances that he’s hurt or worse are not insignificant.
In fact, they’re so high my insides are in a permanent knot these days.
The only thing that gives me solace is that I’m still being watched, both by the FBI and by Peter’s shadowy men. That itchy feeling between my shoulder blades never abates when I’m in public. In fact, at this very moment, I’m certain there are at least a couple of my stalkers in the club—the nondescript Fed who followed me in and is nursing a beer on the other side of the bar and someone else, someone I can’t identify but whose presence I feel.
