I laugh shakily, then feel wetness on my face.
Am I crying?
Wiping away the errant moisture, I turn away, embarrassed, just as a big paw descends on my shoulder, squeezing lightly.
“It’s okay,” Ilya says gruffly when I turn back to face him. “You did well, kroshka. He’ll make it, thanks to you.”
“And you,” I say huskily. I have no idea what he just called me, but it sounded more like an endearment than an insult. “If you hadn’t come…”
“Yeah, you would’ve been fucked,” Yan says matter-of-factly. “They’re really ramping up the hunt for the two of you.”
I nod, suppressing a shudder. “I figured as much when I saw the news. I can’t even begin to thank you for—”
“So don’t.” Yan stands up. “We don’t need your thanks.”
I smile, feeling a bit awkward. “That’s very nice of you, but I still really appreciate it. I know what a huge risk this is…”
Yan grins sardonically. “Do you? Are you now an expert on life on the run?”
“No, but I’m learning more about it every day,” I say evenly. “So thank you. I’m grateful that you came, and I’m sure when Peter wakes up, he’ll be too.” I have no idea what Yan’s deal is, but I have a nagging suspicion that he’s toying with me, like a cat with a mouse.
Pushing that unsettling image away, I turn to Ilya. “Where’s Anton?” I ask. “Is he okay?”
“He’s in Hong Kong on some business,” Ilya answers. “Wouldn’t have gotten here in time. We got lucky that Kent was in Mexico with us, and that he had a plane. Otherwise…” He shrugs his massive shoulders.
“Right.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “I need to thank him too.”
“I wouldn’t,” Yan says dryly. “He’s not your biggest fan.”
“Oh.” So the arms dealer is holding a grudge about my escape—or at least his wife’s involvement in it. “I guess I should apologize to him first.”
“Why?” Yan looks coolly amused as he leans against the side of his seat. “Because you saw an opportunity and took it? He would’ve done the same in your shoes.”
“Yes, well, still.” I turn toward the pilot’s cabin, but Ilya steps in front of me, blocking my way.
“You don’t need to do this,” he says, his expression kind. “This is between him and Peter.”
“Okay…” I didn’t realize there was a specific protocol to these things. “I guess I’ll leave it to them, then.”
I turn to go back to Peter’s couch, but then I remember something important. “Where exactly are we going?” I ask, facing the twins again.
“To the clinic in Switzerland,” Yan says. “To get this one”—he nods at Peter—“on his feet. And after that, who knows.” He smiles darkly. “The whole world is now your home, Sara Sokolov. Welcome to our kind of life.”
Part III
39
Peter
I wake up with a sense of well-being that belies the pulling discomfort at my side. Soft hands are stroking my hair, and a sweet voice is crooning a soothing melody, making me feel warm and relaxed.
Opening my eyes, I meet Sara’s startled gaze. She’s sitting on the edge of my bed, holding a comb that she must’ve been about to use on me.
“You’re awake.” Her face lights up as she jumps to her feet and leans over me, leaving the comb on the bedside table. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” My voice comes out raspy, like I haven’t used it for a while. My mouth is dry too, as is my throat. Moistening my cracked lips, I ask hoarsely, “What happened? Where are we?”
Beaming, Sara reaches for a glass of water sitting next to the bed. “The clinic in Switzerland. The Ivanov twins got us out.”
There’s a lot to unpack there, so I suck water through a straw while I sift through my recollections. I remember the bullet ripping through my side and Sara shepherding me into our car, but then things get hazy, more like a jumble of impressions. We must’ve changed cars at one point, because I have a vague memory of getting into a blue Toyota, but after that, it’s pretty much blank. And before the shootout—
“The baby.” I grip her wrist, my pulse kicking up. “Ptichka, are you and the baby—”
“We’re fine.” She puts down the cup of water, smiling brightly. “They checked me over, and we’re both perfectly fine.”
I exhale in relief, but then I remember something else. “Your parents.” My heart cracks in half as her smile disappears. “My love, I’m so sorr—”
“Don’t.” She pulls away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I watch, chest aching, as she turns away, visibly composing herself. I remember more now, including the agent she shot point blank.
My little songbird, who’s dedicated her life to healing, killed a man.
To protect me… and to avenge her mother.
She pulled the trigger not once, but three times.
I can only imagine what’s going through her mind right now, with her parents dead and her old life irrevocably lost. Not to mention the trauma of the shootout and the escape that followed.