Chapter Eight
Yulia
Seven and a half hours.
The train was stuck in that tunnel for seven and a half hours. The relief I feel as the doors finally open at the next station is so strong, I actually shake with it.
Or maybe I shake from hunger and thirst. It’s impossible to tell.
Stepping out of the cursed train, I push through the herd of exhausted, stressed-out commuters and take the escalator upstairs. I need to call Obenko immediately; my handlers must be going mad with worry.
“Yulia? What the fuck?” As expected, Obenko’s furious. “Where are you?”
“At Rizhskaya.” I name the train station some twenty stops away from my destination. “I was on the Kaluzhsko-Rizhskaya line.”
“Ah, fuck. You got stuck because of that idiot.”
“Yeah.” I lean against an icy wall at the top of the stairs as people hurry past me. According to the last update from the train conductor, the reason for the delay was a hostage situation two trains ahead of us. A Chechen national got the bright idea to strap on a homemade bomb and threaten to blow himself up if his demands weren’t met. The police managed to subdue him, but it took them hours to do it safely. Considering the seriousness of the situation, it’s a miracle we were able to get off the train before nightfall.
“All right.” Obenko sounds a bit calmer. “I’ll get the team to return to the pickup location. Are the trains running again?”
“Not the Kaluzhsko-Rizhskaya line. They said it’ll resume running later tonight. I’m going to have to take a taxi.” I shift from foot to foot, my bladder reminding me that it’s been hours since I’ve had access to a bathroom. I need that, and food, with extreme urgency, but first, there’s something I must know. “Vasiliy Ivanovich,” I say hesitantly, addressing my boss by his full name and patronymic, “did the operation… succeed?”
“The plane was shot down an hour ago.”
My knees buckle, and for a dizzying moment, the station blurs out of focus. If it hadn’t been for the wall at my back, I would’ve fallen over. “Were there any survivors?” My voice sounds choked, and I have to clear my throat before continuing. “That is… are you sure the target’s been eliminated?”
“We haven’t received the casualty report yet, but I don’t see how Esguerra could’ve survived.”
“Oh. Good.” Bile rises in my throat, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. Swallowing thickly, I manage to say, “I have to go now, find that taxi.”
“All right. Keep us posted if there are any issues.”
“Will do.” I press the button to hang up and lean my head back against the wall, taking in gulps of cold air. I feel sick, my stomach roiling with acid and emptiness. I have a fast metabolism, and I’ve never handled hunger well, but I don’t recall ever feeling this bad from lack of food.
Pale blue eyes blank and unseeing. Blood running down a hard, square jaw…
No, stop. I force myself to straighten away from the wall. I won’t allow myself to go there. I’m just hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. Once I address these problems, everything will be fine.
It has to be.
* * *
Before trying to catch a taxi, I head to a small coffee shop next to the station and use their restroom. I also get a cup of hot tea and scarf down three meat-filled pirozhki—small savory pies. Then, feeling much more human, I go outside to see if I can find a taxi.
The streets around the station are a nightmare. The traffic appears to be at a complete standstill, and all the taxis look occupied. It’s not unexpected, given what happened with the trains, but still extremely annoying.
I begin walking briskly in the hopes that I can get to a less trafficky location on foot. There’s no point in getting into a car, only to crawl two blocks in two hours. Now that the plane has gone down, I need to get to my handlers as quickly as possible.
The plane. I suck in my breath as the sickening images invade my mind again. I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about this. I’d known Lucas for less than twenty-four hours, and I’d spent most of that time being afraid of him.
And the rest of that time screaming in pleasure in his arms, a small voice reminds me.
No, stop.
I pick up my pace, zigzagging around slower-moving pedestrians. Don’t think about him, don’t think about him… I let the words echo in my mind in tempo with my steps. You’re going home to Misha… I pick up my pace some more, almost running now. Moving this fast not only gets me to my destination quicker, but it also keeps me warm. Don’t think about him, you’re going home…
I don’t know how long I walk like this, but as the streetlights turn on, I realize it’s already getting dark. Checking my phone, I see that it’s nearly six p.m.
I’ve been at it for two and a half hours, and the traffic around me is as bad as ever.
Stopping, I look around in frustration. I’ve been walking along major avenues to maximize my chances of catching a cab, but that appears to have been a faulty strategy. Perhaps what I should do is get away from the main zones of traffic and try my luck on smaller streets. If I find a car there, the driver may be able to take me out of the city via some more obscure routes. I’ll pay him whatever extra money he demands.
Turning onto one of the cross streets, I see a park a block away. I decide to cut diagonally across it, and then go up one of the smaller avenues on the other side of it. I’ll still be heading in the right direction, but I’ll be away from the busiest area. Maybe I’ll find a bus there, if not a cab.
There’s got to be some way I can get to my destination in the next few hours.
My phone vibrates in my bag, and I fish it out. “Yes?”
“Where are you?” Obenko sounds as frustrated as I feel. “The team leader is getting nervous. He wants to be across the border by the time the Kremlin learns what happened.”
“I’m still in the city, walking for now. The traffic is impossible.” The snow crunches under my feet as I enter the park. They didn’t bother to clear it here, so all the walking paths are covered with a thick icy layer.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.” I try not to slip on the ice as I step over a pile of dog shit. “I’m doing my best to get there tonight, I promise.”
“All right. Yulia…” Obenko pauses for a second. “You know we’re going to have to pull the team if you don’t get there by morning, right?” His voice is quiet, almost apologetic.
“I know.” I keep my tone level. “I’ll be there.”
“Good. Make sure you do that.”
He hangs up, and I walk faster, driven by increasing anxiety. If the team leaves without me and I get caught, I’m as good as dead. The Kremlin isn’t known to be kind to spies, and the fact that our agency is completely off the books makes the matters ten times worse. The Ukrainian government won’t negotiate to get me back, because they have no idea that I exist.
I’m almost out of the park when I hear drunk male laughter and the sound of shoes crunching on snow.
Glancing behind me, I see a small group of men some hundred meters back, with bottles clutched in their gloved hands. They’re weaving all over the walking path, but their attention is unmistakably focused on me.
“Hey, young lady,” one of them yells out, slurring his words. “Wanna come party with us?”
I look away and start walking even faster. They’re just drunks, but even drunks can be dangerous when it’s six against one. I’m not afraid of them—I have my gun and my training—but I don’t need trouble this evening.
“Young lady,” the drunk yells, louder this time. “You’re being rude, you know that?”
His friends laugh like a pack of hyenas, and the drunk yells again, “Fuck you, bitch! If you don’t want to party, just motherfucking say so!”
I ignore them and continue on my way, snaking my left hand into my handbag to feel for my gun, just in case. As I exit the park and step onto the street, the sound of their voices fades, and I realize they’re no longer following me.
Relieved, I take my hand out of my bag and continue up the street at a slightly slower pace. My legs are aching, and I feel like a blister is forming on the side of my heel. My flat boots are way more comfortable than heels, but they’re not made for three hours of speed-walking.
I’m in a more residential area now, which is both good and bad. The traffic here is better—only a few cars pass me on the street—but the streetlights are sparse, and the area is all but deserted. Distant male laughter reaches my ears again, and I force myself to go faster, ignoring the discomfort of tired muscles.
I walk about five blocks before I see it: a cab stopping next to a curb across the street some fifty meters ahead. A short, thin man is getting out. Relieved, I yell, “Wait!” and sprint toward the car just as he begins closing the door.
I’m almost next to the cab when I see lights out of the corner of my eye and hear the roar of an engine.
Reacting in a split second, I throw myself to the side, hitting the ground as a car barrels past me. As I roll on the icy asphalt, I hear the driver hooting drunkenly, and then something hard slams into the side of my head.
My last thought as my world goes black is that I should’ve shot those drunks after all.