Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Ryson’s jaw tightens. “Don’t threaten us, Sara. You won’t like the results.”
“It’s Dr. Cobakis to you, Agent Ryson.” I match his hard stare. “And I already don’t like the results. George’s colleagues at the paper wouldn’t like them either—if they were to catch wind of them. That’s why you told me about the fugitive, right? So I’d keep my mouth shut and go along with the whole ‘he died peacefully in his sleep’ bullshit? You knew George’s colleagues would’ve investigated the hell out of the supposed mafia hit, and you didn’t need that. You still don’t, am I right?”
He glares at me, and I see his internal debate. Share classified information and potentially get in trouble, or not share it and definitely get in trouble? Self-preservation must win out, because he says grimly, “All right. What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with his name and nationality.”
Ryson glances around, then leans in closer. “He goes by many aliases, but we believe his real name is Peter Sokolov.” He pitches his voice low even though the tables around us are empty. “According to our files, he’s originally from a small town near Moscow, Russia.”
That explains the accent. “What is his background? Why is he a fugitive?”
Ryson leans back. “I don’t know the answer to that last question. I don’t have sufficient security clearance.” He falls silent as the server approaches with our drinks. After the server leaves, he says, “What I can tell you is that prior to him becoming a fugitive, he was Spetsnaz, part of the Russian Special Forces. His job was tracking down and interrogating anyone deemed a threat to Russian security—terrorists, insurgents from the former Soviet Union republics, spies, and so on. He was reportedly very good at it. Then, about five years ago, he switched sides and started working for the worst of the criminal underworld—dictators convicted of war crimes, Mexican cartels, illegal arms dealers… In the process, he came up with a list of names—people he believes have harmed him somehow—and he’s been systematically eliminating them ever since.”
My hand is unsteady as I reach for my coffee cup. “And George was on that list?”
Ryson nods and knocks back his espresso in one big gulp. Putting down the cup, he says, “I’m sorry, Dr. Cobakis. This is all I can tell you, because this is all I know. I have no idea what your husband or any of the others did to end up on that list. I understand you’d like more answers, and believe me, so would we, but a lot of Sokolov’s file is redacted.” He stops to let the server pass by again, then adds quietly, “You need to forget about this man, Dr. Cobakis, both for your safety and ours. You don’t want to attract his attention again, believe me.”
I nod, my stomach knotted tight. I don’t know why I thought that knowing a few details about the man who haunts my dreams would be better than remaining in the dark. If anything, I’m more anxious now, my hands and feet icy with anxiety.
“Are you sure he’s gone?” I ask as the agent gets to his feet. “Are you certain he’s nowhere near here?”
“Nobody can be certain of anything when it comes to this psychopath, but for what it’s worth, a little over six weeks ago, he killed another person on his list—this one in South Africa,” Ryson says bleakly. “And before that, he took out two more in Canada despite our best attempts to safeguard them. So yes, as far as we know, he’s far from US soil.”
I stare at him, rendered mute by horror. Three more victims in the last six months. Three more lives lost while I’ve been battling nightmares and paranoia.
“Good luck, Dr. Cobakis,” Ryson says, not unkindly, and places a few dollar bills on the table. “Time really does heal, and one day, you’ll move past this too. I’m sure of that.”
“Thank you,” I say in a choked voice, but he’s already walking away, his stocky figure disappearing through the glass doors of the cafe.
* * *
That night, I dream of Peter Sokolov’s attack again, and the nightmare takes the turn I dread the most. Instead of him holding me under the faucet, he has me pinned under him on a bed, his steely fingers shackling my wrists. I feel him moving inside me, his cock long and thick as he invades my body, and heat thrums under my skin, my nipples taut and aching as they rub against his muscled chest.
“Please,” I beg, wrapping my legs around his hips as his metallic eyes stare into mine. “Harder, please. I need you.”
I’m slick with that need; it burns inside me, hot and dark, and he knows it. He feels it. I can see it in the coldness of his silver gaze, in the cruel set of his sensuous mouth. His fingers tighten around my wrists, cutting into my skin like a zip tie, and his cock turns into a blade, slicing me open, making me bleed.