Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“Shit—is that an official algebra term? Did I just learn math?” Rory asks, scratching his curls, and we all burst out laughing as Phil rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath about ignoramuses and drunk assholes.
“I have to run,” I tell the guys apologetically as the laughter dies down. “Early day at work tomorrow.”
“No worries, we know.” Simon pats me on the shoulder. “You go do what you got to do and leave these idiots to dream of fame.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I walk out of the bar and head to the parking lot in the back. I had my doubts about joining the band, but it turned out to be the best decision ever. Not only do I feel like I was born to do this every time I’m up on that stage, but my bandmates are a lot of fun. I actually prefer hanging out with them versus Marsha and the girls; it’s less pressure, somehow.
I’m pulling open my car door when I notice it.
A piece of something thick—folded-up paper, maybe?—taped to the inside of the door handle.
My initial reaction is to pull it out and immediately take a look, but some sixth sense stops me. The itchy feeling between my shoulder blades—the one that’s so omnipresent I barely notice it anymore—is far more intense all of a sudden, and instead of yanking out the object and staring at it, I unobtrusively pry it loose, hold it in my closed fist, and get in the car.
Slipping the object—now definitively identified as a piece of folded paper—into my jacket pocket, I pull out of the parking lot and head home. Behind me is the inevitable FBI tail, and as I drive, the paper feels like it’s burning through my pocket.
It takes everything I have to park in front of my apartment building and walk through the lobby to the elevator calmly, without hurrying. It’s possible that this is some kind of advertisement that’s just weirdly placed, but somehow, I’m certain that it’s not.
Stepping into my apartment, I lock the door and glance around. I don’t think there are any cameras or listening devices in here; after all the high-tech equipment found in my old house and then months later in my parents’ house, the Feds sweep my place on a semi-regular basis, and they themselves would need a warrant to do that kind of invasive surveillance. However, just to be on the safe side, I kick off my shoes and walk toward my bedroom closet, maintaining my calm demeanor the entire time.
If someone is watching me, I’m not going to give them reason for suspicion.
My one-bedroom apartment is fairly small, with a tiny kitchen and a cramped living room, but it does have one nice feature: a spacious walk-in closet in the bedroom. I go in there, as I normally would to undress, but instead, as soon as I’m out of sight of any potential cameras, I take out the paper from my pocket and unfold it, my hands shaking.
It’s just a couple of lines, scrawled on the thick paper in sharp, masculine handwriting.
Remember, ptichka. For as long as we’re both alive.
27
Peter
The Moscow job goes smoothly—we eliminate our target in one short week—and then we’re back to hunting Henderson while we await word from Novak. Last month, the Serbian arms dealer confirmed everything is on track for the original eight-month timeline, but he’s still closemouthed about his asset within Esguerra’s organization—the key piece of information I need to implement my plan.
Unfortunately, Henderson remains as elusive as always, so as May progresses, we do another round of shaking down his acquaintances for any leads. This time, we focus on his wife’s connections in her hometown of Charleston, just to switch things up.
“Nothing again,” Ilya says with disgust as we board the plane, having interrogated our five targets. “The idiots didn’t know a thing.”
I shrug and take my seat. “It was to be expected.”
I still consider the operation a success. We got away without so much as a car chase, and we again showed Henderson that nobody in his life, no matter how remote a connection, is safe. Sooner or later, it will sink in, and then he’ll make a mistake. Maybe his wife will get worried about a friend of hers and reach out to check on her, or maybe the teenage daughter will freak out and call her ex.
No matter what happens, the moment they fuck up, we’ll be ready, and my dead wife and son will be avenged.
It’s the beginning of June when it finally happens.
I get an email from Novak that he wants to meet next Wednesday.
Just you, the email reads. No one else.
I suppress a surge of savage joy and begin making the arrangements.
For the past two weeks, we’ve been staying in our Polish safe house, waiting for Novak to reach out, so Wednesday morning, I have the guys drop me off in Belgrade and assume their positions.