Page 61 of Enemy Within

“Good morning.”

Sergey almost jumped out of his skin. He whirled, eyes wide.

Sasha stared at him.

He sat at the built-in table in the corner of the cabin, next to the rest of their convoy members, all sleeping, some with their faces on the table, some leaning against each other. Vasily still had his hand on the vodka bottle. Sasha slowly batted his cup of coffee back and forth, sliding it across the plastic tabletop.

“You are not sleeping?” Sergey turned away, his shaking hands searching for leftover coffee.

“I slept the whole drive here.” He heard Sasha’s exhale. “I am still off. From the crash. From being on the run. I should rest, but my body…” He trailed off, going silent as he pursed his lips and picked at a broken bit of plastic on the table edge.

Sergey swallowed. “Is there any more coffee?” He watched Sasha from the corner of his eye, his gaze tracing over Sasha’s body, his arms, down to his hands.

Sasha grabbed one of the men’s mugs and poured the contents into his own, then slid his across the table. Plastic on plastic, a scratchy whine. “I could take over. You have been awake all night?”

Sergey snatched Sasha’s coffee cup and headed for the ladder. He had to escape, back to the deck and the wheel. “I am fine,” he grunted. “We are almost there anyway.”

As he climbed, he could feel Sasha’s heavy gaze hitting the center of his back. He wanted to squirm, wiggle away, slink over the side of the boat and disappear beneath the black waves. Turn around, go to Sasha and babble, just babble incoherently everything that was tearing apart his heart.

He cleared his throat and kept going, back to the bridge.

Sasha’s coffee was as cold as the sea, bitter and biting. He choked it down, watching as Simushir grew closer. When he heard voices rising from the main cabin, he sped up the boat and let the roar of the engine drown out their words.

“HE WAS A GHOST when you were gone, Tati.”

Sasha’s whole body froze. Slowly, his eyes met Anton’s.

Anton smirked, stretching his feet across the bench seat he sat on, across the cabin.

Sasha scowled. He rose, heading for the ladder.

“Tati, Tati. What are you doing? Sit down.”

“Why are you calling me that name?” His hands clenched, and he glared at Anton. Tati was short for Tatiana, a woman’s name. After everything, he wasn’t going to stand for that. Not after drinking with these men for half the night, feeling a part of his soul stitch back together. It had been almost like he’d had friends again. Comrades. That warm, gut-full feeling of camaraderie. He’d missed it so much.

But he wouldn’t be a laughingstock. Never.

Anton sighed. He nodded to Sasha, pointing to him. “Tatiana.” He pointed above, to where Sergey had disappeared. “Onegin.”

Shock slammed into Sasha, like a wave crashing over the side of the boat and drenching him in ice water. Tatiana and Onegin, two lovers doomed to forever be apart. It was Alexander Pushkin’s greatest work, the seminal classic of Russian literature. Verses of the poem were recited in every bar, every night, somewhere in the Russian world. With each shot of vodka, the retellings grew more dramatic, the prose more sorrowful.

Anton spoke softly, his voice deep. “Love’s frantic torments went on beating and racking with their strain and stress. That youthful soul, which pined for sadness—”

“Shut up!” Sasha stormed across the cabin. His fists shook, and a ruby haze washed across his vision. Fury flooded him, a bitter rush of ice that screamed, wailed. “Shut your mouth!”

Anton kept going, watching Sasha come closer. “Tati, dear, with you I’m weeping for you have, at this early date, into a modish tyrant’s keeping resigned disposal of your fate.”

His eyes squeezed shut, and he turned toward the ladder, grabbing the railing. He almost propelled himself up, almost escaped, but froze. Sergey was up there. What was he escaping to, if he fled? More of Sergey’s avoidance, his dark glowers, and his sulking anger?

He gripped the railings, kneading the metal. He almost felt it give, bend beneath his rage. If only. If only he could rip everything apart, and then rebuild it all the way things were supposed to be. Sergey, back as president. Him… anywhere else.

“I have been mocked before,” he finally growled. “If you—”

“I’m not mocking you, Sasha.” Finally, Anton stood. He came close, pressing his shorter body almost against Sasha’s. He searched for the right words, frowning as his lips pursed, his mustache twitched, and his eyes narrowed. He sighed. “Tatiana and Onegin are a tragedy. Onegin figured out too late that he returned Tatiana’s love. Tatiana had moved on.”

Sasha turned away. He knew all this.

“Sergey lost himself after you were gone. He was a shell. A shadow. We already knew about you, and your feelings for him.”