She doesn’t push. She just stands beside me, watching the city, waiting.
“There was a girl,” I finally tell her. “In Syria. She was eight years old. Her name was Lana.”
Daria doesn’t speak, so I continue.
“Her father was a diplomat. Our team was sent to extract the family after their compound was overrun. We got the mother out first, but I got separated from the group while I was carrying Lana.”
The memories come flooding back. The bombed buildings. The distant crack of gunfire. Lana’s arms wrapped around my neck with her face buried against my shoulder because I told her not to look.
“I kept her alive for three days. We rationed water and hid in rubble. I told her stories to keep her calm. I promised her that she’d see her father again.”
“What happened?”
“On the final push to extraction, a sniper took a shot at me.” I swallow hard. “The bullet went through her chest instead. She was… looking up at me when it happened, asking if we were almost there.”
Daria makes a small sound beside me.
“I carried her body six kilometers to the helicopter, where I handed her to a father who’d trusted me to bring his daughterhome safe.” I squeeze the railing tighter. “She had a smile so much like Kira’s. Same way of asking for stories when she was scared.”
“Pyotr—”
“Kira asked me to stay forever.” I stop and tell myself to breathe. “Lana asked me the same thing. The night before we made the final push, she said she wished I could come live with her family when this was all over.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her we’d see.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “That was the last conversation we had before she died in my arms.”
Daria doesn’t tell me it wasn’t my fault or that I did everything I could. She knows that’s not what I need. She just reaches over and takes my hand, threading her fingers through mine.
She leans into me and rests her head against my shoulder. The weight of it anchors me to the present.
“You saved Kira tonight,” she tells me. “You called the doctor. You stayed with her. You kept her safe.”
“It's not the same.”
“No. But it matters.” She lifts her head and looks at me. “You matter. To both of us.”
I cup her face with my free hand and drag my thumb along the dark circle under her eye. She hasn't slept. Neither have I. We’re both running on fumes and fear and something neither of us has named yet.
“When this is over,” I say, “I’m going to make sure Bogdan can never touch you again.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes.”
We stand there in silence as the sun climbs higher in the sky, marking another day.
Somewhere in the past three weeks, this stopped being an assignment. Daria isn’t a subject to investigate, and Kira isn’t collateral to protect.
They’re my family. And I’ll burn down the world before I let anyone take them from me.
Just as I have that thought, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see a message from an unknown number, and my blood turns to ice.
How’s Kira’s fever?
Fucking Bogdan Lebedev.
22
