7
Sara
When I get downstairs, Peter’s teammates are already sitting at the rectangular wooden table, their eyes fixed longingly on the large frying pan sitting in the middle. One of them—the one dressed all in black, with shoulder-length hair and a thick dark beard—looks up as I approach.
“Where is Peter?” he asks, frowning. His Russian accent is only slightly more pronounced than Peter’s. “Food is getting cold.”
“He’s coming,” I say, the heat in my cheeks intensifying as the bearded man’s eyebrows crawl up. He can probably tell what happened upstairs by my swollen lips, if not my shaky inner state. My knees were literally trembling as I walked down the steps, and I’m grateful that Peter’s shirt is loose and thick, concealing the hard points of my nipples.
If my kidnapper had chosen to fuck me, I wouldn’t have been able to say no, and the knowledge fills me with burning shame.
“Anton, you’re being rude,” a tall, brown-haired man says with a smooth smile. Unlike his bearded colleague, who could’ve stepped straight out of an action flick about assassins, this guy wouldn’t look out of place in a law firm. His short brown hair is fashionably cut, his face is clean-shaven, and I’d bet a hundred bucks that his subtly striped button-up shirt and gray dress slacks are custom made. Only his cool green eyes bely the neat corporate image; they’re hard and emotionless, untouched by the smile that curves his lips.
“You forgot to introduce yourself,” the well-dressed man continues, speaking to Anton with a similarly slight accent. Turning toward me, he gestures at his bearded friend and says, “Sara, meet Anton Rezov. He used to fly anything with a motor at our old job, and he’s still occasionally useful now. And I’m Yan Ivanov. Oh, and this is my brother, Ilya.”
I turn my attention to the third guy, Yan’s brother, and realize he’s the one who spoke to me earlier, explaining why this place makes a good hideout. He looks the scariest of them all, with a thick bodybuilder-like torso, a shaved skull covered by tattoos, and an oversize jaw that makes me think of a gorilla. But when he smiles at me, the corners of his green eyes crinkle, softening the harshness of his features.
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Cobakis,” he says with a slightly thicker accent and gets up to pull out a chair for me.
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you too,” I say, sitting down in the chair. I should hate each of these men—after all, they’re accessories to my kidnapping and the murder of my husband—but something about the Russian’s genuine smile and the respectful way he addressed me makes it impossible to turn my anger on him.
I’ll reserve it all for the man who’s coming down the stairs at this very moment, his handsome face dark and closed off.
“Finally,” Anton says with relish when Peter reaches the table and takes a seat next to me. Reaching for the pan in the center of the table, Anton cuts out a chunk of the omelet and puts it onto his plate. “I’m so ready to eat.”
“Help yourself.” Peter’s voice is filled with sarcasm that seems to go over Anton’s head. The Ivanov brothers display better table manners, waiting until Peter puts a portion onto my plate and then his own before splitting up the remainder.
We eat in silence, demolishing the omelet in a matter of minutes, and then Peter gets up and slices up a few oranges. “Dessert?” he asks tersely, and the guys eagerly jump on the offer. I don’t say anything, but Peter brings me a bowl with a sliced-up orange anyway.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. Even in this fucked-up situation, the rules of politeness drummed into me since childhood are hard to break. Reaching into the bowl, I fish out a slice of orange and bite into it, relishing the sweet, refreshing juiciness. I must’ve had low blood sugar on top of everything else, because now that I’ve eaten, I’m feeling a tiny bit better, the hollow feeling of despair dissipating enough to let me think.
Yes, at first glance, my situation is not the best. As we were flying in, I didn’t see anything resembling civilization in the immediate vicinity of this mountain, just cliffs and thick forests, with snow still covering some of the mountaintops nearby. Even if I manage to escape from the four assassins, hiking out of here won’t be easy. I’ve gone camping exactly once in my life, and I’m far from a wilderness expert. Not to mention, if I do reach some farm or village nearby, I’ll still face the challenge of communicating my situation to people who might not speak a word of English.
However, it’s not as hopeless as it could be. It sounds like Peter intends to let me contact my parents soon, and there’s a chance I might be able to communicate my location to them—and thus to the FBI. Also, I’m not tied up or otherwise restrained. From what I can tell, I have the freedom to roam around the house, which increases my odds of escape. If I’m smart and careful, I might even be able to steal some water and supplies, in case my mountain hike takes a couple of days.
All is not lost. One way or another, I will fix my mistake and return home.
In the meantime, I have to make sure I don’t make things worse by doing something stupid… like falling in love with my captor.
After breakfast, I go up to the bedroom and promptly fall asleep, the time change combined with a food coma making me drowsy despite my long nap on the plane. I wake up when I hear the chopper start, and through the giant window, I see it take off from the helipad next to the house.
A supply run? A work mission? I have no idea, but if Peter is gone with the chopper, that can only be a good thing.
Unfortunately, I see him downstairs when I come down a few minutes later, having splashed some water on my face in order to fully wake up. He’s sitting on a barstool behind the kitchen counter, frowning at something on a laptop screen. As I approach, I see headphones in his ears.
He’s listening to something on the computer.
Noticing me, he takes out the earbuds and presses a button on the keyboard—probably to pause whatever he was listening to.
“Is that the camera feed from my parents’ house?” I ask, and my heartbeat kicks up as Peter nods.
“Yes. The FBI visited them.” His expression is carefully neutral.
“And?” I sit down on a barstool next to him, my shoulders tensing. “What did they tell them?”
“It’s… interesting.” Peter’s eyes gleam as he turns to face me. “Looks like the story we gave your parents is consistent with the Feds’ suspicions.”
I stare at him, my pulse accelerating further. “They think I voluntarily went with you?”
He closes the laptop. “That seems to be the assumption they’re operating under, especially now that your parents told them about your phone call. But I think Ryson suspected your involvement with me before that, probably because you didn’t tell Karen about me in the locker room.”
My hands knot together on my lap. This is both good and bad. I don’t want the FBI to think I’m in cahoots with one of their most wanted, but at the same time, I’m relieved. This is infinitely better than my family believing I’ve been abducted. “So how did my parents react? Were they worried? Upset? Was my dad—”
“They took it well.” The hard line of Peter’s jaw softens a little. “They’re obviously shocked and disturbed that you’re involved with someone unsavory, but Ryson was very close-mouthed about who I am and why they’re after me. I think he’s worried about the story leaking out to the media.”
That makes sense. The FBI, or the CIA, or whoever had concocted the lie about the mafia being after my husband—they wouldn’t want to expose what really happened in Daryevo. If Peter is right about the mistake that led to his family’s massacre, the parties involved would fight tooth and nail to keep the truth from getting out.
The public tends to frown on the slaughter of innocent civilians.
“So my dad is okay?” I press, pushing aside the memory of the horrifying pictures on Peter’s phone. “He didn’t look sick or anything?”
“Both of your parents looked fine, perfectly healthy.” Peter’s expression warms further as his palms cover my tightly clenched hands. “They’ll be okay, ptichka. They’re strong, like you. And you’ll be able to contact them soon. Anton and Yan just left on a supply run, and when they return, we’ll have what we need to set up a secure connection. You’ll talk to your parents, reassure them, and they’ll be okay.” He squeezes my hands gently. “Everything will be okay.”
I pull my hands away, my eyes prickling with a sudden onslaught of emotion. This, right here, is what makes things so confusing. A man who abducts you isn’t supposed to care about your family, much less give a damn about your feelings. What Peter did to me—everything he did to me—are the actions of a cruel, selfish monster, yet when he’s with me, looking at me like this, it’s easy to believe that he loves me, that in his own strange, overpowering way, he wants to make me happy.
Pushing the dangerous thought away, I rein in my unruly emotions and focus on the topic at hand. “But what exactly did the FBI say? And how did my parents respond to what they told them? They must’ve had a ton of questions—”
“They did, but all Ryson told them is that they’re looking for the man who’s with you, and they can’t disclose why. For the most part, he and the other agents questioned your parents, drilling them about the specifics of your phone call, whether you did or said anything unusual in the past few months, why you stopped the house sale, and so on.”
“Right.” Because they now suspect me. They think I’m having an affair with my husband’s murderer—which, in a way, I am. An unwilling affair, sure, but that doesn’t change the facts. I could’ve gone to the FBI at any time, explained the situation and asked for their protection, but instead, I convinced myself that it would be safer for my parents if I handled my lethal stalker on my own. And who knows? Maybe I was right. Given the authorities’ inability to protect the others on Peter’s list, he might’ve found me and my parents if we’d tried to disappear. And then more people could’ve gotten hurt—if not my family, then the agents assigned to protect us.
The three guards who watched over George did end up with bullets in their heads.
“Can I watch the video myself?” I ask, pushing away the awful recollection, and Peter nods.
“If you want. I’ll set it up for you on the TV later today.” He waves toward the large flatscreen hanging in the living room. “In the meantime, I have to catch up on some work, so feel free to walk around and explore.”
I blink, unable to believe it could be so easy. “Okay, I will,” I say, trying to conceal my excitement.
If I’m allowed to explore on my own, I can escape as soon as today.
Recalling my bare feet, I glance down and wiggle my toes. “Do you think I can borrow some shoes?” I ask as casually as I can.
“Yan is buying you everything today, but you can try wearing my sneakers for now. If you lace them tightly enough, they shouldn’t fall off.”
“All right, I’ll try that, thanks.” I slide off the barstool and hurry toward the stairs, anxious to get on with my exploration.
“Oh, and Sara?” Peter calls out when I’m almost by the staircase. When I turn to look at him, he says, “If you go outside, take Ilya with you. You don’t know the area, and there are cliffs everywhere. You don’t want to fall.”
And oblivious to my deflating excitement, he opens the laptop, his attention on the screen once more.