Tormentor Mine(41)

Her slim arm is tense in my grasp as I reach into my pocket with my free hand and take out my old smartphone. I always carry it with me, though it’s not on any network and can’t be used to make phone calls. Swiping across the screen with my thumb, I navigate to the last set of pictures.

“Here.” I thrust the phone into her free hand. “Take a good look.”

Sara’s hand shakes as she lifts the phone to her face, and I know the exact moment she lays eyes on the first picture. Her face turns white, and she swallows convulsively before swiping across the screen to view the rest of the photos.

I don’t glance at the phone myself—I don’t need to. The images are burned into my retinas, etched into my brain like a gruesome tattoo.

I took these pictures the day after I escaped from the soldiers who dragged me away from the scene. They’d already relocated the remaining villagers, but the investigation was just starting, and they hadn’t cleaned up the bodies yet. When I returned, the corpses still lay there, covered by flies and crawling insects. I photographed everything: the burned-out buildings, the dark blood stains on the grass, the decomposing bodies and torn limbs, Pasha’s tiny hand curled around the toy car… There were things I couldn’t capture, like the stench of rotting flesh that hung thickly in the air and the desolate emptiness of an abandoned village, but what I did record is enough.

Sara lowers the phone, and I take it from her bloodless fingers, slipping it back into my pocket.

“That was Daryevo.” I release her arm, each word like sandpaper scraping across my throat. “A small village in Dagestan where my wife and son lived.”

Sara takes a step back. “What…” She swallows audibly. “What happened there? Why were they killed?”

I take a breath to control the violent anger churning inside me. “Because of some people’s arrogance and blind ambition.”

Sara gives me an uncomprehending look.

“It was a sting operation designed to capture a small but highly effective terrorist cell based in the Caucasus Mountains,” I say harshly. “A group of NATO soldiers acted on information provided by a coalition of Western intelligence agencies. Everything was done under the radar so they wouldn’t have to share the glory with the local counterterrorist groups—like the one I headed for Russia.”

Sara covers her trembling mouth, and I see she’s beginning to understand.

“That’s right, ptichka.” Stepping toward her, I capture her slender wrist and pull her hand away from her face. “You can guess who was involved in getting the soldiers that false information.”

Her eyes are full of horror. “The terrorist cell wasn’t there?”

“No.” My grip on her wrist is punishingly tight, but I can’t make myself relax my fingers. With the memories fresh in my mind, I can’t help thinking of her as my dead enemy’s wife. “Nothing was there but a peaceful civilian village, and if your husband and the other operatives on his team had checked in with my team, they would have known that.” My voice grows rougher, my words more biting. “If they hadn’t been so fucking arrogant, so greedy for glory, they would’ve sought help instead of thinking they knew everything—and then they would’ve learned their source was planted by the terrorists themselves, and my wife and son would still be alive.”

I can feel the rapid flutter of Sara’s pulse as she stares up at me, and I see she doesn’t believe me—not completely, at least. She thinks I’m mad, or at best, misinformed. Her doubt enrages me further, and I force myself to release her wrist before I crush her fragile bones.

She immediately backs away, and I know she senses the violence pulsing under my skin. When I first learned the truth of what happened, I couldn’t punish the NATO soldiers or the operatives involved—the cover-up was remarkably fast and thorough—so I took out my fury on the terrorist cell that fed them the false information, followed by anyone dumb enough to stand in my way.

My son’s death unleashed the monster within me, and it still roams free.

When there’s a meter of distance between us, Sara stops backing away and regards me warily. “Is that why…” She bites her lip. “Is that why you became a fugitive? Because of what happened back then?”

My hands clench into fists, and I turn away, returning to the table. I can’t discuss this for even a second longer. Each sentence is like a spray of acid over my heart. I’ve gotten to the point where I can go several hours without thinking about my family’s violent deaths, but talking about what happened brings back the devastation of that day—and the rage that consumed me.