“You’ve been cleared to land,” Thomas reports when I get him on the phone. I smile, satisfied that the bribe campaign we’ve been conducting is proving so effective. Despite the bloody war we’ve waged against UUR, most of Ukrainian bureaucrats are more than willing to look the other way—especially since Yulia’s former agency was strictly off the books.
Nobody cares about a few officially nonexistent spies when fat checks are in play.
When we land at the private airport, there’s an armored SUV waiting for us, and we go straight to Michael’s parents’ place. Thomas and two other guards ride along, while a dozen more of our men follow in other cars. I’m not expecting any trouble, but it’s always good to be cautious when in hostile territory.
Bribes or not, Ukraine has little love for anyone connected to the Esguerra organization.
“Are you sure my brother will be safe?” Yulia asked me last night, and I assured her that thanks to our hacking and subsequent destruction of UUR’s files, it’s all but impossible to connect the adoptive son of two civilians to her, and by extension, to me and Esguerra. Just in case, though, I personally hired two bodyguards to watch over Michael and his family over the next few months. I don’t think he’s in danger, but I know how much the kid means to Yulia. And, to be honest, he’s grown on me too. Yulia would probably be upset to hear this, but there’s something about Michael that reminds me of myself at that age.
Vasiliy Obenko hadn’t been entirely wrong to recruit him; the boy would’ve made an excellent agent had he completed his training.
On the ride from the airport, Yulia and Michael are both silent, and I know they’re thinking of the upcoming separation. Theoretically, I could’ve hired more men to ensure Michael’s safety and let him go home earlier, but I wanted to give Yulia more time with her brother, and I’m glad I did. The boy has come a long way from the defiant, sullen teenager who’d been fed lies about his sister. The two siblings are now as close as any I’ve seen, and I know that makes Yulia happy—which makes me happy in return.
If I could turn back the clock and wipe away all the pain in her past, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But since I can’t, I have to settle for making sure she never has to suffer again.
She’s mine, and I’m going to take care of her for the rest of our lives.
* * *
Michael’s parents live on the fifth floor of an apartment building on the outskirts of Kiev. The two bodyguards I hired greet us at the entrance to the building and report that all is quiet. I thank them and give them the rest of the day off before instructing Thomas and the others to wait downstairs. There’s no elevator, so Yulia, Michael, and I take the stairs.
Yulia walks a couple of steps ahead of me. She’s wearing flat boots and stylish skinny jeans—both are her recent online purchases—and I can’t tear my eyes away from her shapely ass, which flexes with every step she climbs.
“Dude, keep a lid on it for at least a few more minutes,” Michael mutters, climbing the stairs next to me, and I shoot him a grin, not the least bit embarrassed that he caught me lusting after his sister.
“Why?” I reply in a low voice. “Your sister is hot. You didn’t know that?”
“Ugh.” He grimaces in disgust, and Yulia gives us a suspicious look over her shoulder.
“What are you guys talking about?” she asks as we clear the third-floor landing.
“Nothing,” Misha says quickly, his face turning red. “Just guy stuff.”
“Uh-huh.” She gives us an exasperated look but doesn’t press further, and we clear the remaining two flights in silence. I’m glad we don’t run into any neighbors, because I have my M16 with me.
After what happened in Chicago, I don’t go anywhere without a weapon.
When we reach the fifth floor, Yulia stops in front of apartment 5A and rings the doorbell.
My first hint that something is wrong is the white face of the trim, dark-haired woman who opens the door. It’s Natalia Rudenko, Michael’s adoptive mother—I recognize her hazel eyes from the surveillance photos. Instead of smiling and stepping forward to embrace her son, she swings the door wide and steps back, her lipsticked mouth trembling.
Instantly, I see why.
Wrapped around her stomach and partially concealed by the apron she’s wearing is a tangle of wires and a black box with a blinking light.
“Mama?” Michael says uncertainly, stepping forward, and I instinctively grab his arm, yanking him back as I step in front of Yulia, shielding her from the bomb. My pulse jumps with a blast of adrenaline, terror and rage swamping me in a toxic shockwave.
Yulia, Misha, and a bomb.
Motherfucking fuck.
“It’s okay, let the boy in,” an accented male voice drawls in English. “He’s not any safer out there than in here. There’s enough to blow this whole building.”
I don’t move, though every instinct screams for me to rush in and attack, to protect Yulia and her brother. Only the knowledge that doing so means certain death for them keeps me still.
Calling upon all my years of battle experience, I block out the hammering beat of fear and assess the situation.
In addition to the woman, there are two men standing in the hallway. One of them, a portly, middle-aged man, is wired the same way as Michael’s mother. I recognize his terrified face too. It’s Viktor Rudenko, Michael’s adoptive father. But he’s not the one who holds my attention.
It’s the massively built man standing behind him, his thin lips curled in a snarl of a smile.
Kirill Ivanovich Luchenko, the man we’ve been hunting.
He found us instead.
48
Yulia
I’ve never known terror this intense, this all-consuming. Lucas is a human wall in front of me, but I can see around his powerful body, and the surreal tableau makes my stomach drop to my feet.
Kirill is standing in the brightly lit hallway behind Misha’s parents, who are wrapped in tangled wires. There’s a gun in his right hand, and in his left, he’s clutching something small and black.
A detonator, I realize with nauseating panic.
He’s got his thumb on the detonator.
“Come on in,” he says in English, looking at Lucas and Misha before focusing on me. A grotesque smile stretches his mouth as his gaze meets mine. “Make yourself at home. We’re all one happy family here, aren’t we?”
Lucas doesn’t move a muscle, even when Misha tries to shove him aside, his young face contorted with the same terror that holds me paralyzed. I know what’s going through my brother’s mind; like me, he’s probably seen this kind of detonator in explosives training.
It’s UUR’s version of a suicide vest, one designed to be used only in the most desperate of circumstances. Kirill doesn’t need to press a button for the explosive to go off; he just needs to take his thumb off the button.
If his thumb slips—if he’s shot, for instance—the bomb will be triggered.
Lucas must’ve realized this too, because he’s not reaching for the M16 slung across his back.
“Let me through,” my brother hisses when Lucas still doesn’t budge. “It’s my parents. Fucking let me through!”
This time, I’m the one to catch Misha’s arm. “Don’t,” I say quietly, and he freezes in place. I don’t know if my brother thinks I have a plan, or if it’s the false calmness of my voice, but he stops shoving at Lucas and stands still, staring fixedly into the hallway.
“You don’t want to come in?” Kirill says. “Fine, we can do it the hard way.”
In a blur of motion, he lifts his right hand and fires. The shot is muffled—Kirill’s gun has a silencer on it—but the screams that follow are unmistakable. I convulsively leap forward, terrified for Lucas, but he’s still standing there, refusing to budge even as my brother renews his efforts to get into the apartment.
The bullet hit Misha’s father in the leg, I realize as I peer around Misha’s struggling figure. The older man is on the floor, screaming as he clutches his bleeding leg, and Misha’s mother is kneeling next to him, weeping hysterically.
“The next bullet goes into his head,” Kirill says, and Misha stills again. “And the one after that, into her brain.” He waves the gun at the crying woman. “Oh, and if any of you try to run, I’m going to shoot both of them immediately, and the bombs will go off before you make it down a single flight of stairs.” His smile widens as he takes in our expressions. “Like I said, come in and make yourself at home.”
“Lucas, please,” I whisper when he still doesn’t move. Bile churns thickly in my throat. “Please, we have to do this. We can’t let him kill them in front of Misha.” I have no idea if Kirill is crazy enough to sacrifice himself by setting off the explosives, but I have no doubt he’ll shoot Misha’s parents without a second thought.
“You. Drop your weapon before you come in,” Kirill says, gesturing at Lucas with the gun. “You don’t want this to go off by mistake.” He lifts his left hand—the one with the detonator—to illustrate exactly what he means.
Without saying a word, Lucas reaches for the strap of his M16 and drops the weapon on the floor. Then, just as silently, he steps into the hallway.