Once we know his identity, the driver of that SUV is as good as dead.
Putting the phone away, I go to get Rosa. When I walk into her room, I find her sitting on the bed in nurse’s scrubs; the hospital staff must’ve given them to her to replace her torn dress. Her knees are drawn up to her chest, and her face is bruised and pale. An image of Yulia flashes through my mind again, and I have to take a deep breath to suppress a swell of rage.
Keeping my movements slow and gentle, I approach the bed. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly, clasping Rosa’s elbow to help her to her feet. “I really am. Can you walk, or would you like me to carry you?”
“I can walk.” Her voice is thin, high-pitched with anxiety, and I drop my hand when I realize my touch is upsetting her. “I’m fine.”
It’s an obvious lie, but I don’t call her out on it. I just match my pace to her slower one, and lead her out to the car.
* * *
An hour after we get back to Esguerra’s mansion, my boss comes down to the living room, where I’m waiting to fill him in on the developing situation.
“Where’s Rosa?” he asks. His voice is calm, betraying nothing of the hollow agony I see in his gaze. He’s compartmentalizing to cope with what happened, choosing to focus on what needs to be done rather than dwelling on what can’t be fixed.
“She’s asleep,” I answer, rising from the couch. “I gave her Ambien and made sure she took a shower.”
“Good. Thank you.” Esguerra crosses the room to stand in front of me. “Now tell me everything.”
“The cleanup crew took care of the body and captured the kid Nora knocked out in the hallway,” I say. “They’re holding him in a warehouse I rented on the South Side.”
“Good. What about the white car?”
“The men were able to follow it to one of the residential high-rises downtown. At that point, it disappeared into a parking garage, and they decided against pursuing it there. I’ve already run the license plate number.”
“And?”
“And it seems like we might have a problem,” I say. “Does the name Patrick Sullivan mean anything to you?”
Esguerra frowns. “It’s familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“The Sullivans own half of this town,” I say, recounting what I just learned about our newest enemy. “Prostitution, drugs, weapons—you name it, they have their fingers in it. Patrick Sullivan heads up the family, and he’s got just about every local politician and police chief in his pocket.”
“Ah.” There’s a flicker of recognition on Esguerra’s face. “What does Patrick Sullivan have to do with this?”
“He has two sons,” I explain. “Or rather, he had two sons. Brian and Sean. Brian is currently marinating in lye at our rented warehouse, and Sean is the owner of the white SUV.”
“I see,” Esguerra says, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am.
The rapists’ connection complicates matters, but it also explains why they attacked Rosa in such a public place. They’re used to their mobster father getting them out of trouble, and it never occurred to them that they might be crossing someone just as dangerous.
“Also,” I say while Esguerra is digesting everything, “the kid we’ve got strung up in that warehouse is their seventeen-year-old cousin, Sullivan’s nephew. His name is Jimmy. Apparently, he and the two brothers are close. Or were close, I should say.”
Esguerra’s blue eyes narrow. “Do they have any idea who we are? Could they have singled out Rosa to get at me?”
“No, I don’t think so.” A fresh wave of anger makes my jaw clench. “The Sullivan brothers have a nasty history with women. Date-rape drugs, sexual assault, gang bangs of sorority girls—the list goes on and on. If it weren’t for their father, they’d be rotting in prison right now.”
“I see.” Esguerra’s mouth twists coldly. “Well, by the time we’re done with them, they’ll wish they were.”
I nod. The minute I learned about Patrick Sullivan, I knew we’d be going to war. “Should I organize a strike team?” I ask, gripped by familiar anticipation. I haven’t been in a good battle in a while.
“No, not yet,” Esguerra says. He turns away and walks over to stand by the window. I don’t know what he’s looking at, but he’s silent for well over a minute before he turns back to face me.
“I want Nora and her parents taken to the estate before we do anything,” he says, and I see the harsh resolve on his face. “Sean Sullivan will have to wait. For now, we’ll focus on the nephew.”
“All right.” I incline my head. “I’ll begin making the arrangements.”
10
Yulia
I sleep fitfully my first night at the safe house, waking up every couple of hours from nightmares. I don’t remember the exact details of those dreams, but I know Lucas is in them, and so is my brother. The scenes are a blur in my mind, but I recall bits and pieces involving trains, lizards, gunfire, and underneath it all, the delicate scent of lilacs.
Around five in the morning, I give up trying to fall back asleep. Getting up, I put on a robe and wander into the kitchen to make myself some tea. Obenko is there, reading a newspaper, and as I enter, he looks up, his hazel eyes sharp and clear despite the early hour.
“Jet-lagged?” he asks, and I nod. It’s as good of an explanation for my state as any.
“Want some tea?” I offer, pouring water into a tea kettle and setting it on the stove.
“No, thanks.” He studies me, and I wonder what he’s seeing. A traitor? A failure? Someone who’s now more of a liability than an asset? I used to care what my boss thought, craving his approval as I once craved my parents’, but right now, I can’t work up any interest in his opinion.
There’s only one thing I care about this morning.
“My brother,” I say, sitting down after I make myself a cup of Earl Grey. “How is he? Where’s your sister’s family now?”
“They’re safe.” Obenko folds his newspaper. “We’ve relocated them to a different location.”
“Do you have any new pictures for me?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager.
“No.” Obenko sighs. “We thought you were gone, and when you contacted us, I’m afraid taking photos wasn’t our main priority.”
I take a scalding sip of tea to mask my disappointment. “I see.”
Obenko lets out another sigh. “Yulia… It’s been eleven years. You need to let go of Misha. Your brother has a life that doesn’t involve you.”
“I know that, but I don’t think a few pictures every now and then is too much to ask.” My tone is sharper than I intended. “It’s not like I’m asking to see him…” I pause as the idea takes hold of me. “Well, actually, since you don’t have the pictures, maybe I can just view him from a distance,” I say, my pulse accelerating in excitement. “I could use binoculars or a telescope. He would never know.”
Obenko’s gaze hardens. “We’ve talked about this, Yulia. You know why you can’t see him.”
“Because it would deepen my irrational attachment,” I say, parroting his words to me. “Yes, I know you said that, but I disagree. I could’ve died in that Russian prison, or been tortured to death by Esguerra. The fact that I’m sitting here today—“
“Has nothing to do with Misha and the agreement we made eleven years ago,” Obenko says. “You fucked up on this assignment. Because of you, your brother has already been uprooted, forced to change schools and give up his friends. You don’t get to make demands today.”
My fingers tighten on the tea cup. “I’m not demanding,” I say evenly. “I’m asking. I know it was my mistake that led to this situation, and I’m sorry. But I don’t see how that’s relevant to the matter at hand. I spent six years in Moscow doing exactly what you wanted me to do. I sent you a lot of valuable intel. All I want in return is to see my brother from a distance. I wouldn’t approach him, wouldn’t speak to him—I would just look at him. Why is that a problem?”
Obenko stands up. “Drink your tea, Yulia,” he says, ignoring my question. “There will be another debriefing at eleven.”
11
Lucas
I spend the night coordinating with the cleanup crew and preparing for our departure. If there’s any silver lining to this disaster, it’s that we’re going home early, and I will soon be able to hunt down Yulia with no distractions.
First, though, I need to take care of the situation here.
I begin by making breakfast for Rosa, who hasn’t come out of her room this morning. At first, I’m tempted to slap together a sandwich, but then I decide to try my hand at one of the omelets I’ve watched Yulia make. It takes me two attempts, but I succeed at producing something that resembles one of Yulia’s delicious confections. It doesn’t taste half-bad either, I decide, trying a bite before putting half of the omelet on a plate for Rosa.
Holding the plate with one hand, I knock on the door of Rosa’s bedroom. After a couple of minutes, I hear footsteps, and she opens the door. She’s dressed in a long, shapeless T-shirt, and to my relief, her eyes are dry, though the bruising on her face looks even worse.