The crew is ready. The jet is fueled. The engines are on standby. The captain already came down the stairs once to tell me we can depart as soon as we’re boarded.
“We won’t wait long,” he warned politely.
“You’ll wait,” I told him.
Now I’m just standing here with my hands in my pockets so I don’t reach for my gun every five seconds, staring at that door and counting breaths.
Nikolai is about ten meters away, talking to the ground handler. His weight is shifted to one leg. I notice, distantly, that he favors the other.
My phone is in my palm. I’m one second away from texting Bella to hurry when I hear it.
Engines.
Not the jet’s soft whine. Cars.
Headlights swing across the fence, too many at once for a place that’s supposed to be quiet. I turn toward the access road.
Three black cars roll through the open gate in a neat line, like they own the place. No markings. Too clean. Wrong for this airport.
Cold settles in my chest.
Nikolai breaks off his conversation and strides back to my side, his hand instinctively going to his jacket, to his own gun. “Expecting company?” he asks.
“No,” I say.
The first car stops a few meters from us. Doors open in practiced order. Men step out first, scanning the area, hands near their weapons.
Then she steps out.
Irina.
My mother is dressed for a meeting, not a raid. Dark coat, simple blouse, hair smooth, makeup perfect. She looks like she’s on her way to dinner. The only hint of where we are is the way her hair moves in the wind from the idling jet.
I feel my jaw lock.
“How did she even—” Nikolai starts under his breath.
“Don’t,” I cut him off.
She starts walking toward me like this is a social call. Two of her men flank her, hanging back just enough to make it clear they don’t think they’ll need to step in.
I stand my ground.
“You thought you’d get one on me and sneak them away?” she sneers. “Put them on a little plane and make all your problems disappear?”
“They’re not your problem,” I say. “They never were.”
Her lip curls. “Everything connected to you is my problem. You don’t get to decide that.”
We stand facing each other, the wind tugging at her coat, the jet humming quietly behind me, the terminal lights throwing long shadows across the tarmac.
One of her men shifts his weight. I catch the movement. His hand is too close to his jacket.
I take my hands out of my pockets. “Careful,” I say.
“Or what?” Irina asks.
I don’t answer her. I watch the man. He touches the grip of his gun.
