Not at this price, at least.
I haven’t given up on the idea of escape, but given these new developments, my new plan is to get away in Cyprus. I don’t know what kind of security this Lucas Kent has in place, but there’s a chance he’ll be more careless than Peter and his men, less invested in keeping me away from the internet and phones. He might even have qualms about acting as my jailer, though I’m not counting on that.
Men in Peter’s world don’t seem to care about a woman’s freedom.
As the helicopter takes off, I watch our mountain retreat grow smaller in the window, but instead of hope, all I feel is dread. I should welcome this change, should seize the opportunities it offers, but while I intend to do precisely that, I can’t help wishing we weren’t going.
I can’t help fearing what happens next.
* * *
I don’t sleep on the plane this time—I can’t—and by the time we land on a private airstrip in Cyprus, my eyes burn from dryness and exhaustion. Peter didn’t sleep either, spending most of the thirteen-hour flight going over last-minute logistics with the twins, but he looks as fresh as the moment we stepped on the plane—and so do his men.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think all Russians are superhuman.
It’s pleasantly warm when we step off the plane, the tropical breeze carrying a hint of salt and sea. A black limo is waiting for us by the air strip, and it takes us on a scenic ride through a sparsely populated area. A couple of times, I even spot what looks like a wild donkey. The drive itself, however, makes me nervous. Not only do we drive on the left side of the road, like in the UK, but the roads are narrow and winding, occasionally stretching alongside some dangerous-looking cliffs.
Finally, we reach an automatic gate, and at the end of a long driveway, I see a Mediterranean-style house on a bluff overlooking the beach—Kent’s home, according to Peter. It’s large and beautifully maintained but not nearly as ostentatious as I expected from a wealthy arms dealer.
“Don’t let the size of the house fool you,” Peter says when I mention that to him. “Kent doesn’t like to have live-in staff, but he owns all the land as far as the eye can see, including the beach below, and he has extraordinary security measures in place. Right now, there are several dozen guards patrolling the area, and upward of fifty military-grade drones surveilling us. If Kent thought we were in any way a threat, we wouldn’t get within a kilometer of his place without getting blown into bits.”
“Oh.” I glance up, my stomach tightening. Though it’s only late afternoon in this timezone, the sky is covered with clouds, and that makes it even more threatening somehow, the fact that something so deadly is hovering above us unseen.
“Don’t worry,” Yan says, apparently divining my thoughts. He’s walking behind me and Peter, carrying a bag slung casually over his shoulder. “If Kent wanted us dead, we wouldn’t still be walking.”
“Shut it, you idiot,” his brother mutters, casting a worried glance at Peter, but his boss is not listening. Instead, he’s looking at the tall, broad-shouldered man who just opened the front door and is coming down the steps toward us.
I stare at him too, fascinated by the granite hardness of his features and the iciness of his pale eyes. His light-colored hair is worn short, almost in a buzz cut, and his skin is darkly tanned. Like Peter, he looks to be in his mid-thirties, and like my captor, he must also be former military. I can see it in the way he carries himself and the keen alertness of his gaze.
This is a man used to danger.
No, I realize as he comes closer, a man who thrives on danger.
It’s not anything specific that gives that impression—he’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, with no weapons or tattoos in sight—but I feel certain of my conclusion. There’s just something about men who are intimately acquainted with violence, a kind of fearless ruthlessness that civilized people lack. Peter and his teammates have it in spades, and so does this man.
“Lucas,” Peter says in greeting, stopping in front of him. “It’s good to see you.”
The blond man nods, his smile as hard as his face. “Sokolov.” His pale gaze flicks toward me. “And you must be Sara.”
I nod warily. “Hello.” For some reason, I didn’t expect an American accent, but that’s precisely what I hear in Lucas Kent’s voice as he greets Peter’s teammates.
“Congrats on your recent wedding,” Peter says as our host leads us up the stairs to the entrance. “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to send a gift.”
Kent seems amused by that. “It’s probably for the best. Esguerra was barely restraining himself as is.”
“Ah.” Peter grins. “So he still has it in for your bride?”
“You know how he is,” Kent says laconically, and Peter laughs.
“Better than most, I’m sure. Where’s your new wife, by the way?”
“In the kitchen, cooking up a storm,” the arms dealer says, his tone warming slightly for the first time. “You’ll meet her in a minute.”
I listen quietly as they continue talking, mentioning people and places I don’t know. I’m curious what Kent meant when he said that his boss/partner was barely restraining himself. It sounded as if this Esguerra doesn’t like Kent’s new wife, and if so, I wonder why that is.
When we enter the house, a savory aroma of cooking meat and various spices makes my stomach growl. We ate sandwiches on the plane, but that was hours ago, and I’m starving again. I doubt Mrs. Kent’s cooking will come anywhere near Peter’s delicious concoctions, but if tonight’s dinner tastes half as good as it smells, it’ll hit the spot.
Peter and his men are flying out immediately after dinner—they have some scouting to do tonight—so Lucas directs Anton and the twins to a bathroom by the entrance before leading me and Peter to the room where I’ll be staying. As we walk through the spacious living room, I note that the interior of Kent’s mansion is modern but surprisingly cozy, with overstuffed couches and warm wood finishes softening the sharp lines of Scandinavian-inspired furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in a tremendous amount of light and display gorgeous views of the Mediterranean Sea below, while the walls are covered with pictures of a smiling couple—our host and a beautiful young blonde who must be his wife. A teenage boy frequently appears in those pictures too, his resemblance to Mrs. Kent leading me to think he’s her brother.
The gorgeous woman in those photos doesn’t look old enough to have a teenage son.
“Here we are,” Kent says as we enter a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom and another big window overlooking the sea. “Towels are in the bathroom, and sheets are already on the bed. If you need anything else tonight, talk to Yulia.”
“Yulia?” I ask.