Page 198 of Lethal Obsession

And I am the man who took that son from him.

If I take every other consideration out of play and ask myself simply what my own father would do in that situation—I already have the answer, from my father’s own confession.

And where does that leave me? I wonder, rolling the flask between my hands again. Am I seeking vengeance—or building a new set of prison walls?

My thumb slides across the base of the hip flask, and I realize the marks I can feel there aren’t random, but some kind of inscription. I turn it upside down and squint at the engraved words, long turned smooth from wear.

Glaza boyatsya, a ruki delayut, I read.

The eyes are afraid, but the hands do.

My heart catches in my throat. I wonder when the inscription was made. While Aleksander was still alive, or did Papa have it done to remember him after his death?

I don’t know the full story, Papa.

It seems, suddenly, extremely important that I find out, before it is too late.

And what do those words mean to me now, in the context of what I am flying back to?

Does it mean my hands should murder Silas Thorne, even if my eyes are afraid of what might be built as a result?

The plane flies on, every minute bringing me inexorably closer to men who want me dead and others I know I must kill.

Farther away from Ofelia and the life I dared to dream I might have.

And as darkness begins to fall beyond the window, I think of the swamp I first survived and then went on to make my own.

I know it is the gulag my father spoke of.

I know I’m going back to Miami because I need to escape it forever.

What I don’t know is if I’m destined to keep building bigger walls—and condemning those I love to die behind them with me, even if they never chose to.

I hitch a ride on one of the Cardeñas narco-subs to Cay Sal Bank in the Bahamas, where the Guapa has been anchored since we gave up the pretense that Lars was on it.

“The crew haven’t seen a photographer for weeks, apparently,” Andrew greets me as I climb aboard. He’s left a temporary crew aboard the Quantum Drift and brought my best people out to the Guapa.

Christ knows I’m likely to need them.

“Anyone tracking me will follow a flight trail back to Sicily,” I say. “Mak covered my journey here, and I have his assurance it was untraceable.” I don’t need to add that when he gives that kind of guarantee, it’s ironclad.

Andrew nods. “We’re just over eight hours’ sailing time to Miami. We’ve booked the Guapa in for routine maintenance, so we’re expected, but we’ve ensured there’ll be a vessel in distress near Haulover Inlet by the time we’re fifteen miles offshore. The Coast Guard will scramble north to attend to it, leaving a window for Dima to come out and meet us. He’ll take you in through the southern bay and dock at the Grove before anyone has any idea you’re here.”

“Good.” I check my watch, yawning. I’m no good at sleeping on planes, and between the events of the past days, I’ve barely closed my eye.

Not least because when I do, all I see is Lars’s face.

“Why don’t you get your head down for a time, sir?” Andrew nods at the dark water in front of us. “We’ve got people watching everything. I’ll wake you in time to get ready for Dima’s arrival. Do you want a drink brought to your room?”

“No.” I glance around. “Is the bar stocked with Graf?”

“Of course.”

Heading over to it, I fill my father’s flask to the brim, then raise it in Andrew’s direction. “Catch you in the morning, then. Or midnight. Whatever.” I turn away without waiting for an answer, suddenly barely able to keep my eye open. In my cabin, I take a shower, down half the hip flask, then fall face down on the bed and pass out completely.

“Nice James Bond shit,” Dima greets me as I jump down into the boat.

I grip his outstretched hand. “Thought you’d enjoy it.”