I call Obenko while I’m getting dressed. “Anything new?” I ask when he picks up.
“We have a plan,” he says. “We were able to track down Esguerra’s Boeing C-17—it’s the only private plane of that size scheduled to take off in the next couple of hours. Our contact in Uzbekistan will take care of the rest.”
I pause in the middle of zipping up my boots. “What do you mean?”
“The Uzbekistani military will fire a missile when they fly over their airspace,” Obenko says. “Accidentally, of course. The Russians won’t be pleased, but they won’t go to war over one arms dealer. Our contact will get jail time and a demotion, but his family will be well compensated for his trouble.”
“You’re going to shoot down Esguerra’s plane?” A cold knot forms in my throat. I don’t care what happens to Esguerra, but the thought of Lucas dying in a tangle of crushed metal or being blown into bits...
“Yes. It would be too risky to attack him here. He has four dozen mercenaries with him. There’s no way we can get to him otherwise.”
“I see.” I feel cold all over, as though someone walked over my grave. “So they’ll all die.”
“If everything goes according to plan, yes. We’ll eliminate the threat in one shot and without any casualties on our end.”
“Right.” I try to inject a note of appropriate enthusiasm into my voice, but I don’t know if I succeed. All I can think about is Lucas’s big body burned and broken, his pale eyes staring unseeing at the sky. It shouldn’t matter—he’s nothing to me—but I can’t get that gruesome image out of my mind.
“We need to exfiltrate you,” Obenko says, bringing my attention back to him. “If the Russians begin really digging and our Uzbekistani contact decides to talk, it won’t take them long to figure out how the information got to us. It’s unfortunate, but we always knew this was a risk with this specific assignment.”
“All right.” I squeeze my eyes shut and rub the bridge of my nose. “Where do I meet the team?”
“Take the train to Kon’kovo. We’ll have a car ready for you there.” And the phone goes silent in my hand.
It takes me less than twenty minutes to pack. I’ve lived in Moscow for six years, but I’ve acquired few possessions I care about. Some makeup, a hairbrush, a change of underwear, my fake passport, my gun—that’s all that goes into my large Gucci handbag. I also make sure that the clothes I’m wearing—designer jeans tucked into knee-high flat boots, a cashmere sweater, and a thick, well-fitting parka—are both warm and stylish. In case anyone sees me leaving the apartment, I’ll look much as they’d expect: a young woman heading off to work, bundled up against the brutal cold.
After I’m done packing, I wipe down the entire apartment to erase my fingerprints and walk out, carefully locking the door behind me. I no longer care if thieves break in, but there’s no need to make it easy for them.#p#分页标题#e#
Nobody seems to be watching the apartment as I exit onto the street, but I still keep a wary eye on my surroundings, making sure I’m not being followed.
As I approach the metro station, thoughts of Lucas intrude again, making me shiver despite my warm clothing. I should be happy—I’ve been looking forward to exfiltration for months—but I can’t get my mind off Lucas’s fate.
Will he die fast or slowly? Is it going to be the missile that kills him, or the crash itself? Will he stay conscious long enough to realize he’s about to die?
Will he guess I had something to do with what happened?
The knot in my throat expands, making me feel like I’m choking. For one insane moment, I’m seized by an overwhelming urge to call him, to warn him not to get on that plane. I actually reach for the phone in my bag before I jerk my hand away, sticking it in my pocket instead.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, I chide myself as I walk down the stairs into the metro station. I don’t even have Kent’s number. And even if I did, warning him would mean betraying Obenko and my country.
Betraying Misha.
No, never. I take a steadying breath, ignoring the crush of Moscow commuters all around me. At this point, the operation is out of my hands. Even if I wanted to change something, I can’t. Obenko and his team are in control now, and the best I can hope for is a speedy exit from Russia.
Besides, even if Lucas Kent wasn’t affiliated with the arms dealer who just became Ukraine’s enemy, there’s no room in my life for romance of any kind. Whether Kent is dead or alive shouldn’t matter—because either way, I won’t see him again.