As I load the dishwasher, I watch her covertly. She seems lost in thought as she sips her tea, but there’s no sign of that terrifyingly blank look, no hyperventilating or panic attacks connected to the flashbacks. She did wake up from a nightmare last night, but I made love to her and she fell back asleep.
Maybe yesterday was an anomaly, and my ptichka will be all right, after all. In any case, the therapist is flying in this morning and will be able to see her as early as this afternoon.
Another piece of good news is that last night’s operation went off without a hitch. With Esguerra’s resources and my detailed files on Henderson, we got everyone we hoped to get—which means we’re one step closer to resolving the situation.
If there’s any shred of empathy in Henderson, he’ll cave.
If not, we’ll find him anyway—and he’ll die knowing all those deaths are on his conscience.
71
Henderson
I stare at my computer screen, my skin crawling with horror. I expected Sokolov and the others to throw all their resources at finding me, but I didn’t expect this. The messages filling my inbox are surreal.
My uncle. My cousins. Bonnie’s family. All of our friends.
Gone.
Abducted from their homes, their schools, on their way to work, and from their churches.
With shaking fingers, I click over to CNN and open a web video discussing it.
“It is now believed that last night’s series of kidnappings in Asheville, Charleston, and the Washington D.C. area may be connected,” the news anchor informs the camera with barely concealed excitement. “So far, no demands have been made, but the police are expecting to hear from the kidnappers at any moment. In total, nineteen citizens have been reported missing, with one of the abductions caught on a security camera.”
The video flashes to a grainy footage of two masked figures grabbing Uncle Ian as he’s filling up his car at a gas station. The kidnappers’ movements are smooth and coordinated—they’re clearly professionals who know what they’re doing.
“In another twist to the story, it appears that a number of these citizens have suffered abductions and assaults in the recent past,” the anchor continues, and the camera flashes to a weeping redhead—my friend Jimmy’s wife, Sandra.
Thank God they let her be. It’s bad enough my oldest friend—after whom we’d named our son—is in their ruthless clutches.
“Why does this keep happening to us?” Sandra sobs, her mascara running down her freckled face. “Last time, they beat him up and shot him, and he had to retire from the force. And now this? Why? What do they want from us?”
Me. They want me.
Acidic bile churns in my throat.
The cops won’t see any demands from the kidnappers because the demands were sent directly to me.
Or rather, to the CIA, where they must’ve known I still have contacts.
I should’ve foreseen this and taken some steps to prevent it, but I assumed that everyone Sokolov had interrogated before is safe, since they knew nothing the first time.
I’d been focused on Operation Air Drop, and I underestimated how sociopathic my opponents are.
My neck spasms, the ever-present pain flaring into agony as I pause the video and click over to my inbox, where I read the last email again.
Nineteen hours, nineteen lives, the message received by the CIA reads. The clock starts at noon EST. Turn yourself in, Wally, or watch them all die, one by one.
72
Sara
After breakfast, Peter steps out to catch up on some business with Esguerra and his Russian crew, and I decide to go visit Nora in the main house. For the first time in a week, I don’t feel tense or anxious. My stomach is fully settled, and my heart is beating at a normal pace.
I’m humming under my breath as I walk, enjoying the feel of the warm, humid air on my skin. I feel good, almost like I did before all this happened, before my parents—
My mind shuts down, a wall of numbness sliding into place as a third shot rings out.
I look at my husband, on his back and bleeding, then at the agent in the doorway, his face twisted with hatred as he aims at Peter’s head.
My gaze falls on the gun that Peter dropped while wrestling with the other agent.
It’s three feet away.
I reach for it and pick it up. It’s cold and heavy in my hand, adding to the icy numbness in my heart.
My parents are dead.
Peter is about to be murdered.
I aim and squeeze the trigger a split second before the agent fires.
My bullet misses, but the gunshot startles him, causing his shot to go wild.
He spins toward me, and I fire again.
It hits him in the middle of his vest, throwing him back.
Without any hesitation, I walk over to him and lift my gun again.
“Don’t—” he chokes out, gasping for breath, and I squeeze the trigger.