“Listen to me, ptichka.” I curve my palm around her delicate jaw. “I know you’re worried about your parents, but as soon as we’re airborne, you can call them and—”
“Airborne? So we’re still in—? Oh thank God.” She closes her eyes, and I feel a tremor run through her before she opens her eyes to meet my gaze. “Peter…” Her voice turns soft, cajoling. “Peter, please. You don’t have to do this. You can just leave me here. It’ll be so much safer for you… so much easier to get away if they’re not searching for me. You could just disappear, and they’ll never catch you, and then—”
“They’ll never catch me regardless.” My tone is clipped, but I can’t help the flare of anger as I lower my hand. Sara had her chance to be rid of me, and she didn’t take it. By warning me, she sealed her fate, and it’s too late to back out now. Yes, I drugged and took her without asking, but she had to know I wouldn’t leave her behind. I told her how much I loved her, and though she didn’t say the words back to me, I know she’s not indifferent. Maybe this is not precisely what she wanted, but she chose me, and for her to beg me to leave her behind now, to try to manipulate me with her big eyes and sweet voice… It hurts, this rejection of hers, though it shouldn’t.
I did kill her husband and force my way into her life.
“We’re here,” Anton says in Russian as the car slows, and I turn my head to see our plane some twenty meters ahead.
“Peter, please.” Sara begins to struggle inside the blanket, her voice rising in volume as the car comes to a complete stop and my men jump out. “Please don’t do this. This is wrong. You know this is wrong. My whole life is here. I have my family and my patients and my friends…” She’s crying now, her struggles intensifying as I bend to grab her blanket-wrapped legs and haul her out of the car. “Please, you said you wouldn’t do this if I cooperated, and I did. I did everything you wanted. Please, Peter, stop! Leave me here! Please!”
She’s hysterical now, twisting and bucking in the confines of the blanket as I back out of the car, holding her against my chest, and Anton shoots me an uncomfortable look as he helps the twins get the weapons from under the backseat. Though my friend had suggested on more than one occasion that I should just take Sara if I want her, the reality of it must be crueler than he imagined.
Other people might deem us monsters, but we can feel—and it would take a heart of steel not to feel something as Sara continues to beg and plead, struggling inside the blanket cocoon as I carry her to the plane.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her when I bring her into the passenger cabin and carefully deposit her into one of the wide leather seats at the front. Her distress is like a poison-tipped blade in my side, but the thought of leaving her behind is even more agonizing. I can’t picture my life without Sara, and I’m ruthless enough—and selfish enough—to ensure I won’t need to.
She might be having second thoughts about her decision, but she’ll come around and accept the situation, just like she was beginning to accept our relationship. And then she’ll be happy again—happier, even. We’re going to build a life together, and it’s going to be one she’ll enjoy as well.
I have to believe that, because this is the only way I can have her.
This is the only way I can know love again.
2
Sara
* * *
Tears of panic and bitter frustration roll down my face as the wheels of the jet lift off the runway, and the lights of the small airport fade into inky darkness. In the distance, I see the light clusters of Chicago and its suburbs, but before long, they disappear too, leaving me with the crushing knowledge that my old life is gone.
I’ve lost my family, my friends, my career, and my freedom.
My stomach roils with nausea as shards of glass pierce my temples, my headache aggravated by whatever Peter injected to knock me out. Worst of all, though, is the suffocating sensation in my chest, the awful feeling that I can’t get enough air. I take deep breaths to combat it, but it only worsens. The blanket is like a straightjacket, keeping my arms pinned to my sides, and I can’t get enough oxygen into my lungs.
My tormentor carried out his threat.
He kidnapped me, and I may never see home again.
He’s not next to me now—as soon as we took off, he got up and disappeared into the back of the passenger cabin, where two of his men are sitting—and I’m glad. I can’t bear to look at him, to know that I was stupid enough to warn him when he already knew everything.
When he had that needle ready and was toying with me.
How did he know? Were there cameras and listening devices inside the hospital locker room where Karen confronted me? Or did the men Peter assigned to follow me spot my FBI tail and tell him? Or maybe he has some connections in the FBI, just like that one contact of his had in the CIA? Is that possible, or am I reaching? Either way, it doesn’t matter now; the point is, he knew.
He knew, yet he pretended not to, playing with my emotions while he waited for me to crack.
God, how could I have been such an idiot? How could I have warned him, knowing that something like this could happen? How could I have come home when I suspected—no, when I knew—what my stalker was likely to do if he learned about the impending danger? I should’ve told Karen everything when I had the chance, let her send the agents to my house while the FBI took me into protective custody. Yes, Peter might’ve still escaped, but he wouldn’t have taken me with him—not at that point, at least. I would’ve had more time to plan, to figure out the best way for me and my parents to stay safe. He would’ve most likely returned for me, but there was at least a chance the FBI could’ve protected us.
Instead, I walked right into Peter’s trap. I went home, and I let him lie to me. Let him fool me into believing that there was something human—something good—within him. “I love you,” he said, and I fell for it, buying into the illusion that we had something genuine, that his tenderness meant he truly cared for me.
I let my irrational attachment to my husband’s killer blind me to the reality of what he is, and I lost everything.
The tightness in my chest grows, my lungs constricting until every breath is a struggle. Rage and despair mix together, making me want to scream, but all I can manage is a pained wheeze, the blanket around my body as smothering as a noose around my neck. I’m too hot, too restrained; my head is pounding, and my heart is beating too fast. I feel like I’m suffocating, dying, and I want to claw at my throat, to tear it open so I can suck in air.