“Tourniquet,” Nikolai commands, and someone—Alexei, maybe—is cutting away my sleeve, tying off my arm, muttering curses in Russian.The pain crystallizes into something sharp and focused.Almost a relief after the static.I can manage pain.Been doing so for years now.
“Two kids.We lost two,” I manage to whisper, my voice doesn’t sound like my own.“We were supposed to save the kids.”
“I know,” Nikolai says.He’s giving driving directions, but his eyes find mine.His expression is unreadable.“One mistake.One of my men got jumpy.One mistake and we lost them.”
“My fault,” I state.“I should’ve?—“
“You froze,” Nikolai says, not unkindly.It’s a statement of fact.“First time that happened?”
It’s not.I don’t answer, which is answer enough for the smart Russian.
Nikolai’s jaw tightens.He’s quiet for a long moment, while the driver navigates the dark roads outside the city with practiced ease.Then, he says, “Three months.That’s what we gave this op.Three months of your life, your time, your focus.And it still went sideways.”
“We got intel on the trafficking routes,” I remind him, grasping for something, anything that doesn’t feel like complete failure.“We identified four major nodes.We have locations, names?—“
“We have corpses,” Nikolai interrupts quietly.“We have the blood of two children on our hands.We have you with a bullet wound, and my team rattled because they watched you freeze.”
The words land like physical blows.Every one of them is true, though.
“This has something to do with what happened to you in Syria, doesn’tit?”Nikolai asks.
The question catches me off guard.“That’s not?—“
“I don’t need details,” Nikolai continues, his eyes still on the road.“I need to know if this is what happens every time things go bad.If you freeze, people might die.”
“Not every time,” I reply flatly.“But sometimes.”
Nikolai nods slowly, as if this confirms something he’s been suspecting.The safe house comes into view—a nondescript building on the outskirts of the industrial zone.They pull into a garage and the door closes behind them, shutting out the Russian night.
Alexei helps me inside, while Nikolai stays with the vehicle, checking to see if we’ve been followed.The safe house is sparse with a bed, medical supplies, and running water.Enough.
Alexei patches my shoulder with efficient brutality.The bullet went clean through, missing the major arteries but tearing muscle.
I’ll be sore.
I’ll recover.
I’ve been lucky.
Those kids were not.
Nikolai finds me on the bed an hour later, watching the ceiling with the kind of blank stare that comes from emotional exhaustion.
“I’m pulling you from the operation,” Nikolai says, pulling a chair and sitting backward on it, arms folded over the back.“You’re going home to Boston.”
“I can still?—“
“No.”Nikolai’s voice is absolute.“You can’t.Not right now.Not like this.”
I want to argue.I’ve been trained to push through.I’ve learned to compartmentalize, to move past trauma, to keep functioning despite the ghosts.But looking at Nikolai’s stern face and steady eyes, I realize that the man in front of me knows exactly what that costs.
“We have another six months of ops planned,” I say instead.“We’re close to finding where Dracul’s boss is hiding.We’re close?—“
“Close to what?”Nikolai leans forward.“Close to finding out who ordered your mother’s death?That’s what you came here for.That’s what kept you awake every night for three months.”
He’s right.We came to Moscow because someone higher up the chain gave the order to kill my mother.
Not Dracul acting alone.It was someone with enough power to order a hit on Martha Boyle and keep it buried.
