A couple of minutes later, I come across what looks like an abandoned warehouse. Disappointed, I stare at it, debating whether I should even approach. Whatever Obenko is doing here is unlikely to involve my brother’s adoptive parents; my boss wouldn’t ask his sister to meet him in the middle of nowhere just to give her some documents. It’s far more probable that he’s in the middle of an operation, and the last thing I want is to stand in his way.
Despite that, I take a step closer. Then another and another. My legs seem to be carrying me of their own accord. I’ve come this far, I reason to justify my compulsion. What’s another few minutes to confirm that I’ve wasted my time?
There is a faint glow of light visible on one side of the warehouse, so I make my way there and crouch in front of a small, dirty window. Inside, I hear voices, and I hold my breath, trying to understand what they’re saying.
“—getting good,” a man says in Russian. There’s something familiar about his voice, but I can’t place it. The wall is muffling the sound. “Really good. I think another couple of years, and they’ll be ready.”
“Good,” another man replies, and this time, I recognize the speaker as Obenko. “We’ll need all the help we can get.”
“Would you like a demonstration?” the original speaker says. “They’ll be happy to show you what they’ve learned thus far.”
“Of course,” Obenko says, and then I hear a grunt, followed by the thump of something falling. The noises repeat again and again, and I realize I’m listening to a fight. Two or more people are engaged in hand-to-hand combat, which, combined with the bits I overheard, means only one thing.
I’ve stumbled upon a UUR training facility.
That’s it. I need to leave before I’m caught.
I turn around, about to head back, when the original speaker laughs loudly and exclaims, “Good job!”
I freeze in place, a sick feeling spreading through me. That voice. I know that voice. I’ve heard it in my nightmares over and over again.
Cold sweat breaks over my skin as I turn, drawn to the window despite myself.
It can’t be.
It just can’t be.
My pulse is a violent drumbeat, and my hands tremble as I place them on the wall next to the window.
I’m imagining this.
I’m hallucinating.
I have to be.
Sinking my teeth into my lower lip, I edge to the left until I can see through the window. I know I’m taking a terrible risk, but I have to know the truth.
I have to know if they lied to me.
The scene that greets my eyes is straight out of my own training sessions. There are several teenagers of both genders standing in a semi-circle. Their backs are to me, and in front of them is a wide mat on which two men—or, rather, a man and a boy—are wrestling. Obenko is standing to the side, watching them with an approving smile.
I notice all of this only briefly because my eyes are glued to the wrestling pair. With the two of them twisting and rolling on the mat, I can’t get a good look at either of them—at least until they stop, with the man pinning his younger opponent to the mat.
“Good job,” the man says, rising to his feet. Laughing, he extends his hand to help his defeated opponent. “You were excellent today, Zhenya.”
The boy gets up as well, brushing the dirt off his clothes, but I’m not looking at him.
All I see is the man standing next to him.
He hasn’t changed much. His brown hair is thinner and has more gray in it, but his body is as strong and broad as I remember. His shoulders strain the seams of his sweat-soaked T-shirt, and his arms are as thick as drain pipes.
Nobody could best Kirill in hand-to-hand combat seven years ago, and it seems he’s still undefeated.
Alive and undefeated.
Obenko lied to me. They all lied to me.
My rapist wasn’t killed for what he did to me.
He wasn’t even removed from his role as a trainer.
A metallic taste fills my mouth, and I realize I bit through my lip.
“It’s your fault, bitch. It’s all your fault.” Kirill’s massive body presses me into the floor, his hands cruelly tearing at my clothes. “You’re going to pay for what you did.”
Acid rises in my throat, mixing with the bitterness of bile. I feel like I’m going to choke on my terror and hatred, but before the memories can suffocate me, someone else enters my field of vision.
“It’s my turn,” a blond-haired boy says, approaching the mat. “Uncle Vasya, I want you to watch this.” He assumes a fighter’s stance opposite Kirill, and the fluorescent lights illuminate his face.
It’s a face I know as well as my own—because I’ve spent hours staring at it in photos.
Because every feature on that face is a masculine version of what I see in the mirror.
My brother is standing in front of me, ready to spar with Kirill.
18
Lucas
“It’s done,” I say, entering Esguerra’s office. “Your in-laws can go home tomorrow if they’re so inclined.”
Over the past week, we’ve exterminated the remnants of Sullivan’s crime family, and the CIA has finally agreed to let Nora’s parents return to their home. After the media nightmare we caused, it took promises of major favors, but Esguerra’s contacts came through for us.
“You got the police chief as well?” Esguerra asks.
I nod, approaching his desk. “His body is dissolving in lye as we speak. He was the last of the moles—Chicago PD is now squeaky clean and vermin-free. Other than a few CIA higher-ups, nobody knows your in-laws were involved in this mess.”
“Excellent.” Esguerra rubs his temples, and I see that he looks unusually tired. Like me, he’s been working nonstop since our return from Chicago. He doesn’t have to put in these hours—I’m overseeing most of the logistics of the cleanup—but work seems to be his way of coping with the miscarriage. “I’ll tell Nora. In the meantime, I want you to assign another dozen men to watch over her parents for the next few months. I’m not expecting any trouble, but it’s best to be safe.”
“Got it,” I say. “You might also want to tell them to stay away from crowded places for a while, just in case.”
“That’s a good idea.” Esguerra gives an approving nod. “As long as they’re able to return to work and resume their social lives, they shouldn’t mind the restrictions too much.”
“I’m sure you’ll miss them,” I say drily. Nora’s parents have been our reluctant guests for the last two weeks, and I imagine Esguerra must’ve found their disapproving presence wearing.
To my surprise, my boss chuckles. “They’re not so bad. You know, family and all that.”
“Right.” I try not to stare at him but fail. Esguerra’s changed; it’s obvious to me now. When I first met him, the word “family” would’ve never passed his lips. And now he’s putting up with in-laws who can’t stand his guts and bending over backward to keep his young wife happy.
It’s both amusing and unsettling to observe, like seeing a jaguar playing with a house kitten.
“You’ll understand someday,” Esguerra says, and I realize my expression must’ve given me away. “There’s more to life than this.” He waves at the flatscreen monitors behind him and the stack of papers on his desk.
“Are you going to give it up then? Walk the straight and narrow?” I say, only half-kidding. Esguerra is certainly wealthy enough to do so. His net worth is in the billions; even if he never sold another weapon, he could live like a king for the rest of his life.
Still, I’m not surprised when Esguerra shakes his head and says, “You know I can’t do that. Once in this life, always in this life. Besides”—he bares his teeth in a sharp smile—“I’d miss it. Wouldn’t you?”
“Definitely,” I say, and we share a moment of grim understanding.
The jaguar may play with the kitten, and even love said kitten, but he’ll always be a jaguar.
* * *
As I leave Esguerra’s office, my phone vibrates with an incoming message. I open my email, and my lips curl in savage anticipation.
Message decoded, the email from the hackers reads. A confirmed UUR black site is located twenty-five kilometers north of Kiev. They seem to be in the process of covering up their tracks, but they’re not fast enough. We’re getting closer to the two field operatives. Hope to have more news soon.
At the bottom of the email is an attachment. It’s a grainy satellite photo with an X marking a spot on the map where, I presume, the black site facility is located.
We have a place to start.
“Hi, Lucas,” a softly accented female voice says, and I turn to see Rosa approaching from the direction of the main house. She’s dressed in her usual maid’s outfit, with her dark hair pinned in a sleek knot. “How are you?”
Rage surges through me, but I manage to say calmly, “I’m fine.” Her casual friendliness grates on me like chalk on glass. I’m tempted to string her up in the shed and interrogate her this very moment, but it would be smart to wait a little longer. Taking a steadying breath, I mimic her friendly tone and ask, “How’s everything with you?”