The questions threaten to burst out, but I dig my nails into my palms and remain silent, not daring to distract Yan as he pulls up a map and rattles off instructions in rapid-fire Russian. His posture is as tense as ever, his attention laser-focused on the screen, and I know they’re still in danger.
If they’re all alive, that is.
Taking a breath, I try to calm myself, to stop the tears from streaking down my frozen face, but the fear is too strong. I’m sick with it, poisoned by the surfeit of adrenaline. I’ve never known this kind of debilitating worry for another. My heart pounds violently in my ribcage, each beat marking another second of wretched waiting.
Peter has to be all right. He has to be.
One minute, two, three, ten… I stare at the tiny clock in the corner of the screen as Yan falls silent, joining me in waiting.
Twelve minutes.
Fifteen.
Eighteen.
I don’t move. I barely even breathe.
Twenty.
Twenty-two.
Yan’s posture changes, taking on a new alertness. Gripping the microphone, he speaks a few terse sentences in Russian, then removes the headphones and swivels to face me.
Ravages of stress still mark his features, but the tension I saw earlier is gone. “It’s over,” he says. “They’re in the air, on their way to Egypt. A bullet grazed Ilya’s skull, but they stopped the bleeding, and he’s already briefly woken up. With any luck, he’ll be okay.”
I grip the counter, bracing myself. “And Peter?”
“Bruised and a little bloodied, but not injured. Same goes for Anton.”
I exhale, dizzy with relief, and swipe at the wetness on my cheeks with the back of my trembling hand.
Peter is alive.
Bruised and bloodied, but alive.
I want to sink to the floor, the post-adrenaline slump hitting me like a bullet, but I steady myself against the counter, forcing my overloaded brain to function. “So why—” I clear my throat, chasing the hoarseness from my voice. “Why are they going to Egypt?”
“Ilya still needs medical attention, and there’s a clinic,” Yan explains, then gives me an arrested stare.
“What?” I ask, my heartbeat accelerating.
“You’re a doctor,” he says, cocking his head. “Aren’t you?”
“I… yes.” Doesn’t he know that? “I’m a licensed OB-GYN.”
“Do you know how to stitch a wound?”
I’m beginning to see where this is heading. “Yes, of course. I also did a rotation in ER during my residency, but—”
“Hold on.” He pivots to face the laptop and puts on the headphones.
“Wait, Yan. He needs a hospital,” I protest, but he’s already speaking into the microphone in Russian.
Frustrated, I wait for him to finish, and when he turns to face me again, I tell him firmly, “This is a bad idea. Your brother could have a concussion or internal bleeding. He needs a CT scan, antibiotics, proper medical equipment… He—”
“Has survived worse, believe me,” Yan interrupts, his face resolute. “What he needs is rest and recovery time, and we can’t give him that in the clinic—not with the authorities about to scour the African continent for us. We have antibiotics and basic medical supplies here—we stock that in all of our safe houses—and now we have a doctor too.”
I frown. “No, listen. It’s still not—”
“You should get some sleep, Sara,” Yan advises, reaching for his headphones. “You look tired, and we’ll need you sharp and rested when they land.”
28
Peter
* * *
Sara is standing by the helipad as we land, her slender figure small and fragile next to Yan’s solid frame. My chest squeezes at the sight, my longing for her painfully sharp, and it’s all I can do not to grab her as soon as our helicopter skids touch the ground. Instead, the first thing I do upon jumping out of the chopper is help Ilya out. The wound where the bullet grazed his skull is no longer bleeding, but he’s still weak from loss of blood and more than a little concussed.
If the banker’s mistress had used something other than a pearl-handled .22 revolver and had better aim, we’d be bringing him home in a body bag.
My overworked shoulder burns and my bruised ribs ache as Ilya leans on me—my bulletproof vest stopped two bullets during our escape—but I don’t complain. I’m lucky. f*ck, all three of us are lucky. The shit definitely hit the fan, and it was spectacularly shitty. Between the banker’s mistress finding the revolver under the mattress and some vigilant guard hearing the gunshot, our way out of the compound was as rough as the way in was smooth.
On a scale of one to ten, this job ended up as a seven—not as bad as some, but definitely worse than others.
“Here, I got him,” Yan says, stepping in to support Ilya, and I step aside, letting him help his brother. Anton is coming out of the chopper behind us, but I pay him no attention. He caught some shrapnel from the grenade in his arm and shoulder, but I know he’ll be fine. Instead, I focus on the one person I can’t live without.
Sara.
My beautiful little songbird.
The wind is blowing her chestnut hair around her face, the sun highlighting shades of red within the rich brown waves. Her gaze is solemn as she stares at me, her face devoid of all expression. Yet I sense her longing, feel it deep within my bones.
She might not admit it, but she needs me.
She feels our connection, too.
Five long strides, and I scoop her up, lifting her into my arms as I crush my mouth to hers. Behind us, Anton lets out a low wolf whistle, but I tune him out. I don’t give a f*ck what the guys think, don’t care that they see my weakness. Nothing matters but the way her slim arms fold around me, and the sweet, hot burn as I taste her lips. The minty flavor of her breath, the slick glide of her tongue, her warm Sara scent—I absorb it all, filling the emptiness inside me, pushing the darkness of my world away.
I don’t deserve her, but I have her.
She’s mine to love and cherish, mine to hold.
I don’t know how long I kiss her, but by the time I lift my head, the others are already entering the house. Reluctantly, I lower Sara to her feet, but I can’t bring myself to let go of her.
“Did you miss me, ptichka?” I ask softly, my hands resting on her supple waist. “Did you worry when I was gone?”
The sun brings out the greenish flecks in her soft hazel eyes, highlighting the turmoil within them. “I…” She licks her kiss-swollen lips. “I didn’t want to see you dead.”
“So you’ve said. But did you miss me?”
She gives me a tortured look, then pushes at my chest, stepping out of my hold. “I have to go,” she says tightly. “Ilya’s head won’t stitch itself.”
Turning, she runs into the house, and I follow, both disappointed and encouraged.
She’s not yet ready to admit it, but sooner or later, I will break her.
I will make her love me, no matter what it takes.
* * *
Sara follows the Ivanov twins into Ilya’s room, and I go into our bedroom to take a shower before I crash. I washed up on the plane, but I still feel the urge to scrub off all the violence and death.