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He remembered this place.
Playing hide and seek in the trees beyond the wide back porch — the trees where Roman now stood — with Erik.
Sliding down a dark wood banister in the house, followed by a scolding from his mother.
And there was a stream somewhere on the property, Roman thought. He remembered catching tadpoles in a jar, bringing them back to his mother as she sat with a drink on the porch.
He had no memories of his father in this place. They must have stopped coming at some point, although Roman could see why his father had kept the property. It was the perfect safe house, remote and far removed from the city.
“Can we take them out from here?” Roman asked Mat.
Mat lifted his long-range weapon and looked through the scope. “We can do it. We’ll have to move fast to get them out of the light though.”
There were other people inside, not just Igor but presumably another guard or two. Silenced weapons would prevent the other guards from hearing the shots, but that wouldn’t do them much good if someone looked out the window and saw bodies on the grass.
“We can do that,” Roman said. “Take them out fast.”
They needed to drop the second one before he noticed the first one was down.
“I’ll take number two,” Max said, raising his weapon. “Guy in the orange coat.”
Roman removed his weapon and watched the clearing. It was nearly spring, but snowfall was common upstate well into March and the two guards sank into a couple inches of snow as they crisscrossed the back of the property.
“Almost there,” Mat said, his rifle following the movement of the bigger guard wearing a black coat. “3… 2… 1.”
There was a moment of perfect silence, then a soft thud.
The man in the black coat went down, followed quickly by the one in the orange coat.
Roman hurried through the tree line toward the house. Max, Pavel, and Mat would remove the bodies.
Roman had other work to do.
He stepped carefully on the porch, mindful of creaking floorboards, and headed for the back door.
He had another flash of memory: his mother laughing with another woman on the porch. It pained him to remember and he wondered if his mind had been protecting him all these years. It had been a long time since he’d heard his mother laugh.
The back door was unlocked, probably so the guards could come and go, and Roman turned the knob as the other men started dragging the downed guards into the trees.
He stepped into a warm enclosed porch, a wood stove blazing in one corner. Several coats and sets of gloves were draped over the wicker furniture but the room was empty and Roman wondered if the guards took up residence here between shifts.
He’d no sooner had the thought than an older man with graying hair and a still-muscular build came around the corner, holding a steaming mug.
He wore black tactical pants and a black sweater, and his eyes widened as he registered Roman, standing in the room with his weapon drawn.
The other man reached for the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants as Roman raised his own weapon.
Roman squeezed.
The other man fell, the sound of Roman’s silenced weapon muffled by the silencer, the mug dropping to the floor with a dull thud.
Roman held still, waiting to see if anyone else would come, then caught the classical strains of Scriabin — his father’s favorite — from somewhere in the house.
The music had covered the sound of Roman’s gunfire.
He stepped carefully into the room and continued into a large kitchen.
Another memory came rushing back: Roman and Erik eating fresh-baked cookies right off a hot cookie sheet, their mother smiling indulgently.
