We reach the secondary garage, the one the Pakhan keeps for emergencies and when the main entrance becomes untenable and you need to disappear fast.
My car waits where I left it, engine running and driver's door open.
"Get in."
She does. No questions. No hesitation. Just trust I haven't earned but somehow have anyway.
I'm behind the wheel before she's fully seated and pulling out. I follow the service road that winds behind landscaping designed to make you forget wealthy people need back doors too. We're half a mile away before she speaks.
"That was you, the explosion?"
"Yes."
"You could've been caught."
"But I wasn't."
"You could've been killed."
"But I wasn't." I glance at her , and she's staring at me with an expression I can't quite read. Something between gratitude and anger and something else. Something that looks dangerously like the thing I feel when I watch her sleep. "You're welcome."
Her jaw tightens. "I didn't thank you."
"No. You didn't."
Silence stretches.
"Anatoly was going to recognize me," she says finally.
"I know."
"You've been watching."
"Always."
She processes that. I see the wheels turning behind those sharp eyes , see her putting together pieces I've been leavingscattered for weeks. Understanding dawns like sunrise over the desert.
"Thomas was your cousin."
Not a question. Statement of fact delivered in a voice that expects confirmation.
"Yes."
"The Pakhan killed him."
"Yes."
"And you've been using me, positioning me. I’m the weapon you couldn't be."
I should deny it, lie, but I'm tired of lies. Tired of pretending this is anything except what it is.
"Yes." I expect anger. Expect her to demand I pull over. Expect violence or tears. Instead, she laughs, short and sharp. The sound of someone who's moved past surprise into darker territory.
"Fine," she says.
"Fine?" I repeat, not sure I heard her right.
"I'd rather be your weapon than your charity case." She shifts in her seat.
