I glance down at the boy, who’s wisely remaining motionless on the floor. “If that’s Misha, then no.” I take a calming breath, trying not to wince at the pain in my ribs. “Who is he to you?”
Yulia’s eyes widen. “You don’t know? But you said—”
“I think it’s possible I misunderstood,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Who is he? Your cousin?”
She blinks. “My brother.”
Now it’s my turn to be taken aback. “You said you were an only child.”
“I lied,” she says. Then her forehead wrinkles in confusion. “But you said you knew. When I asked you not to kill him, you said you knew. What did you mean? Why did you—”
“I thought he was your lover, okay?” Anger—at myself this time—clips my words. “Why did you lie about being an only child?”
Yulia moistens her lips. “Because I didn’t trust you.”
Of course—and apparently, with good reason. I force myself to take another breath. In a calmer tone, I ask, “Are you hurt? Did that fucker hurt you?”
She stiffens again. “How do you—”
“I hacked into this facility’s video feed,” I say. Releasing her wrist, I raise my hand to run my fingertips over the swelling on the left side of her face. “Did he do this?” I ask, trying to suppress my fury. “Did he hit you?”
“He…” Yulia swallows. “I fought, so he hit me. Then you—” She stops. “How did you find this place?”
I narrow my eyes, refusing to be distracted. “Did he rape you?”
“He tried, but no.” Her gaze drifts down. “Not this time.”
“This time?” I all but explode on the spot. “He hurt you before?”
She looks up, seemingly startled. “I told you about that. You don’t remember?”
“That was—”
“Kirill, yes.” Her bruised lips flatten. “They lied to me about him. He was alive. Alive and training Misha…” She glances down at the boy, who’s been utterly silent during our conversation. I don’t know how much English he understands, but judging from the stunned look on his face, he must’ve gotten at least some of it.
I can see Yulia is about to start talking to him, so I grip her chin firmly to bring her attention back to me. “We’re going to get him,” I promise grimly. “He won’t get away this time.”
To my surprise, Yulia’s mouth curves in a small smile as I lower my hand. “It’s okay. I took care of him.”
“What?”
“He’s dead—or will be shortly, if he’s not already.” Yulia’s smile sharpens. “He’s in my cell. Or at least his body should be there.”
I’m about to tell her to take me there when Eduardo enters the room. “He’s gone,” the guard says with evident disgust. “The bastard somehow made it to one of the SUVs in the backyard and squealed out of here. There must’ve been another exit down here. He bled the whole way to the car, though, so he’s hurt pretty badly. Maybe he’ll bleed out on his own.”
Yulia’s eyebrows draw together. “Who are you—”
“He’s talking about Kirill.” I fight to keep my voice level. “I saw a shadow move in the hallway earlier, when you and Misha were doing your best to bash my head in. He must not have been hurt as badly as you thought, or else—”
“I shot his cock and balls off.” Yulia’s curt statement makes me—and all the other males in the room—flinch instinctively. “Also, I put a bullet in his side,” she says, and before anyone can respond, she rushes out of the room, running down the hallway toward her cell.
“Keep an eye on him,” I tell Eduardo, nodding at Yulia’s brother, and then I take off after her, determined not to let her out of my sight ever again.
25
Yulia
Lucas is here. He promised not to hurt my brother. Kirill might have escaped.
I can’t process any of it, so I don’t even try. As I burst into the cell where Kirill attacked me, I see right away that Eduardo was right.
Kirill is gone.
There’s blood all over the place. I turn to follow the trail leading out of the room, but Lucas is already there, looming in the doorway like a human mountain. His hard jaw is shadowed with blond stubble, and his eyes are the color of an iced-over lake. With his SWAT-like gear and machine gun, he looks like the ultimate merciless soldier.
I want to flee from him and jump into his arms at the same time.
I do neither. Instead, I say dully, “He’s gone.” I know I’m stating the obvious, but all forms of higher thinking seem to be beyond me at the moment. My head is throbbing with pain, and my knees feel like they might buckle at any moment. The adrenaline that sustained me during my fight with Lucas is gone, leaving me trembling in the aftermath.
Kirill almost raped me again. Lucas saved me. Lucas had thought Misha was my lover.
I shake my head, a hysterical laugh escaping my throat.
“Yulia…” Lucas reaches for me, frowning, and my laughter intensifies. I can’t stop laughing, not when he pulls me into his embrace, his M16 digging into my back, and not when he rocks me against him, whispering soothing nothings into my ear. He promises that he’ll find Kirill for me, that he’ll make sure the fucker suffers, but I’m not listening to him. My mind is like a ping-pong ball, leaping from one insane fact to the next.
Lucas is in Ukraine. My brother is here with me. Lucas doesn’t intend to kill him—though he did when he thought Misha was my lover.
My hysterical laughter turns into equally hysterical sobbing. I know it’s pathetic, but I can’t stop. All the heartache and stress of the past few hours coalesce into an expanding ball in my throat, and no matter how much air I draw in, I can’t stop feeling like I’m suffocating.
Misha could’ve been killed. He could still be killed if Lucas changes his mind. I want to plead for my brother’s life again, but all I can manage is a choked sound that devolves into another sob.
“Hush, sweetheart, it’ll be all right…” Lucas’s voice is a soft rumble in my ear. “I’ll protect you from him, I promise.”
Bending down, he picks me up, cradling me against his chest, and I wind my arms around his neck, pressing my face into his throat. Almost instantly, I feel calmer, my sobs easing as he carries me down the hallway.
When we pass by the room where I left my brother, however, I see that it’s empty, and the choking sensation returns. “Where is he?” My voice takes on a higher pitch as I push at Lucas’s shoulders. “Where’s Misha?”
“I assume Eduardo brought him upstairs, which is where I’m taking you now,” Lucas says, pressing me tighter against him. “Don’t worry, baby. He’s going to be fine, and so will you.”
His words reassure me somewhat. I still don’t trust Lucas, but I don’t see what he has to gain by lying to me in this instance. As he told me, if he wanted Misha dead, he would’ve already killed him.
“What are you going to do with him?” My tone is a tiny bit calmer as I pull back to look at my captor. “With us, I mean?”
“You’re coming with me, and so is your brother.” Lucas’s eyes glitter as he takes the stairs two at a time. “Now relax—we’ll sort all the rest of it soon.”
And before I can ask anything else, he steps out into the ruins of the first floor of the house.
* * *
The next several hours are hazy in my mind. I recall seeing Obenko’s bloodied corpse as Lucas carried me out of the wreckage, but I must’ve passed out soon after that because I don’t remember the drive to the airport or the plane taking off. My last semi-clear recollection is of my brother sitting in the car next to me, his eyes red and swollen and his hands handcuffed behind his back.
A few times during the flight, Diego shakes me awake and makes me tell him my name and how many fingers he’s holding up. The first time that happens, I ask about my brother, and Diego points to a blanket-covered bundle on the couch across the cabin.
“We gave him a sedative so he wouldn’t keep fighting us,” the guard explains. “Your brother didn’t take the other agents’ deaths well.”
I try to get up to make sure Misha is all right, but my whole body lodges a violent protest, beginning with my skull, and I fall back into my plush seat with a pained groan, fighting a wave of nauseating dizziness.
“Don’t try to move,” Diego says, buckling me in with the seatbelt. “Lucas thinks you might have a concussion. He said I’m to watch over you while he’s flying the plane.”
“But Misha—”
“He’s fine.” Diego walks over and pokes Misha’s shoulder. My brother makes an incoherent noise, and the guard says, “See? He’s sleeping. Now relax. We’re already over the Atlantic and should be home soon.”
“Home?” I try to think through the throbbing pain in my temples.
“Our compound.” The young Mexican grins. “The wind is at our back, so we’ll be landing in no time.”
I want to argue that Esguerra’s compound is not my home, but the pain in my head intensifies, and I fade into unconsciousness again.