Yan has a full head of it, with not a hint of skull tattoos in sight.
“My brother’s been unlucky in some fights,” he explains, noticing my scrutiny. “Had his nose broken and his face bashed in quite a bit. Also, he did some steroids when we were young and stupid—wanted to bulk up.”
“I see.” Steroids would account for some of the differences, including that of size. Not that the man sitting before me is small by any means. He’s roughly Peter’s height, and just as muscular. His twin brother, however, is massive, as big as any bodybuilder I’ve seen.
“Is he your only sibling?” I ask, and Yan nods.
“Yeah, it’s just the two of us.”
I put down my cup. “Do you have any other family?”
“No.” His expression doesn’t change; there’s nothing to indicate either grief or regret. He might as well have been answering whether he has an extra pair of socks.
I want to dig deeper into that, but there’s another topic that interests me more. “When did you meet Peter?” I ask, leaning forward on my elbows. “You worked together before, right?”
“We did.” Yan closes the laptop, swiveling the barstool to face me fully. “Ilya and I were part of his team for three years prior to Daryevo.”
The mention of the village reminds me of the horrific images on Peter’s phone, and the stir-fry sours in my stomach. “Did you know them?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. “His wife and son, I mean?”
“No.” The Russian’s green eyes are as bright as gems, and just as cold. “Anton is the only one who’s met them. The rest of us didn’t know Peter had a family until they were killed.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say to that. Clearly, Peter didn’t trust the man sitting in front of me—at least not enough to risk exposing his most precious secret. Yet here they are, working together again.
“If I were him, I would’ve kept it on the down low too,” Yan says, a hard-edged smile spreading across his face, and I realize he caught on to my discomfort. “We don’t do families and babies in our world.”
“Really?” So it wasn’t a trust issue so much as a deviation from the accepted lifestyle on Peter’s part. “Then I take it none of you have ever been married?”
“Only Peter,” Yan confirms. “And you know how that turned out.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and reach for my tea again. “Yes. I do.”
Yan watches me drink the rest of the tea before saying quietly, “This won’t last either, you know.”
I lower the cup. “What do you mean?”
“This.” He waves his hand, indicating me and our surroundings. “Whatever this is, it won’t last.”
I stare at him, confused. “You mean… he’ll let me go?”
“No.” The Russian’s gaze is cold again, utterly unreadable. “That he won’t do. He’s an obsessive man, and you are his obsession. He’ll never let you go, Sara. Not unless one or both of you are dead.”
I suck in a sharp breath, but before I can respond, something pings and Yan turns away, facing the laptop.
“They landed,” he says, putting on the headphones. “Now the fun can begin.”
26
Peter
* * *
The first part of the operation proceeds smoothly. So smoothly, in fact, that I get nervous. It’s never a good sign when everything goes according to plan. There’s always a snag to be dealt with, some kind of kink to be worked out. Unforeseen obstacles are to be expected, because nothing is ever a hundred-percent predictable, and thinking that it is—believing that the plan, no matter how flexible, accounts for all variables—is the fastest way to get killed.
So when we get into the banker’s compound and quietly eliminate the exact number of guards we planned for, I begin to feel uneasy. And when we hijack all the cameras, giving Yan remote access, and make our way to the banker’s bedroom suite without encountering a single staff member deviating from his or her routine, my danger meter goes on high alert—and I’m not the only one.
“You smell it, right?” Anton mutters as we stop in front of the bedroom door.
“Smell what?” Ilya whispers, sniffing the air with a frown.
“The shit about to hit the fan,” I say in a low voice. “It’s too easy. Too much like what we planned.”
Comprehension lights Ilya’s gaze. “f*ck.”
None of us are superstitious, but we have a healthy respect for luck, and we all know that too much good luck can be just as deadly as an unlucky streak. A steady stream of small obstacles keeps one’s mind and reflexes sharp, while smooth sailing lures one into complacency. Not that we’re ever relaxed on a job—the adrenaline rush ensures we stay alert—but there’s a difference between regular battle alertness and the hyperawareness that comes along with fighting for our lives.
This job has been smooth sailing so far, and when we hit a rough patch—which we will, because luck is a fickle bitch—it’s going to suck extra hard.
There’s nothing we can do about it, though, short of aborting the mission, so I gesture to Anton to get ready, and Ilya steps in front of the door.
One hard kick from his massive foot, and the door flies off its hinges, crashing to the floor. Inside, there is a panicked squeal, and as the three of us rush into the room, we see our target on the floor, his fat folds jiggling while his naked mistress cowers behind the bed.
The banker’s tiny, pig-like eyes are white with terror, his round frame shaking as he scrambles to cover his deflating cock with a pillow. “Stop! Please, I can pay you. I swear, I can pay you. I’ll top whatever they’re paying you. What do you want? A hundred thousand euros? Half a million dollars? I have it. I have the money, I swear!” Seeing that we’re not stopping, he switches from English to an accented mixture of French and German, and then a Hausa dialect, frantically repeating the offer until Anton stabs him in the throat to shut him up.
“Omuya’s cousin sends his regards,” I say in English, watching the man flail about as he chokes on the blood spurting out of his neck. It takes mere moments for him to die—an easy death, all things considered.
The ass*ole’s mistress breaks into violent sobs behind the bed. Ignoring the noise, I snap a picture of the body as proof for the client, and then tell Ilya in Russian, “Tie her up and let’s go.” Normally, we’d eliminate the woman too, but I want a witness this time.
I want the authorities searching for us in Africa, far away from Sara and Japan.
Slinging the strap of his M16 over his shoulder, Ilya rounds the bed and reaches for the crying woman. Figuring he can handle it, I head for the door, my shit storm instincts still on high alert.
Suddenly, a shot rings out.
I spin around, my ears ringing from the blast, but it’s too late.
Ilya is on the floor, a dark red stain spreading out from his head.
27
Sara
* * *