I feel awful hurting this civilian, but I can’t let him drive off in this cab. If he leaves, I’ll have no way of getting back to the city and I’ll miss my flight tomorrow morning.
Pushing aside my guilt, I check the driver’s pulse to verify that he’s alive, grab the keys from the car in case he wakes up, and then head toward the blinking red dot on my phone map.
A couple of minutes later, I come across what looks like an abandoned warehouse. Disappointed, I stare at it, debating whether I should even approach. Whatever Obenko is doing here is unlikely to involve my brother’s adoptive parents; my boss wouldn’t ask his sister to meet him in the middle of nowhere just to give her some documents. It’s far more probable that he’s in the middle of an operation, and the last thing I want is to stand in his way.
Despite that, I take a step closer. Then another and another. My legs seem to be carrying me of their own accord. I’ve come this far, I reason to justify my compulsion. What’s another few minutes to confirm that I’ve wasted my time?
There is a faint glow of light visible on one side of the warehouse, so I make my way there and crouch in front of a small, dirty window. Inside, I hear voices, and I hold my breath, trying to understand what they’re saying.
“—getting good,” a man says in Russian. There’s something familiar about his voice, but I can’t place it. The wall is muffling the sound. “Really good. I think another couple of years, and they’ll be ready.”
“Good,” another man replies, and this time, I recognize the speaker as Obenko. “We’ll need all the help we can get.”
“Would you like a demonstration?” the original speaker says. “They’ll be happy to show you what they’ve learned thus far.”
“Of course,” Obenko says, and then I hear a grunt, followed by the
thump
of something falling. The noises repeat again and again, and I realize I’m listening to a fight. Two or more people are engaged in hand-to-hand combat, which, combined with the bits I overheard, means only one thing.
I’ve stumbled upon a UUR training facility.
That’s it. I need to leave before I’m caught.
I turn around, about to head back, when the original speaker laughs loudly and exclaims, “Good job!”
I freeze in place, a sick feeling spreading through me.
That voice.
I know that voice. I’ve heard it in my nightmares over and over again.
Cold sweat breaks over my skin as I turn, drawn to the window despite myself.
It can’t be.
It just can’t be.
My pulse is a violent drumbeat, and my hands tremble as I place them on the wall next to the window.
I’m imagining this.
I’m hallucinating.
I have to be.
Sinking my teeth into my lower lip, I edge to the left until I can see through the window. I know I’m taking a terrible risk, but I have to know the truth.
I have to know if they lied to me.
The scene that greets my eyes is straight out of my own training sessions. There are several teenagers of both genders standing in a semi-circle. Their backs are to me, and in front of them is a wide mat on which two men—or, rather, a man and a boy—are wrestling. Obenko is standing to the side, watching them with an approving smile.
I notice all of this only briefly because my eyes are glued to the wrestling pair. With the two of them twisting and rolling on the mat, I can’t get a good look at either of them—at least until they stop, with the man pinning his younger opponent to the mat.
“Good job,” the man says, rising to his feet. Laughing, he extends his hand to help his defeated opponent. “You were excellent today, Zhenya.”
The boy gets up as well, brushing the dirt off his clothes, but I’m not looking at him.
All I see is the man standing next to him.
He hasn’t changed much. His brown hair is thinner and has more gray in it, but his body is as strong and broad as I remember. His shoulders strain the seams of his sweat-soaked T-shirt, and his arms are as thick as drain pipes.
Nobody could best Kirill in hand-to-hand combat seven years ago, and it seems he’s still undefeated.
Alive
and undefeated.
Obenko lied to me. They all lied to me.
My rapist wasn’t killed for what he did to me.
He wasn’t even removed from his role as a trainer.
A metallic taste fills my mouth, and I realize I bit through my lip.
“It’s your fault, bitch. It’s all your fault.”
Kirill’s massive body presses me into the floor, his hands cruelly tearing at my clothes. “You’re going to pay for what you did.”
Acid rises in my throat, mixing with the bitterness of bile. I feel like I’m going to choke on my terror and hatred, but before the memories can suffocate me, someone else enters my field of vision.
“It’s my turn,” a blond-haired boy says, approaching the mat. “Uncle Vasya, I want you to watch this.” He assumes a fighter’s stance opposite Kirill, and the fluorescent lights illuminate his face.
It’s a face I know as well as my own—because I’ve spent hours staring at it in photos.
Because every feature on that face is a masculine version of what I see in the mirror.
My brother is standing in front of me, ready to spar with Kirill.
L
ucas
“
I
t’s done
,” I say, entering Esguerra’s office. “Your in-laws can go home tomorrow if they’re so inclined.”
Over the past week, we’ve exterminated the remnants of Sullivan’s crime family, and the CIA has finally agreed to let Nora’s parents return to their home. After the media nightmare we caused, it took promises of major favors, but Esguerra’s contacts came through for us.
“You got the police chief as well?” Esguerra asks.
I nod, approaching his desk. “His body is dissolving in lye as we speak. He was the last of the moles—Chicago PD is now squeaky clean and vermin-free. Other than a few CIA higher-ups, nobody knows your in-laws were involved in this mess.”
“Excellent.” Esguerra rubs his temples, and I see that he looks unusually tired. Like me, he’s been working nonstop since our return from Chicago. He doesn’t have to put in these hours—I’m overseeing most of the logistics of the cleanup—but work seems to be his way of coping with the miscarriage. “I’ll tell Nora. In the meantime, I want you to assign another dozen men to watch over her parents for the next few months. I’m not expecting any trouble, but it’s best to be safe.”
“Got it,” I say. “You might also want to tell them to stay away from crowded places for a while, just in case.”
“That’s a good idea.” Esguerra gives an approving nod. “As long as they’re able to return to work and resume their social lives, they shouldn’t mind the restrictions too much.”
“I’m sure you’ll miss them,” I say drily. Nora’s parents have been our reluctant guests for the last two weeks, and I imagine Esguerra must’ve found their disapproving presence wearing.
To my surprise, my boss chuckles. “They’re not so bad. You know, family and all that.”
“Right.” I try not to stare at him but fail. Esguerra’s changed; it’s obvious to me now. When I first met him, the word “family” would’ve never passed his lips. And now he’s putting up with in-laws who can’t stand his guts and bending over backward to keep his young wife happy.
It’s both amusing and unsettling to observe, like seeing a jaguar playing with a house kitten.
“You’ll understand someday,” Esguerra says, and I realize my expression must’ve given me away. “There’s more to life than this.” He waves at the flatscreen monitors behind him and the stack of papers on his desk.
“Are you going to give it up then? Walk the straight and narrow?” I say, only half-kidding. Esguerra is certainly wealthy enough to do so. His net worth is in the billions; even if he never sold another weapon, he could live like a king for the rest of his life.
Still, I’m not surprised when Esguerra shakes his head and says, “You know I can’t do that. Once in this life, always in this life. Besides”—he bares his teeth in a sharp smile—“I’d miss it. Wouldn’t you?”
“Definitely,” I say, and we share a moment of grim understanding.
The jaguar may play with the kitten, and even love said kitten, but he’ll always be a jaguar.
A
s I leave
Esguerra’s office, my phone vibrates with an incoming message. I open my email, and my lips curl in savage anticipation.
Message decoded, the email from the hackers reads. A confirmed UUR black site is located twenty-five kilometers north of Kiev. They seem to be in the process of covering up their tracks, but they’re not fast enough. We’re getting closer to the two field operatives. Hope to have more news soon.
At the bottom of the email is an attachment. It’s a grainy satellite photo with an X marking a spot on the map where, I presume, the black site facility is located.
We have a place to start.
“Hi, Lucas,” a softly accented female voice says, and I turn to see Rosa approaching from the direction of the main house. She’s dressed in her usual maid’s outfit, with her dark hair pinned in a sleek knot. “How are you?”
Rage surges through me, but I manage to say calmly, “I’m fine.” Her casual friendliness grates on me like chalk on glass. I’m tempted to string her up in the shed and interrogate her this very moment, but it would be smart to wait a little longer. Taking a steadying breath, I mimic her friendly tone and ask, “How’s everything with you?”
She shrugs, her eyes dropping lower for a moment. “You know. Day by day.”
“Right.” Despite everything, I feel a swell of pity. Though the bruises on Rosa’s face have faded, I remember how the girl looked after the club, and some of my anger cools.
If I believed in karma, I’d be inclined to think she’s already been punished.
“How are your ribs doing?” she asks, looking up at me again. There appears to be genuine concern in her gaze. “Are they still hurting?”
“No, not as much as before,” I say, my anger easing a little. “It’ll be at least another month before I can resume training normally, but I’ve gotten to the point where I can breathe without pain.”
“Oh, good.” Rosa smiles, then asks nonchalantly, “Any news on your escapee?”
My fury returns in full force; it’s all I can do not to wring the girl’s neck. “Why, yes,” I say silkily. “I have just found her.” It’s a lie—I have no idea if the location the hackers uncovered will lead me to Yulia—but if Rosa is working with UUR, I want her to panic and reach out to them. “In fact,” I add, deciding to really frighten the maid, “I’ll be going after Yulia as soon as I drop off Nora’s parents.”
“Oh.” Rosa blinks, and I see a shadow pass over her face. “That’s good.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” I give her my blandest smile. “I can’t wait. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to check up on our new recruits.”
And before she can respond, I turn away and head toward the training field.
If I stay in Rosa’s presence a moment longer, I’ll kill the girl with my bare hands.
Y
ulia
M
y brother
.
Kirill is training my brother.
I feel like I stepped into one of my nightmares. I need to back away, to leave before I’m seen, but I can’t move. My feet have grown roots, and my lungs scream for suddenly scarce air.
Misha and Kirill.
Student and teacher.
I taste vomit and my vision darkens, fading at the edges.
Run, Yulia. Go before it’s too late.
I want to obey the voice in my head, but I’m paralyzed, frozen in place.
Obenko didn’t just lie to me about Kirill’s death. He deceived me about everything.
I try to suck in oxygen, but my throat is too tight. The window wavers in front of me, like the lens of a shaking camera, and I realize it’s because I’m trembling violently, my fingers icy and numb as my palms press against the wall.
Run, Yulia. Now.
The voice gets more insistent, and I force myself to take a tiny step back. But I still can’t look away from the horror in front of me.
Go, Yulia! Run!
Before I can take another step, Misha glances at the window and freezes, staring straight at me.
I see his blue eyes widen, and then he shouts, “Intruder!” and leaps toward the window.
My paralysis finally breaks, and I turn and run.
My legs are like wooden sticks, stiff and clumsy, and I can’t get enough air. It’s as if I’m moving through quicksand, every step requiring desperate effort. I know it’s shock weighing me down, but the knowledge doesn’t help. My muscles feel like they belong to a stranger, and my feet are numb as they touch the ground.
The car. I need to get back to the car.
I focus on that one goal, on putting one foot in front of the other and not thinking. As I run, I feel the stiffness in my muscles fading, and I know adrenaline is finally kicking in, overpowering my shock.
“Yulia! Stop!”
It’s Obenko. Hearing him fills me with such rage that all remnants of my sluggishness fade. Gritting my teeth, I pick up my pace, my legs pumping with increasing desperation. If they catch me, I’m dead, and then nobody will make Obenko pay for his monstrous betrayal.
I will rot in a nameless grave while Kirill turns my brother into a conscienceless killing machine.
“Yulia!”
It’s a different voice calling my name. I recognize Kirill’s deeper tones, and sick terror explodes in my veins. The memories snake around me like poisonous vines. I try to push them away, but bits and pieces slip through, flashing through my brain in a disjointed reel.
Entering my room in the dorm.
A large hand closing over my mouth as I’m grabbed from behind.
I run faster, the ground blurring in front of my eyes. My breath is coming in wheezing gasps, and my lungs are about to burst.
Struggling. Falling to the floor. A man on top of me. Immobilized, helpless.
I’m a dozen meters from the car, and I grip the keys in my pocket, preparing to jump in.
Pop! Pop!
The car window shatters, and I zigzag to avoid the next bullet.
“Do not shoot to kill!” Kirill roars behind me. His voice sounds closer; he’s gaining on me. “I repeat, do not shoot to kill!”
The knowledge that he wants me alive is more terrifying than the idea of dying. Putting on another burst of speed, I leap for the car. The cab driver is on the ground, still unconscious, and I desperately hope none of the bullets hit him. I don’t have time to worry about it, though, because as I’m about to jam the keys into the door, a hand grips my shoulder.
I whirl around, gripping the keys like a weapon, and jab upward, aiming at my attacker’s eye. He jerks back, and I drop down and roll under the car, registering only dimly the smaller frame and light hair of my opponent.
It wasn’t Kirill who caught up with me; it was Misha.
I scramble to my feet on the other side of the car and begin running again. Even through my terror, I’m aware of an illogical flash of pride. My brother is a fast runner. Obenko had never mentioned that.
I hear him sprinting behind me, and I wonder if he knows who I am, if he realizes he’s killing his own sister. Is he in on Obenko’s deception, or did they lie to him too?
“Grab her!” Kirill shouts, and a hard body hits me in the back, knocking me to the ground. I manage to twist in the air, so I land on top of Misha, and before he has a chance to act, I punch him in the jaw and jump up to resume running.
Only it’s too late. As I turn, another body hits me, knocking me off my feet, and this time, I don’t have a chance to land a punch.
In a flash, my arm is twisted behind my back, and my face is pressed into the gritty dirt as a massive weight presses me down.
“Hello, Yulia,” my trainer whispers in my ear. “It’s good to see you again.”