The approach of the train drags me out of my dark musings. The people around me press forward, pushing their way onto the crowded train, and I hurry to make sure I squeeze in before the doors close.
Thankfully, I make it. Grabbing onto a rail, I wedge myself into a space between two middle-aged women and do my best to ignore a leer from an old man sitting in front of me. Another couple of hours, and I won’t need to put up with the Moscow metro system.
I’ll be on my way to Kiev, where I belong.
I close my eyes and try to focus on that—on coming home.
On being near Misha, even if I can’t meet with him in person.
My baby brother is fourteen now. I’ve seen his photos; he’s a handsome teenage boy, his blue eyes bright and mischievous. In all the pictures, he’s always laughing, hanging out with his friends and his girlfriends. He’s social, Obenko tells me. Outgoing.
Happy with the life they’ve given him.
Each time I receive one of those pictures, I stare at it for hours, wondering if he remembers me. If he’d recognize me if I approached him on the street. It’s unlikely—he was only three when he was adopted—but I still like to imagine that some part of him would know me.
That he’d recall the way I took care of him that one brutal year in the orphanage.
A crackling announcement interrupts my musings. Opening my eyes, I realize that the train is slowing down.
“We apologize for the delay,” the conductor repeats loudly as the train comes to a complete halt. “The issue should get resolved shortly.”
The passengers around me groan in unison. The middle-aged woman to my left begins swearing, while the one to my right mutters something about corrupt officials pocketing public funds instead of fixing things. It’s not the first delay this month; the extreme temperatures this winter have taken a toll on both roads and underground metro tracks, exacerbating the commuting nightmare that is Moscow at rush hour.
I suppress my own sigh of impatience and check my phone. As expected, I have zero bars. The thick walls of the tunnel block out all cell phone reception, so I can’t notify my handlers of the delay.#p#分页标题#e#
Great. Just great.
I put the phone away, trying not to give in to my frustration. With any luck, this problem is something that requires a little welding, rather than something more serious. Last month, a burst pipe snarled traffic all over Moscow, causing metro delays of three hours or more. If it’s something along those lines again, I might not get to my pickup location until late this afternoon.
Against my will, my thoughts turn to Lucas again. By late afternoon, his plane will likely be flying over the Uzbekistani airspace. He might even be dead by then. My stomach churns with acid as I picture his body torn into pieces, destroyed by the explosion and the crash.
Stop it, Yulia. The churning in my stomach intensifies, turning into an empty rumble, and I realize with relief that I forgot to eat breakfast this morning. I was in such a rush to pack and get going that I didn’t have so much as a bite of an apple.
No wonder I’m feeling sick. It has nothing to do with Kent and everything to do with the fact that I’m hungry.
Yes, that’s it, I tell myself. I’m just hungry. Once the train starts moving again and I get to my destination, I’ll grab some food and everything will be fine.
I’ll be safely in Kiev, and I won’t think of Lucas Kent ever again.
7
Lucas
By the time I get to the plane, the whole team, including Esguerra, is already on board and dressed in combat gear. The suits are bulletproof and flame-retardant—which makes them ridiculously expensive. I’m grateful Esguerra insists on them for every mission; they help minimize casualties among our men.
I’m the last one on board, and I’m piloting the plane, so as soon as I get suited up, we take off for Tajikistan, where the terrorist organization of Al-Quadar has its latest stronghold. Esguerra sniffed it out recently, and since the idiots fucked with him by kidnapping his wife a few months back, he’s determined to wipe them off the map. The Russians granted us safe passage—that’s what that meeting with Buschekov was about—so I’m not expecting any trouble. Still, I keep an eye on the radar as we get farther away from Moscow and closer to Central Asia.
In this part of the world, one can never be too careful.
Once we’re at our cruising altitude, I put the plane on autopilot and check all of my weapons, taking each one apart to clean it before putting it back together. It’s one of the first things I learned in the Navy: make sure your guns are good to go before every battle. Esguerra’s equipment is top notch, and I’ve never had it malfunction on me, but there’s always a first time.