“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 f*cked-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.