Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Another dead end, but I’m not losing hope.
We now have more names to track down, and one of them is bound to lead us to our target.
When I get home, I’m relieved to see that Sara is still napping, as she’s been doing for the past two afternoons. Though she doesn’t want to admit it, the pregnancy and the accompanying morning sickness are taking a heavy toll on her.
And that’s not to mention the therapy sessions with Dr. Wessex. Whatever the therapist is putting Sara through seems to be exhausting my ptichka to the point that she passes out as soon as she gets home.
“What kind of treatment is she doing with you?” I asked Sara last night, and she explained about the eye movement and how it’s supposed to retrain her brain to process the traumatic memories differently. I’m not sure I understand it fully, but she’s only had one minor flashback incident since starting therapy—at least as far as I know.
It’s entirely possible she’s hiding them from me. She still hasn’t cried or talked to me about what happened, so I know it’s bottled up inside her, all the grief and pain filling the emptiness left behind by her parents’ passing.
The strange part is that I feel some of it too—not just as echoes of her pain, but as my own loss. Over the four months following our wedding, I’d gotten to know Chuck and Lorna, had grown to like and respect both of them. They’d been good people, loving parents, and though they’d had every reason to hate me, they’d slowly been opening up to me, letting me be a part of their lives.
A part of their family—a family that I once again failed to protect.
Quietly, I back out of the bedroom, my chest painfully tight. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for what happened, for failing to foresee that the enemy I’d hunted so diligently might not be content to slink out of the shadows and resume his life.
For not anticipating the treasonous form his vengeance might take.
My mood is still dark as I enter the living room and open my laptop to check the encrypted email I used to reach out to Henderson’s contact in the CIA. All nineteen of our prisoners are now dead, so I’m not expecting to see anything—I’m checking more out of force of habit.
Which is why a message from an unknown sender catches me completely by surprise.
Opening the email, I read it—then read it again, unable to believe my eyes.
If you want Wally, meet me at Marison Café in London at 9 a.m. on Wednesday. Come alone.
-Bonnie Henderson
78
Sara
“—clearly a trap,” I hear Ilya say as I exit the bedroom, yawning from my nap. “He’s trying to lure you out, that is all.”
“Obviously, but we still have to pursue the lead,” Kent says as I stop just out of sight in the hallway and peek into the living room.
Peter, Esguerra, Kent, and all three of my husband’s Russian teammates are crowded around a laptop on the coffee table, filling the small space with so much testosterone that I can almost taste it. “Lethal masculinity” are the words that come to mind as I view their tall, superbly fit bodies and hard faces.
Lethal, panty-slaying masculinity.
Of course, Peter is far more magnetic than the others, I decide as they continue talking, oblivious to my presence. Kent’s blond looks bring to mind a pillaging Viking, and I sense something decidedly cruel in Esguerra—and, to some extent, in Yan and Anton. Ilya is the only one who seems to have any shred of human kindness in him, and he’s definitely not my type—though I can see how many women would find those overly large muscles and skull tattoos a turn-on.
“Are we even sure Peter is the one who’s supposed to come alone?” Esguerra says, crouching to peer at the laptop screen. “The email isn’t addressed to anyone specific.”
My breath catches in my chest, and all thoughts of the men’s looks disappear from my mind.
Someone’s trying to get Peter to go somewhere alone?
“Our hackers are tracing the email now,” Yan says, looking at his phone. “We’ll know the IP address it was sent from soon.”
Peter waves dismissively. “It won’t be a real IP address. Henderson knows how to cover his tracks.”
“But what if it’s not Henderson?” Esguerra stands up. “What if it is his wife?”
Ilya snorts. “Yeah, sure. And if we believe that, he’s got a bridge he can—”
“No, Julian is right,” Peter interrupts. “Something about this is very un-Henderson-like. If he wanted to lure me out, he’d provide a more believable lead—by posing as, say, his CIA contact or some such. Signing that email with his wife’s name is like telling us straight out that it’s a trap. You don’t need to have worked for the agency to know that it’s a tactic least likely to succeed.”