Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“Do you normally keep in touch with them throughout the mission?” I ask when I can’t bear the silence any longer. “Or do you wait for them to contact you?”
Yan looks up from the screen and removes the headphones. “I’m usually with them,” he says, swiveling the barstool to face me, and I realize why he seems so on edge.
He’s used to being there, in the thick of things, not watching from the sidelines.
“I’m sorry you had to babysit me,” I say, pushing my half-eaten plate away. I might as well try to get to know my remaining jailer instead of obsessing about Peter’s fate. “I’m sure you must be worried about your brother.”
Yan shrugs, an expression of cool amusement veiling the tension on his face. “Ilya can take care of himself.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Picking up my own cup of tea, I ask, “Is he your younger or older sibling?”
His amusement appears to deepen. “Older by three minutes.”
“Oh.” I blink. “He’s your twin?”
He nods. “An identical one, if you can believe that.”
“Wow. You guys don’t look anything alike.” Sipping the tea, I study his clean, vaguely aristocratic features. Now that I look closer, I see the similarities to Ilya’s bone structure, but there are quite a few differences too. Yan’s nose is straighter, and his square jaw is more proportional—not quite as chiseled as Peter’s, but still strong and nicely defined. The biggest difference, though, is the hair.
Yan has a full head of it, with not a hint of skull tattoos in sight.
“My brother’s been unlucky in some fights,” he explains, noticing my scrutiny. “Had his nose broken and his face bashed in quite a bit. Also, he did some steroids when we were young and stupid—wanted to bulk up.”
“I see.” Steroids would account for some of the differences, including that of size. Not that the man sitting before me is small by any means. He’s roughly Peter’s height, and just as muscular. His twin brother, however, is massive, as big as any bodybuilder I’ve seen.
“Is he your only sibling?” I ask, and Yan nods.
“Yeah, it’s just the two of us.”
I put down my cup. “Do you have any other family?”
“No.” His expression doesn’t change; there’s nothing to indicate either grief or regret. He might as well have been answering whether he has an extra pair of socks.
I want to dig deeper into that, but there’s another topic that interests me more. “When did you meet Peter?” I ask, leaning forward on my elbows. “You worked together before, right?”
“We did.” Yan closes the laptop, swiveling the barstool to face me fully. “Ilya and I were part of his team for three years prior to Daryevo.”
The mention of the village reminds me of the horrific images on Peter’s phone, and the stir-fry sours in my stomach. “Did you know them?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. “His wife and son, I mean?”
“No.” The Russian’s green eyes are as bright as gems, and just as cold. “Anton is the only one who’s met them. The rest of us didn’t know Peter had a family until they were killed.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say to that. Clearly, Peter didn’t trust the man sitting in front of me—at least not enough to risk exposing his most precious secret. Yet here they are, working together again.
“If I were him, I would’ve kept it on the down low too,” Yan says, a hard-edged smile spreading across his face, and I realize he caught on to my discomfort. “We don’t do families and babies in our world.”
“Really?” So it wasn’t a trust issue so much as a deviation from the accepted lifestyle on Peter’s part. “Then I take it none of you have ever been married?”
“Only Peter,” Yan confirms. “And you know how that turned out.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and reach for my tea again. “Yes. I do.”
Yan watches me drink the rest of the tea before saying quietly, “This won’t last either, you know.”
I lower the cup. “What do you mean?”
“This.” He waves his hand, indicating me and our surroundings. “Whatever this is, it won’t last.”
I stare at him, confused. “You mean… he’ll let me go?”
“No.” The Russian’s gaze is cold again, utterly unreadable. “That he won’t do. He’s an obsessive man, and you are his obsession. He’ll never let you go, Sara. Not unless one or both of you are dead.”
I suck in a sharp breath, but before I can respond, something pings and Yan turns away, facing the laptop.
“They landed,” he says, putting on the headphones. “Now the fun can begin.”
26
Peter
The first part of the operation proceeds smoothly. So smoothly, in fact, that I get nervous. It’s never a good sign when everything goes according to plan. There’s always a snag to be dealt with, some kind of kink to be worked out. Unforeseen obstacles are to be expected, because nothing is ever a hundred-percent predictable, and thinking that it is—believing that the plan, no matter how flexible, accounts for all variables—is the fastest way to get killed.