He turns and begins walking back toward the cars. I follow several paces behind. My mind's already working through the logistics. Witness protection in Russia isn't as secure as the authorities claim. There are always gaps and vulnerabilities. It's simply a matter of finding them and exploiting the weaknesses before time runs out.
When we reach the cars, Yuri pauses with his hand on the door handle and looks back at me over his shoulder.
"Don't disappoint me, Fyodor."
"I won't, Boss," I tell him, and I have no intention of letting him down.
He opens the door and slides into the back seat beside Inessa. She's stopped crying now, but her eyes remain red and swollen. She stares straight ahead at nothing as Yuri wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. The driver shuts the door, and the car pulls away from the curb.
Right-hand man to Yuri Gravitch is a promotion I've worked toward for years, though I never imagined it would come at such a cost. Dominik was groomed from birth to take his place at his father's side. Now he's dead, and I'm the one chosen to fill the void. The reality is sobering.
I stand there alone in the cemetery parking area and watch the car disappear down the road. The wind howls through the trees and sends more dead leaves skittering across the pavement.
Finding Marat will require resources, contacts, and patience. He's hidden somewhere within the state's protection system, likely moved multiple times already to prevent anyone from tracking him down. But the system has weaknesses, and I know people who can exploit those weaknesses for the right price.
2
NOEMI
December… One week untilNovy God
The cold outside today is bone-chilling, but it's not unbearable like the bitter freeze that'll come in January when the wind cuts through every layer and leaves exposed skin burning. Today, the air feels crisp and clean, the snow crunching beneath my boots as I shift my feet and scan the playground where thirty children scatter across the yard in bursts of color and noise. Their voices rise in shouts and laughter, high-pitched squeals cutting through the steady hush of falling snow. Flakes drift down from the gray sky and catch in my eyelashes, melting against my cheeks when I blink them away.
"Anya, not so rough!" I shout. The little menace. "Akh ty, shel’ma." Children can be so violent with each other at times, and Anya has a rotten streak.
I pull my scarf tighter around my neck and tuck my gloved hands into my pockets. The fabric scratches against my chin, rough wool that smells faintly of cedar from the chest where I keep itfolded between seasons. My breath forms white clouds that hang in the air for a moment before dissipating.
I count heads automatically, my eyes moving from one group to the next. Eight children cluster around the swings, their mittened hands gripping the chains as they pump their legs to gain height. Five more build a lopsided snowman near the fence, packing handfuls of wet snow against its base while arguing over where the arms should go. The rest spread out across the open space, running and chasing and throwing snowballs that explode in white puffs when they hit their targets.
Sasha kicks a ball with three other boys near the edge of the playground where the grass gives way to taller weeds and frozen brush. His dark hair sticks out from beneath his knit cap, and his cheeks flush red from exertion. He laughs when one of the boys trips over his own feet and lands face-first in a snowdrift. The sound carries across the yard, bright and unguarded, and it makes my chest tighten as I watch him chase after the ball when it rolls away from the group. His coat flaps open despite how many times I've reminded him to zip it up before going outside.
I want to call out to him to remind him to zip up again, but I don't want to be a nag. Teaching young boys is especially hard if their families aren't solid, and Sasha has a rough life. If being a bit too cold at recess time is the worst that happens to him at school, it's not a horrible thing.
The ball bounces once, twice, then disappears into the weeds. Sasha follows without hesitation, plunging into the brush where the snow lies thicker and the dead stalks rise higher than his waist. I lose sight of him immediately. The weeds close around the space where he entered, and all I can see is the swaying of brown stems where his body disturbs them.
I pull my hands from my pockets and take a few steps in that direction. My heart beats a little faster, though I tell myself there's no reason for concern. He's just retrieving the ball. He'll be back in a moment, but I have an irrational fear of losing even one of these kids. Their parents entrust their care to me, and I take that seriously.
But Sasha is different still. When I learned of his mother's cancer diagnosis, I was almost crushed. A boy losing a parent at such a young age is life-altering. He doesn't deserve that at all, and it only made my affection for him stronger. I worry over him now more than any other student, so moments like this make me hold my breath in fear.
I glance over my shoulder at the other children, checking that no one's climbed too high on the equipment or wandered too close to the street beyond the fence. Everyone seems accounted for. So I turn back toward the weeds.
Sasha still hasn't emerged. The stalks continue to sway, but I can't tell if that's from his movement or from the wind that's picked up in the last few minutes. Snow falls harder now, fat flakes that stick to my coat and melt into dark spots on the fabric. I wipe my face with the back of my glove and feel moisture collect on the wool.
"Sasha," I call. My voice doesn't carry as far as I expect. The falling snow seems to absorb the sound and muffle it and the wind chases it away. "Sasha, come back now."
But there's no response and the weeds keep swaying. I take another few steps forward, my boots sinking deeper into the snow with each stride. The cold seeps through the leather and chills my toes. I flex them inside my socks to keep the blood moving.
The other children's voices fade slightly, though I can still hear them laughing and shouting. I glance back one more time to confirm they're all still where they should be, but I won't just let a boy wander off into the tall brush and get lost. I can't.
"Sasha." I raise my voice this time, pushing it harder. "You need to come out now. Recess is almost over."
Even at that there's still no response, and it makes my heart tick up a few notches. I tell myself he's fine, that he's probably found the ball and is on his way back, but my body doesn't believe the reassurance. It's like my nervous system knows something I don’t, making my hands tremble from fear instead of shivers, and my pulse is racing now. The weeds loom larger as I approach, their dry stalks clicking together when the wind pushes through them. Snow has drifted against their base in uneven mounds that reach up to my knees.
I stop at the edge of the brush and peer into the tangle of stems and shadows. The light's dimmer here, filtered through the dead vegetation that blocks the sky. I can't see more than a few feet ahead. Everything blurs together into shades of brown and white and gray.
"Sasha!" My voice cracks. Panic rises in my throat as I swallow hard and taste bile. What if he's hurt? What if he tripped and hit his head on a rock buried under the snow? What if he's lost and doesn't know which direction to go to get back? My thoughts spiral faster than I can control them. I take a step into the weeds, then another. The stalks scrape against my coat and catch on my sleeves. Snow shakes loose from the plants and falls down the back of my neck, icy droplets that slide beneath my scarf and make me shiver.
"Sasha, please answer me!" The desperation in my voice is obvious now. I don't care. I push deeper into the brush, shoving stems aside with my arms. They snap and crack under the pressure. My boots slip on hidden ice beneath the snow. I catch myself before I fall, grabbing onto a thick stalk that bends but doesn't break under my weight. My breathing comes faster, each inhale burning my lungs. Sweat forms along my hairline and my vision narrows until all I can see is the path ahead, the small tunnel through the weeds where I think he must've gone.
