Sloane texts me from Moscow to let me know that the Gazeta has accepted the flash drive. I’m sure it will take them a few days to comb through the files, do their fact-checking and substantiating research, and run everything by their legal department. Maybe a few weeks even. But soon enough, stories are going to start coming out, targeting every single ally Remizov has blackmailed into cooperation.
And then an almighty hellfire is going to rain down on his head.
Every powerful friend he has in St. Petersburg is going to turn into a bitter enemy.
And I’ll just be sitting on the sidelines, laughing with glee.
It’s not the usual way I do things. I’ve never shot somebody with an information bullet before. But I have to admit, it feels pretty satisfying all the same.
After all, Remizov hasn’t been a typical adversary. He’s forced me to get a little more creative.
The only downside is the waiting.
I’d love to call him up and laugh in his face right now.
It’s no good tipping him off, though. I’ll just have to be patient.
I’m not at all patient while waiting for Sloane at the train station. I tried to convince her to stay in Moscow until after the stories come out, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She’s so goddamned stubborn.
“I’m not a delicate little flower, Ivan,” she laughed, over the phone. “Remizov might just as well be afraid of me.”
“I know how capable you are,” I told her, trying not to let my anxiety come through in my voice. “But there’s a difference between staying under the radar and being right in the crosshairs.”
“I know that,” Sloane snapped.
“If you just stayed in Moscow a few weeks until everything blows over . . .”
“If you don’t want me at your place, that’s fine,” Sloane said coldly. “But I’m not hiding out here. I’m coming back to St. Petersburg.”
“I do want you at my place,” I told her quickly. “I absolutely want that. I’ll come get you at the train station.”
“You don’t have to. I can just—“
“I’m coming,” I told her, firmly. “I’ll be waiting to pick you up.”
“Fine,” she said, the note of annoyance still in her voice.
Now I’m waiting here for her, having arrived almost a half hour before her train is due, and I’m practically tearing my hair out, wishing her phone had service on the train so I could check in with her.
It’s true what I said to Sloane—I know that if anybody can take care of themselves, it’s her. But the idea of anything happening to her terrifies me.
I didn’t think I wanted a woman in my life.
But I absolutely want this woman.
I want Sloane, and nobody else.
She came into my life unbidden, unwanted.
She got into my head, under my skin, until I could hardly think about anything else.
When I thought she’d left for good, I was so . . . blank. The idea that she might vanish as abruptly as she’d appeared was intolerable. It made me realize how dull and cold my life had been before I met her. I didn’t want to go back to that.
And then she showed up in my driveway once more, and I couldn’t deny how happy I was to see her.
Excitement. Happiness. Connection . . . Love. These are things I didn’t expect or want to feel.
Actually, they fucking terrify me.
Putting your emotions into another person is dangerous.
If I care about Sloane, it’s like I’ve cut off a part of myself and put it inside of her. And if she decides to leave again, or if something happens to her . . . that piece of me is just gone. Lost or destroyed.
It’s a risk.
A risk I shouldn’t take.
But I’m not sure I have a choice.
I care about her. It happened without any decision or consent.
And I’m afraid it’s only going to get stronger. The more time I spend with Sloane, the more I want.
To distract myself, I call my brother to check in.
“Hey,” Dom says, sounding slightly out of breath.
“What are you doing?”
“Playing Call of Duty.”
“With the kid?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s fucking smoking us,” Dom says sourly.
Zima has been settling in at the compound surprisingly well. He seems to like the company and the evening-centric schedule. I had only planned to let him stay a few days, to make sure he didn’t suffer the blowback for the loss of the flash drive. But now I’m thinking he might be useful. Unasked, he fixed a bug in the security cameras, and gave Dom some good advice on the perimeter sensors.
We don’t exactly have a tech guy, and Zima is a veritable savant.
Granted, the kid eats more than my three biggest guys. But with skills like his, I’d at least break even.
“You get Sloane yet?” Dom asks.
“Just waiting.”
“You bring anybody with you?”
“No.”
I want to be alone with Sloane. I’m planning to take her out for dinner, once her train comes in. We’ve never been on an actual date. I’d love to see her sitting across from me at a candlelit table.
“None of us should go out alone,” Dom says. “Not ‘till all this shit with Remizov is settled.”
I know he’s just thinking about Karol. But it irritates me when my little brother tries to lay down the law. Especially when I know he’s right.
“I won’t be alone once I pick her up,” I tell Dom, a note of warning in my voice. “Worry about yourself and the rest of the men.”
“Everything’s good here,” Dom says, unoffended. “I’ve got three people patrolling. Everyone’s on alert.”
The train pulls into the station at last.
I hear it before I see it, and then I see it rushing in, pulling cleanly to a stop, and opening up the doors to allow the passengers to stream out.
“Gotta go,” I say to Dom, “she’s here.”
But I haven’t actually seen Sloane on the platform yet.
I get out of the car, walk up the steps to the open platform to look for her.
Tourists and commuters pass me by on both sides, the stream parting around the immovable rock. I scan each of them, as if I wouldn’t recognize Sloane’s slim figure and lovely face immediately.
I can already feel the sick, rushing dread in the pit of my stomach, though I’m telling myself it’s too soon to worry, she was probably just at the back of the train, or she’s stopped at the bathrooms, or I just missed her in the crowd.
But the platform is clearing, and she’s nowhere to be seen.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, my fingers so numb that I almost drop it on the cement.
I check for a message or a missed call from Sloane.
For a moment I wonder if she decided to stay in Moscow after all, but of course that’s stupid. She was adamantly against that idea, and she would have told me if she changed her mind. She knew I was coming to the station to pick her up.
A deeper part of my brain worries that she decided to go somewhere else entirely. She could have a flat in Paris, in Tokyo, in Madagascar for all I know. She might even have gone back to America.
But I don’t think that’s it, either.
The other alternative I don’t even want to consider.
I hit her number, the phone seeming to take forever to connect.
It rings and rings.
There’s no answer from Sloane.
I hang up and try again.
Ringing and ringing, without any response.
Sloane doesn’t have voicemail.
I assume she switches phone numbers every month or two, the same as I do.
My mind is racing.
How can I find out if she bought a ticket? If she boarded the train?
I feel like I should get on before it leaves again—try to find a conductor, ask if anyone saw her.
But maybe I should stay here at the station where we were supposed to meet?
I’ve never been so indecisive before.
I’m a fucking mess, this isn’t like me at all.
I always know what to do. I always have a plan.
My phone buzzes in my hand, like an insect trapped in my palm.
It’s so startling that I almost drop it again.
I see an unknown number on the screen.
And I already know what I’ll hear when I pick up.
But all I can do is answer.
I hit the icon. Hold the phone to my ear, listening silently.
“Your girlfriend is very pretty,” the cold voice says.
My hand is shaking. My whole body is trembling with rage.
“Where is she?” I say.
Each word comes out through lips frozen with fury and fear. I can hardly understand myself. But Remizov understands perfectly.
“She’s my guest,” he says.
I want to scream at Remizov that if he hurts her, if he so much as touches her, I won’t rest until everything he’s ever known or loved is a smoking ruin.
But that would be the stupidest thing of all. He can’t know how I feel about Sloane. That would be signing her death warrant.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I want the flash drive,” he says.
He grabbed Sloane, whether from Moscow, or from the train. But he doesn’t know why she was there. He doesn’t know that we don’t have the drive anymore. He thinks I kept it.
He wants to trade it for Sloane. Though of course, it won’t be a trade at all. Once he has what he wants, he’ll kill us both.
“Bring it to my house,” Remizov says, his voice soft and quiet. “I assume you got the address from Zima.”
I grunt.
“Come alone,” Remizov says. “I don’t need to tell you what will happen otherwise.”
My teeth are grinding together so hard it feels like my molars are going to crack. The urge to shout at Remizov, to threaten him, is almost overwhelming.
“I’ll get the drive,” I say. “And I’ll be there in an hour.”
