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“Let’s hope this time, we get somewhere.”
We arrive at the hospital at eight. Only the building’s burning, and now I’m sure we’ve kicked over a hornet's nest looking into Lidiya Zorin.
Flames leap from the records room windows. Fire trucks scream. A body is wheeled out. Gavriil turns pale as we glimpse an arm hanging out from beneath the sheet.
“It’s him,” he says. “My contact.”
Terror crawls through me.
We back away.
We’re halfway down the sidewalk when a black car screeches to a stop. Doors fly open. Hands grab us. Hoods drop over our heads, and our hands are zip-tied.
“Get in,” a woman’s voice commands, thick with a Russian accent.
“Who are you?” Gavriil growls. “We are American citizens.”
The car speeds away.
“I am aware of who you are, Mr. Mirochin,” the woman assures him. “And you, Miss Craft. And you need to know that whatever you’re searching for is not worth the cost.” She pauses for amoment, and her voice seems a little less cold. “Some truths are buried for a reason. It’s best to leave them where they are.”
“Where are you taking us?” I demand.
“You need to leave Russia, you are not safe here, Tara.”
After what feels like an hour, the car stops. The door opens, and another engine drives off. Our hoods are removed.
A tall man with a square jaw gets in the driver’s seat.
No words. Just motion.
He drives us to a private airstrip. The Mirochin jet is ready and waiting.
“What about our things?” I ask.
He opens the trunk. Our bags are inside.
“You broke into my house?” Gavriil growls.
“Your housekeeper packed them. She thought I was your driver.”
He cuts our zip ties. “Have a good trip home.”
He’s gone before we can say another word.
“We can’t leave,” I say. “We didn’t get what we came for.”
“It’s not safe,” Gavriil tells me. “We’ll find another way.”
I want to argue, but then I touch my belly. The baby.
We board the plane and I reach into my pocket for the sonogram.
“The sonogram, it’s gone.”
“Maybe you dropped it?” Gavriil says.
“No.” My eyes widen. “The last time I had it was when we saw?—”