Michael crushed Sophie against him, and her voice became muffled against his shoulder. “Please don’t go. I can’t bear to lose you again. I’ve lost you too many times.”
“You have never lost me,” he whispered. “You have always had me. Always. But I must go. I cannot live with myself if I do not.”
“Then take me with you. I’m just as skilled as you in a crisis, probably more so. I could save lives. We’d be together.”
He pulled away from her, the fierce look on his face stopping her words. “Absolutely not. You will not come to Orlisia. You will not follow me into the warzone. I forbid it. Obey me on this, Sophie.”
For a moment, she was reminded of the Michael she’d both loved and hated as a teenager, the young man who had relied too often on his presumed male authority. But where his words would have enraged her eleven years ago, she understood them now for what they were – a comfort zone where he retreated when frightened.
“You cannot forbid me to do as I wish. You should know this by now.” She smoothed the angry line of his brow with trembling fingers. “But I won’t force my company on you either.”
As quickly as it appeared, his temper vanished, and he lunged forward to catch her mouth with his. He hadn’t kissed her like that in years, not since Carter’s wedding. His lips elicited an immediate response from her, even as her world was collapsing.
“Your company would not be unpleasant,” he said at last, his voice husky. “Far from it. But this is something I must do alone. Above all else, I will not jeopardize your life.” He cupped her face tenderly in his hands. “I have to do this, mana mila. Please tell me you understand. Please give me your permission to go.”
And because she loved him and understood him better than anyone else in her existence, she let him go.
He left for Europe two days later, refusing to tell Sophie his destination or what he intended to do. She knew he’d cross into Soviet territory and go straight to the resistance. He wouldn’t even let her come to say goodbye. That evening in the park was the last time she saw him.
The texts came every day for the next two months. September 10’s message was innocuous. More snow last night. Traveling soon. I miss you so very much.
The next day, for the first time, no message. She called Michael’s father that evening. He hadn’t heard from him either. The next day, still nothing. Then a bit of news crossed the wire. The Soviet Republic claimed to have broken up a pocket of resistance in southern Orlisia.
And Sophie’s eyes turned to the hell they called Parnaas.
Her train got into Penn Station just before 6 p.m. Ignoring her promise to Hallie to go home, she took the subway down to the RCI office in the Financial District. She navigated the city with ease. Despite being born and raised on the West Coast, she’d fallen hopelessly in love with New York City since moving here.
“Hey, boss,” Sophie said to the man hunched over the boardroom table in their so-called Situation Room. A world map took up one wall, multicolored pins and flags marking current hotspots. Another wall was dedicated to the situation in Orlisia. A computer in the corner streamed twenty-four-hour news.
Will Temple straightened and winced, rubbing his back. “Don’t call me boss.” His tone was grumpy, but his blue eyes sparkled with affection as he greeted her. Nearly ten years her senior, Will had been her mentor throughout her astronomical career, the stabilizing force behind her genius. RCI was their aid agency, formed out of their common philosophy and desire to change the way aid was administered around the world.
“Anything new?”
Will picked up a sheaf of photos. “Latest satellite images of Parnaas.”
Sophie took the magnifying loupe he handed her. She leaned over the black and white photo, staring at disaster.
“They’ve expanded again,” she said. “Here and here.”
“Yes,” he said. “I can’t figure out why they’re not splitting into more than one camp. The number of people must be overwhelming any attempt at order.”
She peered into the loupe again, examining the new fringes of the amorphous shape. It was one of the largest refugee camps ever seen in the developed world and growing rapidly out of control.
It was Parnaas, a seething mass of humanity fleeing the violence of the Soviet-Orlisian war.
Somewhere in the middle of that is Michael.
It had only been five months since the Soviet Republic had invaded Orlisia for the second time in the little country’s short history, bombing ceaselessly for days. The airports, railways, roads, harbors – all leveled. The survivors had made their way to the southern border where soldiers had stopped them outside the town of Parnaas. They’d been ordered to camp in a nearby field, given food and temporary shelter. When their ranks had swelled to the tens of thousands, the tanks had come and the fences had gone up.
But Parnaas was no ordinary refugee camp.