Chapter Six
Yulia
I pretend to be asleep as Lucas gets dressed and quietly lets himself out of my apartment. When he closes the door behind him, I hear the automatic lock click into place. I’m grateful that he set it. In Moscow, it’s not safe to leave the door open for even a few minutes. Criminals are bold, resourceful, and seemingly omnipresent.
I lie with my eyes closed for another minute to make sure Lucas is not coming back, and then I jump out of bed, ignoring the twinge of soreness between my legs. Automatically, my thoughts turn to the source of that soreness, and I’m once again cognizant of that strange pang of sadness.
Odds are, I’ll never see Lucas Kent again.
Stop it, I scold myself. There’s no reason to dwell on him. We had sex, nothing more. What I need to do now is find out if Obenko had a chance to strike at Esguerra while Kent was out of the way. If so, my gig here will finally be up. My cover is strong, but once the Russians realize there’s been a leak, I’ll fall under suspicion.
I call Obenko while I’m getting dressed. “Anything new?” I ask when he picks up.
“We have a plan,” he says. “We were able to track down Esguerra’s Boeing C-17—it’s the only private plane of that size scheduled to take off in the next couple of hours. Our contact in Uzbekistan will take care of the rest.”
I pause in the middle of zipping up my boots. “What do you mean?”
“The Uzbekistani military will fire a missile when they fly over their airspace,” Obenko says. “Accidentally, of course. The Russians won’t be pleased, but they won’t go to war over one arms dealer. Our contact will get jail time and a demotion, but his family will be well compensated for his trouble.”
“You’re going to shoot down Esguerra’s plane?” A cold knot forms in my throat. I don’t care what happens to Esguerra, but the thought of Lucas dying in a tangle of crushed metal or being blown into bits…
“Yes. It would be too risky to attack him here. He has four dozen mercenaries with him. There’s no way we can get to him otherwise.”
“I see.” I feel cold all over, as though someone walked over my grave. “So they’ll all die.”
“If everything goes according to plan, yes. We’ll eliminate the threat in one shot and without any casualties on our end.”
“Right.” I try to inject a note of appropriate enthusiasm into my voice, but I don’t know if I succeed. All I can think about is Lucas’s big body burned and broken, his pale eyes staring unseeing at the sky. It shouldn’t matter—he’s nothing to me—but I can’t get that gruesome image out of my mind.
“We need to exfiltrate you,” Obenko says, bringing my attention back to him. “If the Russians begin really digging and our Uzbekistani contact decides to talk, it won’t take them long to figure out how the information got to us. It’s unfortunate, but we always knew this was a risk with this specific assignment.”
“All right.” I squeeze my eyes shut and rub the bridge of my nose. “Where do I meet the team?”
“Take the train to Kon’kovo. We’ll have a car ready for you there.” And the phone goes silent in my hand.
* * *
It takes me less than twenty minutes to pack. I’ve lived in Moscow for six years, but I’ve acquired few possessions I care about. Some makeup, a hairbrush, a change of underwear, my fake passport, my gun—that’s all that goes into my large Gucci handbag. I also make sure that the clothes I’m wearing—designer jeans tucked into knee-high flat boots, a cashmere sweater, and a thick, well-fitting parka—are both warm and stylish. In case anyone sees me leaving the apartment, I’ll look much as they’d expect: a young woman heading off to work, bundled up against the brutal cold.
After I’m done packing, I wipe down the entire apartment to erase my fingerprints and walk out, carefully locking the door behind me. I no longer care if thieves break in, but there’s no need to make it easy for them.
Nobody seems to be watching the apartment as I exit onto the street, but I still keep a wary eye on my surroundings, making sure I’m not being followed.
As I approach the metro station, thoughts of Lucas intrude again, making me shiver despite my warm clothing. I should be happy—I’ve been looking forward to exfiltration for months—but I can’t get my mind off Lucas’s fate.
Will he die fast or slowly? Is it going to be the missile that kills him, or the crash itself? Will he stay conscious long enough to realize he’s about to die?
Will he guess I had something to do with what happened?
The knot in my throat expands, making me feel like I’m choking. For one insane moment, I’m seized by an overwhelming urge to call him, to warn him not to get on that plane. I actually reach for the phone in my bag before I jerk my hand away, sticking it in my pocket instead.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, I chide myself as I walk down the stairs into the metro station. I don’t even have Kent’s number. And even if I did, warning him would mean betraying Obenko and my country.
Betraying Misha.
No, never. I take a steadying breath, ignoring the crush of Moscow commuters all around me. At this point, the operation is out of my hands. Even if I wanted to change something, I can’t. Obenko and his team are in control now, and the best I can hope for is a speedy exit from Russia.
Besides, even if Lucas Kent wasn’t affiliated with the arms dealer who just became Ukraine’s enemy, there’s no room in my life for romance of any kind. Whether Kent is dead or alive shouldn’t matter—because either way, I won’t see him again.
The approach of the train drags me out of my dark musings. The people around me press forward, pushing their way onto the crowded train, and I hurry to make sure I squeeze in before the doors close.
Thankfully, I make it. Grabbing onto a rail, I wedge myself into a space between two middle-aged women and do my best to ignore a leer from an old man sitting in front of me. Another couple of hours, and I won’t need to put up with the Moscow metro system.
I’ll be on my way to Kiev, where I belong.
I close my eyes and try to focus on that—on coming home.
On being near Misha, even if I can’t meet with him in person.
My baby brother is fourteen now. I’ve seen his photos; he’s a handsome teenage boy, his blue eyes bright and mischievous. In all the pictures, he’s always laughing, hanging out with his friends and his girlfriends. He’s social, Obenko tells me. Outgoing.
Happy with the life they’ve given him.
Each time I receive one of those pictures, I stare at it for hours, wondering if he remembers me. If he’d recognize me if I approached him on the street. It’s unlikely—he was only three when he was adopted—but I still like to imagine that some part of him would know me.
That he’d recall the way I took care of him that one brutal year in the orphanage.
A crackling announcement interrupts my musings. Opening my eyes, I realize that the train is slowing down.
“We apologize for the delay,” the conductor repeats loudly as the train comes to a complete halt. “The issue should get resolved shortly.”
The passengers around me groan in unison. The middle-aged woman to my left begins swearing, while the one to my right mutters something about corrupt officials pocketing public funds instead of fixing things. It’s not the first delay this month; the extreme temperatures this winter have taken a toll on both roads and underground metro tracks, exacerbating the commuting nightmare that is Moscow at rush hour.
I suppress my own sigh of impatience and check my phone. As expected, I have zero bars. The thick walls of the tunnel block out all cell phone reception, so I can’t notify my handlers of the delay.
Great. Just great.
I put the phone away, trying not to give in to my frustration. With any luck, this problem is something that requires a little welding, rather than something more serious. Last month, a burst pipe snarled traffic all over Moscow, causing metro delays of three hours or more. If it’s something along those lines again, I might not get to my pickup location until late this afternoon.
Against my will, my thoughts turn to Lucas again. By late afternoon, his plane will likely be flying over the Uzbekistani airspace. He might even be dead by then. My stomach churns with acid as I picture his body torn into pieces, destroyed by the explosion and the crash.
Stop it, Yulia. The churning in my stomach intensifies, turning into an empty rumble, and I realize with relief that I forgot to eat breakfast this morning. I was in such a rush to pack and get going that I didn’t have so much as a bite of an apple.
No wonder I’m feeling sick. It has nothing to do with Kent and everything to do with the fact that I’m hungry.
Yes, that’s it, I tell myself. I’m just hungry. Once the train starts moving again and I get to my destination, I’ll grab some food and everything will be fine.
I’ll be safely in Kiev, and I won’t think of Lucas Kent ever again.