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“Hell yeah,” Coleman said, pointing a shaky finger at Rapp’s damaged face. “You obviously don’t do too well without me there to watch out for you.”
Claudia’s voice floated down the hall toward them. Dinner was ready.
Rapp noticed a walker in the corner. “You need some help?”
“No. I think I’m going to sit this one out. Maybe get some sleep.”
Rapp turned toward the door but stopped when Coleman spoke again.
“Can you do me a favor, Mitch?”
“Sure.”
“If Azarov is still alive, don’t go after him. It won’t change what happened.”
Rapp ran his hand along the rim of a Chinese vase that he hoped was a reproduction. “Sure, Scott. Whatever you want.”
EPILOGUE
NEAR DOMINICAL
COSTA RICA
“ARE you making those fried plantains with it?”
“Do you want them?”
Cara popped the top off her third beer and frowned theatrically. “Come on, Grisha. You have to ask?”
He selected a ripe one from a bowl on the counter. “You chop.”
The evening was unusually warm and she was still in a bikini top and surf shorts, padding around his tile floors in the thrift-store flip-flops she favored.
“Be careful,” he said when she reached toward the knife block. “Those are sharp.”
“You and your knives. I swear you stay up all night grinding them on a big rock in your basement.”
“Not all night.”
She was the most vibrant person he’d ever met. A blinding light in the darkness that had swallowed him so many years ago. Having said that, he had to acknowledge that in the kitchen, she was a danger to herself and everyone around her.
It had been six months since he’d escaped Saudi Arabia. ISIS had taken full credit for the attack and there was no reason for the world to look any further. The cleanup was already well under way and the effect on oil prices had been relatively minor. Maxim Krupin was still in control, but of an increasingly angry populace and dissatisfied oligarchy.
For a time, Azarov had run. He’d used his network of clandestine bank accounts and underworld contacts to disappear into the empty corners of the earth. It was a strategy designed to produce a long existence but not a long life. One morning he’d woken up in an anonymous hotel room in Namibia, packed his bag, and returned home. It was here he would stay. In peace, if possible. In a bloody last stand if necessary.
To his surprise, the former scenario seemed to be the one playing out. Krupin had been completely silent. No messages, no texts, and most important, no Russian spec ops team at his front door. Similarly, the Americans had been quite conspicuous in their absence from his life. With the political uproar caused by a jihadist detonation of a radioactive weapon, he suspected that they had more important things to deal with than a retired Russian assassin.
After his return, Azarov had resisted the temptation that Cara presented for a time, but his discipline had finally faltered. They’d had dinner at a hotel restaurant on the beach and been together ever since. Each day, she pushed the darkness a little further back.
He picked up the platter with their steaks on it and nodded toward the open doors leading to the patio. “Could you help me with the grill?”
The sky was overcast but, between the pool and the glow from the house, there was plenty of light to work by. Cara held out a hand to test the temperature of the coals. Satisfied that they were ready, she reached for the platter but then paused.
“Is that a spot on your shirt?”
He glanced down just as her hand passed in front of his chest. The red dot jumped from white linen to tanned skin.
Azarov dropped the plate and slammed into her, driving her to the deck and shielding her with his body. She was still lucid enough to scream, so he rolled right, throwing her through the air and into the pool.