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I swear on Mina’s life I’ll find Nagy. I’ll deliver him to Mina if it’s the last thing I do.
“How’s she holding up?” Ilya asks, his face pulled into a mask of concern.
My gut clenches. Emotions threaten to erupt, but I push them under the surface. If I give my feelings free rein, I’ll go stark raving mad, and that’s not going to help Mina. “She’s tough. She’ll pull through.”
She has to.
“Buckle up,” Anton says. “We’re lucky we had the wind behind us. We’re touching down in five minutes.”
Thank fuck. The hour-long flight felt like an eternity. My nerves are raw, my emotions all over the place. On the outside, I’m acting with the efficient rationality of a man with military training. On the inside, I’m a mess. Mina’s injury—an injury that could very well turn out to be fatal—is jeopardizing my sanity, while the information Anton shared is making me boil with rage.
As I hold Mina’s motionless body, I take a silent oath to make all the wrongs right. I’ll give her the freedom I intended. I’ll give her anything in my power. If I believed in God, I’d pray. I’m desperate enough to pray anyway. I’ll do anything, anything at all. I’ll become a goddamn priest if that’s the bargain I have to make.
A vehicle has been delivered to the hangar. Anton, bless his efficient soul, called the rental agency while he was waiting for us in Prague. Ilya grabs the two Glocks to bring with us. Armed with the AK-47, Anton stays behind, using the hangar as a workstation to tap into our satellite and check the area around the clinic for suspicious activities or persons. One can never be safe enough. Ilya gets behind the wheel and drives.
Cradling Mina with one arm against my chest in the backseat, I use my secure cellphone to dial the clinic and ask for Dr. Adami. I didn’t want to call while we were in the air and find a team of feds waiting for us at the airfield when we landed. I doubt she’ll alarm the authorities, but I prefer to be on the safe side.
She takes my call jovially, presumably because of that big donation, or maybe she’s truly glad Mina finally found someone. I know Hanna talked to her about me, because I planted bugs while we visited Hanna. I’m more grateful than I care to admit that Mina’s grandmother approves of me, likes me even.
“Mr. Ivanov, what a nice surprise,” Adami says in fluent Russian. “What can I do for you?”
There’s no time to beat around the bush. “Mina needs help.”
Alarm replaces the warmth in her tone. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s injured.”
“What kind of injury?”
“Gunshot.”
Her breath catches. “Where are you?”
“On our way.”
“If it’s a gunshot wound, she needs surgery.”
“That’s why we’re coming to you.”
“Is she in trouble?”
“Yes,” I say honestly. “I wouldn’t be asking you otherwise.”
“I’m no longer an ER surgeon.”
“But you were for years.” I learned that as part of my research on the clinic. “Please. Mina is out of options. You’re her only hope.”
“I see.” There’s a short, strained silence. “Then I hope to God I can help her.”
I know what she means. If Mina doesn’t make it, both of us will feel responsible for not saving her. But I’m not going to think like that. If I want Mina to fight, I have to fight right beside her.
“You will help her.” I’ll threaten, torture, and kill to make it happen.
Her voice comes stronger, as if her mind’s made up. “There’s a staff entrance on the east side of the building.”
Closing my eyes briefly, I swallow a relieved exhale. “We’ll be there in ten.”
At the clinic, the guard waves us through the gates. Adami must’ve warned him about our arrival.
As promised, Adami is waiting at the eastern entrance. Her face is drawn, her cheeks colorless. “Bring her through. We’ll go via the basement. There’s less chance of running into someone.”
Ilya and I follow her down a flight of stairs and through a maze of underground hallways before surfacing on one of the upper floors. Adami leads us a short distance to a private consultation room. Thankfully, we don’t come across anyone. Once inside, she locks the door and closes the blinds on the window.
“What happened?” she asks as I carefully lower Mina onto the examination bed.
“She took a bullet in the side.”
“I haven’t done surgery in years,” the doctor reminds me.
“You’re all she’s got.”
She contemplates me for a moment before saying, “You better get rid of those bloody clothes and wash up. I’m going to need some help.”
“Ilya.” I motion at the door, indicating he should stand guard. At least his clothes aren’t covered in blood.
Leaving the Glock within reach on the counter, I strip down to my underwear and dump my stained clothes and boots in a trashcan labeled “Biomedical Waste.”
