Page 56

Abby

T hank goodness it’s easy to fake sleep under the canvas.

Because my head is spinning so fast I can’t begin to make sense of everything.

I can’t let him do this.

I didn’t argue when Dimitry finished speaking. In the long hours that have passed since, we’ve stuck to our customary, very safe banter.

I watched his face throughout the little Trojan War metaphor.

I saw the savage gleam in his eyes. The way they roamed over the water like fucking Odysseus studying that ancient field of battle.

The edgy tension in his powerful body, shifting from one side to the other like a warrior testing his weaponry.

I’ve seen Dimitry in the wild, savage aftermath of a fight. He came to me like that after Miami, when they rescued Roman’s girls: blood and gunpowder still staining his skin, and so fired through with the adrenaline of battle he barely noticed the bullet wounds .

Never once have I doubted his ability to go to war and fucking win.

Until now.

And something tells me there’s nothing I can say, no argument I can make, that is going to stop him.

I can refuse to give him Jacey’s name and photograph.

He’ll go in anyway. Without the information he needs to succeed.

I can give that information to Rodrigo instead and hope he kills Jacey before Jacey kills him.

Except you know he won’t.

Not to mention that such a blatant betrayal of Dimitry’s trust would end our relationship. For good this time.

The worst of it is that I see the brilliance in his plan. The part of me that negotiated with Juan back in Bogotá and plotted to outwit Rodrigo is already thinking out ways to make it work.

And not because I want Jacey dead, although the idea of living without his ever-present threat is more seductive than I dare contemplate.

The simple truth is that from the moment I left the SK compound, I’ve been haunted by the faces of the women I left behind.

My friends.

The entire time I was in that hotel room with Rodrigo, I was trying to work out how I could include them in my escape. And now that I’m free, even temporarily, their faces are all I can see.

During my time at SK, I dreamed of Dimitry almost every night.

Now that I’m out, it’s Lucky I dream of.

Her cheeky smile, no matter how hard things became.

Her hand in mine when she felt my sadness.

Yrsa’s beautiful face, and the way it grew paler and more drawn with every day she spent in that fucking place.

Mary, and her fierce devotion to her daughter, the single-minded determination to get back to her.

We all knew, in that place, that when somebody managed to bargain their way out, they never came back. Nobody ever questioned why that was. We all shared the silent understanding that if any of us were ever presented with the chance to leave, we would take it without looking back.

I just never imagined that I would be the one seizing that chance.

And the truth is that although my body might have left, a huge part of me is still living in that compound.

Those women—my friends —live inside me in a way I can’t escape. Just like Dimitry did throughout the time we were apart. Like Darya still does, even now. I can’t outrun their memory.

And I don’t want to.

What I want is to get them out of there. I can’t rest until I do. And no matter how far I run, freedom won’t mean a fucking thing until they share it with me.

None of which changes the fact that right now the only way to do that involves me standing idly by while the man I love more than my own life walks right into the heart of darkness.

I can’t watch that happen.

I know my own limits. I know what I can survive.

I can’t survive Dimitry dying for this. For me.

I wouldn’t want to.

Through a hole in the canvas I stare at the hard, taut lines of Dimitry’s face, the constant vigilance in his eyes as he scans the river for danger. His scar gleams silver in the moonlight, evidence of the violence he’s already survived.

And a brutal reminder that this time he might not live to bear a scar.

I must have slept, because when I wake, it’s to the gentle thud of the boat against a dock.

“Stay down,” Dimitry murmurs. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, Skip.”

He’s gone before I have time to protest. I lie like a statue under the canvas, my eyes straining to see through my peepholes.

The darkness outside has the grainy quality of approaching dawn, but it’s still a way off.

I can hear the sound of a low-voiced exchange, then the gurgle of fuel entering the boat.

Another few minutes, and the engine starts, sending us out on the water again.

“You can come up for air, Skip. Just keep your head down.”

I emerge cautiously to find Dimitry grinning as he holds up an old analog-style phone. “Paid the fuel guy ten times its worth so I could keep its SIM card. I’m going to call Luke while we’ve got reception and no company.”

He hits the number as we idle down the river.

“Luke.” He speaks in a low tone, eyes still roaming our surroundings, but there’s a soft mist rising from the water and nobody about.

“Good,” Dimitry says in response to something Luke has said.

He listens for another minute. “Copy that. No, tell him not to go to the dock. We’ll ditch the boat and meet him on the road.

Don’t use this number again, I’m throwing the phone. ”

They exchange a few more words, then Dimitry ends the call. He pulls the phone apart, breaks the SIM, and throws the pieces in the water. “Leon is in Bangkok. He’ll get a car and meet us on a road about ten clicks upriver.”

“Already?” This is moving fast.

I know it needs to.

It scares the hell out of me.

“Stay down, Skip.” Dimitry smiles at me. “It’s not for much longer, I promise.”

It’s midmorning when we nudge the boat into a muddy bank.

Dimitry pulls it into the mangroves, concealing it from view, and we take our bag and walk through a tall stand of bamboo to a quiet dirt track.

Steep limestone peaks soar in the middle distance, beyond the sound of a main road nearby.

We remain behind the tree line as bicyclists and pedestrians pass us on their daily tasks.

It seems odd that we can be hiding among trees, watching for people who want to kill us, while local Thai people are concerned with hauling their produce home from the market.

Sometimes I think it’s always going to be like this. Me hiding, while other people live their normal lives.

Yeah, don’t start, Abby. My cynical inner voice gives me a good kick up the backside. You tried normal, remember? Didn’t work so well, did it?

I fight a sudden urge to giggle. Dimitry glances at me quizzically, which makes me want to laugh even more.

He lifts a shoulder in question, and I actually turn red in the effort not to laugh.

He frowns, nodding toward the passersby, but that just makes me snort, which in turn makes his grin widen until he, too, is fighting back the urge to laugh, even though he has no idea why.

I start shaking, the suppressed laughter making my eyes water, and Dimitry coughs in his effort to suppress his own.

Thankfully, that’s when a dusty black SUV makes its way down the track toward us.

Dimitry pulls open the doors for us to climb inside, and that’s how we meet Leon Volkov: both of us erupting into a burst of uncontrollable hilarity so raucous that it leaves him staring at us both in amused bewilderment.

“For two people on the run for their lives,” he says dryly as we wipe our eyes, “you two seem awfully happy.”

I lie down in the back seat as Leon navigates a series of trails until we hit the bitumen.

He and Dimitry seem remarkably at ease with one another, given that Dimitry told me they’ve only met once.

Leon looks nothing like the small, effete art dealer in a suit I pictured.

He’s as tall as Dimitry, with piercing slate eyes, cropped salt-and-pepper hair, and the rugged musculature of someone who spends more time in the woods than an art gallery.

Dressed casually in an open-necked cotton shirt, khaki shorts, and boat shoes, he looks remarkably at home here.

“I’ve spend a bit of time in Thailand,” he answers my unspoken question, glancing around to smile at me in my prone position.

“A lot of interesting Asian art passes through Sotheby’s Bangkok auction house.

Then there are the other, more private auctions.

” He gives me a wink. “Those are where the really interesting pieces are found.”

I’m starting to see why Dimitry chose Leon Volkov to call.

“We’re heading to a private villa owned by a friend of mine.

” Volkov turns off the highway onto a steep, winding road that leads up one of the limestone escarpments.

“I commissioned the art for her London club. Zinaida is extremely discreet,” he says when Dimitry frowns.

“And very fond of her privacy. Her villa has excellent security.”

“Zinaida?” Dimitry turns in his seat, staring curiously at him. “As in Zinaida Melikov? ”

“You know her?” Leon gives him a surprised glance.

“You could say that.” Dimitry gives a snort, which he turns diplomatically into a cough. “Not me,” he says hastily when Leon raises his eyebrows. “A—friend of mine knows her very well.”

Very well?

It takes me a moment to place who he’s talking about. Then I remember back to Roman and Darya’s wedding, and it clicks into place.

“The psychopath?” The words are out of my mouth before I think them through.

Dimitry snorts again, and even Leon looks amused.

“Zinaida does have something of a reputation,” he says, “it’s true. But she’s also an extremely loyal friend.” The quiet rebuke in his words chastens me immediately.

“I’m sorry.” I smile at him when he glances around again. “I’ve only met her once, briefly. She seemed very... interesting.”

That much is true, at least. I met Zinaida Melikov at Roman and Darya’s wedding for an entire five minutes.

For quite a tiny woman, she made one hell of an impression.

On every man present, at least. Her red silk sheath dress had been split all the way up one thigh to her groin.

She had the kind of unsmiling, arctic beauty that could stop traffic, but spent most of the wedding hidden beneath an enormous hat and equally huge dark glasses.

When I asked Dimitry who she was, he snorted and muttered something about her being a psychopath even Roman doesn’t cross .

Darya, however, seemed to quite like her.

And she left an extremely generous gift—a Ming vase, from memory, which suddenly makes a lot of sense.

“I’m assuming you didn’t mention our names to Zinaida?” Dimitry asks.

“No.” Leon gives him a sideways look. “I gathered you’d rather remain anonymous.”

“Definitely.” Dimitry’s suddenly grim expression is a reminder of the ongoing rift between him and Roman.

And that I still haven’t contacted Darya.

I know there’s been no chance to do it. Neither Dimitry or I would ever put Roman and Darya at risk by contacting them, not given who is chasing us.

But my heart still seizes at the thought of Darya, with a small baby, not knowing whether I’m alive or dead.

I know how agonizing it was for me when she was in danger last year.

And if you contact her now, she’ll be in danger again.

But that truth feels like a lead weight inside me. Going by Dimitry’s scowl, it’s no less easy for him. No matter what is going on, I know his fight with Roman is hurting him far more than he’d like to admit.

“If it helps,” Leon says, glancing between Dimitry and me, “I can happily guarantee that even if she did know of your presence in her house, Zinaida would never betray you. She has a... vested interest, shall we say, in the particular people you’re hoping to meet.”

Dimitry stares at him narrowly. “I don’t believe I mentioned which people I’m planning to meet.” His voice is calm enough, but I don’t miss the sudden tensing of his body.

Neither, it seems, does Leon.

“You didn’t have to.” He seems remarkably unbothered by being glared at by six and a half feet of lethal danger.

“I’ve been in the art business a long time, Dimitry.

Those with both the resources and knowledge to appreciate the kind of art you’re talking about, let alone host a private auction for such a piece, are few and far between—which is exactly why you came to me in the first place, is it not? ”

His raised eyebrows and the quirk of his mouth are both reassuring and, oddly, somehow familiar. Dimitry must feel it too, because after a moment, he appears to relax.

“We’re here.” Leon turns up a steep driveway lined by lush forest. “Shall we continue this discussion over a decent drink, and after a shower?”