Iris doesn't respond. Just closes her eyes, tears still streaming down her face, silently mourning the man she thinks she lost.
• • •
By the time we pull up to the location, the sun is setting, casting long, bloody shadows across the ground. The private hangar sits on the edge of a desolate airstrip, surrounded by nothing but dense Montana forest.
The van stop, and we cut the engine. Kirill slides the door open, the cold evening air rushing in. "Out. Now."
Iris climbs out slowly, her legs shake so badly she almost collapses. Kirill catches her arm gently guiding her out, his grip firm.
Tessa follows, glaring at us like she wants to stab us with a rusty spoon. She looks around at the tarmac, then at the sleek, black jet waiting on the runway.
"A plane?" she asks, her voice rising in panic. "Where the hell are you taking us?"
"Home," I say simply, stepping out of the passenger seat.
"Home?" She scoffs, backing away. "Unless your home is a cornfield in the middle of nowhere, I doubt that."
"Russia," Kirill corrects flatly, pulling a small, hard case from his jacket pocket.
Tessa freezes. "Russia? You can't be serious. That's...that's on the other side of the world! You can't just ship us to Russia like Amazon packages!"
I raise a brow at her, isn’t she supposed to be happy she’s getting a free ride back home.
"We can," I say, walking toward her. "And we are."
Kirill opens the case. Inside sit two syringes, pre-loaded with a clear liquid. The needle tips glint under the hangar lights. Tessa's eyes widen as she spots the needles and immediately takes a step back, her hands coming up.
"Whoa. Absolutely not. No way in hell. You are not sticking that in me."
"It's a thirty-hour trip," I say, my voice calmly. "We can't have you screaming or fighting the whole way. This will make it easier. You go to sleep here, you wake up in Moscow. Simple."
"Simple?" She laughs, a frantic, hysterical sound. "You think drugging me is simple? I will bite you. I swear to God, I will bite your finger off if you come near me with that." I grin. "I'd like to see you try." I nod at Kirill. He moves first grabbing Iris, but she doesn't put up much of a fight, too exhausted from grief. She just stands there, tears silently streaming down her face, as Kirill uncaps the needle.
"Sorry, redhead," he mutters, though he doesn't sound sorry at all. He jams the needle into her upper arm. She winces, a soft gasp escaping her lips, but she doesn't pull away. Within seconds, her eyelids flutter, as her knees buckle. Kirill catches her, scooping her up into his arms like a bride.
Tessa watches her friend fall, and that snaps something inside her.
"Iris!" she screams. She turns to run, but I am faster. I lunge, wrapping an arm around her waist and hauling her back against my chest. She is small, but she fights like a wildcat, kicking, scratching, and thrashing against my hold. "Let me go! You ginger psychopath! Let me go!"
She stomps on my foot, hard. "Fuck!" I hiss, tightening my grip. "Hold still, you little menace."
"No! I'm not going to back to Russia with you! I have things to do here you sick fucks!" she yells, clawing at my arm.
I pin her arms to her sides with one arm, using my height and weight to immobilize her. With my other hand, I take the second syringe from Kirill, who is already walking Iris toward the jet stairs.
"Relax," I murmur into her ear, my breath ghosting over her skin. "It's just a nap. Think of it as first-class service."
"I hate you," she seethes, trashing her head back, trying to headbutt me. "I hope your plane crashes. I hope you get diarrhea on the flight. I hope..." I uncap the needle with my teeth and drive it into her shoulder. She gasps, her body stiffening. "Ow! You asshole!"
"There," I whisper, pulling the needle out and tossing it onto the tarmac. "All done."
"I'm gonna..." she slurs, her fighting slowing down instantly. Her head lolls back against my chest, her weight becoming heavy. "I'm gonna... kill... you..."
"I know," I say, brushing a stray hair out of her face. "Get in line princess." Her eyes roll back, and she goes limp in my arms. I shift my grip, lifting her easily. She is lighter than she looks, fragile in her baggy clothes. For a second, I just look down at her, at the fire that has finally gone out. "Sleep tight, short stuff," I mutter.
I carry her toward the jet, following Kirill up the stairs. The engines are already humming, ready to take us halfway across the world.
We have the lawyer. We have the friend. And Ilay Ivanovich is bleeding out in a ditch in Montana.
