I catch his wrists before he has a chance to unhook my bra. “Kill you? For what?”
Peter sighs. “It’s a long story, but suffice it to say that Kent doesn’t share Esguerra’s hatred of me. I’ve helped him out of some tight spots, both when we worked together—Esguerra was my employer at one point too—and afterward, when Kent needed to retrieve his wife. In any case, all you need to know is that Kent owes me.”
“But this Esguerra—Kent’s partner—wants to kill you?” At Peter’s nod, I ask in frustration, “Why?”
“Because I saved Esguerra’s life, but I had to go against my orders to do so. Specifically, I had to endanger his wife, the woman he entrusted me to protect. It was at her request—she bargained with my list, in fact—but still, he wasn’t pleased.” Twisting out of my hold with laughable ease, Peter goes for my bra again.
I give up and let him unhook it. “But he and the wife are both okay?”
Peter shrugs again, his heated gaze lowering to my exposed breasts. “Okay is a relative term, but yes, they both survived, and she held up her part of the bargain by getting me the list.” His voice is husky as he returns his attention to my face and says, “You don’t have to worry about the Esguerras, ptichka. They’re in Colombia, far away from Kent’s compound in Cyprus. You’ll stay with Kent and his wife for the couple of days it takes us to do the job, and then we’ll collect you on our way back. Cyprus is right next to Turkey, in case you weren’t aware.” As he speaks, he cups my breasts, gently squeezing and massaging them.
“Is that why—” I swallow as he flicks my nipple with his thumb, sending a tingle of heat straight to my core. “Is that why you want to stash me there? Because it’s convenient?”
“Partially,” Peter answers, looking up to meet my gaze. “But mainly because Lucas Kent will keep you safe for me… safe and secure, so when I return, I’ll find you there.”
And gripping my face between his palms, he kisses me deeply and bears me down to the bed.
39
Peter
* * *
Sara is quiet, almost withdrawn in the two days leading up to the trip, and I know it’s because she’s worried. Yan told me how anxious she was during our Nigeria job, and while that pleased me at the time, I now regret that I’m causing her such stress.
Whether she wants to admit it or not, my little songbird cares about me.
She cares a lot.
I do my best to distract her from the upcoming trip by letting her talk to her parents daily, taking her on walks, and making love to her every spare minute I have. Unfortunately, I don’t have many. There’s too much to do, too many scenarios to plan for. The politician—Deniz Arslan—is used to people gunning for him, and his security is top-notch, as good as anything I might’ve set up for my consulting clients back in the day. There are only a couple of small weaknesses we’ve been able to uncover so far, and even those could potentially be traps.
This is not going to be an easy job, which is why a Ukrainian oligarch is paying us twenty-five million euros to do it.
The night before the trip, I make us all another nice dinner, but this time, I forbid the guys from discussing anything related to the upcoming danger. We keep the conversation light, recalling amusing stories from our past, and Anton finally succeeds in drawing Sara out of her shell by telling her how we first met.
“So here I am, a twenty-one-year-old army punk recruited into this elite team, all ready to meet my new commander,” he says, grinning. “I figured he’d be a seasoned old dog, full of salty tales about Afghanistan and life under communism. And instead, this guy my age”—he waves his fork in my direction—“strides in and starts barking orders. I figured there had to be a misunderstanding and told him to f*ck off, only to end up with his knife at my throat.”
Sara gasps in shock. “Peter threatened you?”
“If nearly slicing open your carotid artery is a threat, then yes.” Anton laughs and shakes his head in remembrance. “It was good, though. Helped us get a sense for what kind of man we were dealing with.”
Sara turns to me, her hazel eyes wide. “So you became a team leader when you were only twenty-one?”
I nod, finishing my poached salmon. “At that point, I had four years of experience tracking down and interrogating people, and I was very good at my job.”
“I can imagine,” Sara says dryly. Glancing at the twins, she asks, “Did all of you start working together at the same time?”
Yan shakes his head. “Ilya and I joined later, after the team was in place for a couple of years. These two”—he nods toward Anton and me—“were pros by then, but we managed to keep up.”
“Oh, please.” Anton snorts. “What about that time you got stuck in that well near Grozny? How is us having to haul your ass out with a water bucket ‘keeping up?’”
Yan shrugs, smiling coolly. “I got a lot of intel on those Chechen rebels by being in that well, and diving in was better than ending up in pieces from the bomb.”
Sara pales at the mention of a bomb, and I shoot Yan a dark look. We agreed to keep things light tonight, avoiding whatever might remind Sara about the upcoming trip—and bombs definitely fall into that category.
Realizing his mistake, Yan elbows his brother and says, “Now this one did have some trouble. Remember that hooker who stole his boots?”
Ilya reddens as Yan launches into the tale amidst Anton’s guffaws, and I reach for Sara’s knee under the table, squeezing her jean-clad leg reassuringly. She smiles at me, and I feel that soft, warm glow in my chest, the one that makes me feel so alive when I’m with her. We’re surrounded by my teammates, but we might as well be alone, because she’s all I’m aware of, all I hear and see.
My Sara.
I love her so much it hurts.
We finish the dinner with lavish dessert, and then I lead Sara upstairs, where I make love to her until we’re worn out and sore.
40
Sara
* * *
It feels strange to walk to the helicopter with Peter and know that I’m leaving the mountain for the first time in four and a half months. For some reason, I didn’t do that math before, didn’t add up all the days and weeks that have been passing by, but now that I have, I realize it’s been a year since Peter came into my life… a year since he broke into my home and tortured me to get to George.
I haven’t seen my family in four and a half months, and if I don’t escape, I may never see them again.
Unless Peter gets killed, an insidious whisper reminds me, and my heart falters for a beat. Worry for my captor is a constant heavy band around my lungs, unbreakable and suffocating, and no matter how much I reason with myself, I can’t make the fear go away.
I don’t want my freedom.