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And that’s how he leaves me, tied up in the dark.
I’ve been trained to endure discomfort and pain. I slip into a space in my mind where the sensory impressions of hunger, thirst, and aching limbs are nothing but signals to my brain. It’s called a mental override. If not for this technique, I’d go crazy.
It doesn’t take long before the door opens once more, and a tall, powerfully built man enters. With the sunlight at his back, he’s mostly a silhouette. I don’t need to be a clairvoyant to know this man’s aura drips with the same kind of danger as Yan’s.
Two men step in behind him. The twins. Their faces are in the shadows, but I’d recognize Ilya’s bulky shape and Yan’s distinct, panther-like stride anywhere.
A light flicks on, a naked bulb casting a circle of light around me.
“We’ve just gotten the files on the men whose names she gave us,” Ilya says in Russian, holding out his phone. “Our doppelgängers have quite a resume. All four are former Delta Force, same unit.”
Their doppelgängers? What the hell?
Ilya glances at me. “They and a few of their buddies got court-martialed fifteen years ago for gang-raping a sixteen-year-old girl in Pakistan.”
What? Every hair on my body bristles at the information. I was right to have had a bad feeling about them. Does Gergo know? No, impossible. Considering my history, he wouldn’t have worked with them. I’m glad I gave up their names. I hope the Russians catch them. I hope they make them suffer.
“Six of them got arrested,” Ilya continues, “but the others broke them out and they all went on the lam. Since then, they’ve been doing random jobs here and there, everything from minor assassinations to planting bombs for terrorist organizations.”
The man takes the phone as Ilya speaks, his thumb sliding over the screen, presumably checking photos of the men in question, men I recommended to Henderson. A rivulet of sweat runs down my back. Then the newcomer turns, holding the phone at such an angle that I can clearly see the faces as he flicks back and forth, and I go stone cold.
Holy mother of all clusterfucks.
On the phone are the familiar faces of the Delta Force men, but underneath, matched to each one, are grainy images that must’ve come from a security camera, photos that show different men entirely. One of them looks like the man holding the phone in front of me, while another is a tough-looking guy with a dark beard. But it’s the last two that make my stomach twist.
The twins.
It’s Yan and Ilya, and yet it’s not. I recognize the Delta Force men’s features underneath the skillfully applied disguises.
Is that what Ilya meant by “our doppelgängers?” Was the FBI bombing in Chicago—the terrorist act Sokolov was to be arrested for—a frame job by Henderson? Did the general use the Delta Force team I gave him to carry out the bombing and then pin the blame on Sokolov and his team? A team that includes Yan and his brother?
I want to throw up at the thought.
I don’t watch the news much, but even I couldn’t miss that story—especially since my target, the man I was supposed to get killed during his arrest, was the main suspect behind the bombing. His and his wife’s faces were all over the news. I watched the coverage at first, but after a couple of days, I’d had enough.
It was repetitive, and I didn’t need constant reminders of how much I fucked up by getting involved in this mess.
Now, though, I have to wonder if that was yet another mistake of mine. Were Yan and Ilya’s faces—or rather, those of their doppelgängers—eventually broadcast as well?
If I’d kept watching, would I have known of their involvement?
Wait, those disguises… I catch another glimpse of the photos on the phone, and my mouth goes painfully dry.
Those disguises, they carry a signature trademark, one I know well. I know the style, because I used it myself on many occasions. It’s a style the master himself had taught me.
Only one person in the world could’ve created that effect.
A man known as The Chameleon.
Gergo Nagy.
My mentor, savior, and friend. The man I owe my life, and more.
He, too, must’ve been involved in this. Which makes sense. Gergo’s worked with the Delta Force men before. Many times. And he’s the one who gave my name to Henderson.
I start shivering in the tropical heat. If this comes to light, Gergo is dead.
I know what the man with Yan and Ilya is going to ask even before he turns back to me and says, “Who did their makeup and disguises?”
The light of the phone screen illuminates his harsh features, and I recognize him from the pictures on the news.
It’s Peter Sokolov, the Russian assassin I was hired to indirectly kill—and apparently, the twins’ teammate.
