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Tell Alina it’s time. I’m done being patient.
I grit my teeth, shutting out the memory of those softly uttered words. Whatever Alexei’s agenda is, he’s not getting anywhere near Alina. It’s bad enough that my son spent almost two months in the tender care of the elder Leonov before I was able to get him out; the last thing I want is for my emotionally fragile sister to be pulled into that nest of vipers.
Alina and I may have our differences, but she’s my responsibility, my cross to bear, and I will protect her from anyone who wishes her harm—especially her so-called intended.
Tamping down on the rage burning in my stomach, I reread the email. New York City—that’s about as far from Idaho as it gets. Could Alexei’s presence in the US so soon after our run-in in Dushanbe be a coincidence after all? I flew to Tajikistan on our private jet, and I know Konstantin’s team put safeguards in place to prevent anyone from learning my flight plan, so it’s possible Alexei is in New York for a reason totally unrelated to my family.
And it’s also possible he’s learned I’m in America, but he doesn’t know where, so he’s starting his search with the most logical place: the Big Apple.
Either way, it’s a headache I don’t need, especially with the Mission Impossible-level task of assassinating a presidential candidate already on my plate.
Switching my focus to that, I pull up the email that details Bransford’s upcoming travel and public appearance schedule. Step one is to verify that he is indeed Chloe’s father. For that, we need his DNA.
There are a dozen ways to go about doing this, but the most straightforward would be for me to attend one of his fundraisers under the guise of a potential donor and discreetly acquire a sample—say, by stealing his wine glass. The problem with that strategy is those events are far more public than I’m comfortable with, especially given Alexei’s unexpected arrival in the States. Now, more than ever, I have to stay under the radar to avoid exposing our location—which rules out another simple solution: getting a one-on-one meeting with Bransford.
Given his status as the frontrunner in his party’s primary race, I’d be thoroughly vetted, and my information would end up in some database that the Leonovs’ hackers might access. Additionally, it wouldn’t be wise to get on Bransford’s radar. Even if the assassins hadn’t made the connection between me and Chloe before I took them out, Bransford might know that she’d last been spotted in this area of Idaho, and if he somehow learns that this is where I’m residing, he’ll get suspicious.
No, as convenient and satisfying as it would be, I can’t get his DNA—or carry out the assassination—personally. Not without putting my family and Chloe in greater danger. As is, the clock is ticking. If the assassins told their employer that Chloe had inquired about my job posting at the local gas station, it’s only a matter of time before some other hired guns of his show up at my door.
I have to eliminate Bransford as a threat, and fast.
Reaching a decision, I fire off an email directing one of Valery’s new arrivals to pose as a waiter at the next event, so he can get Bransford’s DNA from a used glass or a utensil. It’s a formality at this point; I know I’m right about him—I can feel it in my gut. However, given the magnitude of what I’m planning, I need ironclad proof, and this is the best way to go about it. The only stronger evidence would be an outright confession of his guilt, and I don’t see a way to get that short of kidnapping the man—a task even more difficult than killing him outright.
For now, I will proceed as if he’s guilty, and plan out the hit. That way, as soon as the DNA test confirms his relationship with Chloe, I can pull the trigger—figuratively, if not literally. A sniper bullet would generate too much heat, so our best bet is to use one of our carefully crafted pharmaceuticals, or to stage some sort of accident.
Either way, he’ll pay for killing Chloe’s mother and trying to kill her.
Tom Bransford might not know it yet, but he’s already dead.
* * *
I spend the next two hours working out various logistics, and then I check the camera feed from Chloe’s room again.
She’s still with Slava; he’s camped out on her bed, his books and LEGO pieces scattered all over her blanket. They appear to be playing a game where she shows him something in a book, and he acts it out for her. As I watch, he jumps off the bed and hops around the room, imitating a rabbit.
“That’s a zaychik, right?” she says, smiling, and Slava’s eyes go wide before a huge smile takes over his little face.
