Silence, then Sergei’s voice cracked. “Why me? Why now?”
“He thinks you went to the FBI.”
“I didn’t go anywhere. I was packing for our camping trip to California.”
Adrik closed his eyes, a twisting ache in his chest. “Leave now! We can’t talk anymore. Promise me you’ll leave.” His voice broke on the last word.
“Adrik! Remember RUN. Don’t change the plan. Got it?” Sergei had helped him devise an escape plan years ago in the event he needed to leave abruptly. Part of the plan was not to share the information with Sergei. With no one.
“Yes! I know the RUN plan. Everything is in place. Promise me you’ll leave now.” Adrik was furious the plan had to be implemented now, when he had looked forward to their two-week camping trip in California.
“Promise.” Sergei’s breath hitched. Then softly, the confession he’d been holding back for years: “I love you, Adrik.”
The line went dead, but Adrik didn’t move. The phone stayed pressed to his ear, his hand trembling so hard he nearly dropped it. His breath caught, sharp and uneven, like he’d been punched in the chest.
Sergei loved him. The words replayed, looping, louder than the traffic outside the gas station. His cheek still burned from Viktor’s slap earlier, but this ache was different—raw, piercing, impossible to shake.
He dialed Sergei back, and the call was disconnected. Dead. He lowered the phone slowly, staring at the cracked screen as if it might light up again, as if Sergei might call back from another phone. His throat tightened, eyes stinging. He pressed the heel of his hand against his face, trying to steady himself, but the tremor in his body wouldn’t stop.
For years, he’d buried the feeling convinced silence was safer. And now, at the moment he was losing Sergei, he finally had proof it was real. The confession was a gift and a curse—something to cling to, something that made Sergei leaving hurt ten times worse.
Adrik forced himself upright, dragging in a shaky breath. His hands still trembled, but he shoved the phone into his pocket and turned the key in the ignition. The engine growled back to life, steady and loud, drowning out the echo of Sergei’s voice. “I love you.” The words cut deep, but they also lit something inside him—a reason to keep moving, even if it meant running alone.
He gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles white, and pulled back onto the road. Every mile felt heavier, but he pushed harder, channeling the ache into motion. Survival wasn’t just about him anymore. If Sergei escaped, if those words weren’t the last thing he ever heard from him, then maybe this pain had meaning.
That evening, Adrik took the subway from New York City to the Newark Airport for a transatlantic flight to Madrid. He brought his briefcase and an overnight bag from his car. He didn’t dare go to his penthouse. All evening, his stomach churned with anxiety, fearing someone might discover him trying to board the plane. He looked around for Sergei, but he was nowhere to be found. Hopefully, he hadn’t used any airport in New York City. It would be a miracle if they were on the same flight. Before he boarded, he stomped on his throwaway phone in a bathroom stall and trashed it in a garbage container. Unfortunately, Sergei couldn’t call him anymore. The first rule Sergei had taught him was not to have any electronics when and if he were on the run. No one could connect with him; calls and messages would be left unanswered. Despite the wave of sadness washing over him, he boarded the plane without looking back.
Adrik walked down the narrow aisle, the stale mix of recycled air and perfume hitting him as he found his seat. The plane hummed with chatter, overhead bins slamming shut, and the faint clink of bottles from the galley. He dropped into the window seat, shoulders heavy, eyes burning. Madrid waited,but home was gone the second he’d stepped out of the house, through that door. The thought of the seven-hour flight filled him with dread.
The girl beside him—dark hair, bright smile—tucked her bag under the seat and glanced his way.
“Headed home?” she asked, buckling her belt.
He nodded, though his throat felt tight. “Something like that.”
She leaned closer, playful. “Lucky me, sitting next to the mysterious guy. By the way, I’m Valentina Vargas.”
She handed him her business card, its black surface contrasting with the neon pink letters.
“Cameron Byrn.” He used the alias on his plane ticket. He scanned her card. She was a stripper at a club in Madrid. He’d like to spend the night, but he had another flight with little time in between. He would have changed his flight if his fear of getting caught weren’t so powerful.
He turned to her. “Hey, Valentina, can I buy you a drink?”
“Thanks. Chardonnay, please.” She licked her lips in a seductive manner.
Adrik waved down the flight attendant, muttering, “A glass of chardonnay for the lady and I’ll have a vodka. Double.”
His hands shook as he took the plastic cup, the ice rattling like loose bones. He swallowed hard, the burn cutting through the ache in his chest. He stared out the oval window, the runway lights blurring.
He drained the cup, signaled for another for both of them. The cabin lights dimmed, casting everything in a dull golden glow. The low roar of engines pressed against his ears, steady, relentless.
She nudged him with her elbow. “You know, you’re cute when you brood.”
“And you’re stunning, and your presence is incredibly alluring.”
A smile graced her lips as she kissed his cheek, the soft skin a welcome touch. “Thanks.”
“I meant that. Are you bilingual?”
