Grabbing her around the waist, I kiss her hard enough to leave us both panting. “I’m…sorry. I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?” She blinks up at me, and God, I don’t want to leave her.
It’s one word, you stupid oaf. Tell her.
I touch her still damp locks, loving how she angles her head towards my hand. “Care.”
“You’ll learn.” With a smile and a quick kiss to my cheek, she whispers, “Come back safe.”
“I will, sweetheart. I want to know what other things you think we can do in a sleeping bag.”
* * *
The battered oldFord Focus has seen better days, but I don’t worry about blending in as I head into the heart of St. Petersburg. With my baseball cap, old denim jacket covered in patches, and gloves, I look like any other wannabe rocker bumming around the city. Well, except for my height. The oversized sunglasses cover the worst of the scars on my face, and I glance in the rear view with a sigh.
What does she see in me? I screw up every relationship I’ve ever had. My own team’s proof enough of that. Yeah, Inara’s helping us with this op, but she’s distant. I know I hurt her when I left the warehouse. Hell, I wouldn’t blame West if he quit after I bailed on his wedding.
But Wren…
“You’ll learn.”
She’s a hell of a lot more optimistic than I am. But for the first time since I escaped Hell…I want to try.
I wish I could talk to her. Or…at least hear her voice, but we agreed to stay off comms unless absolutely necessary. I need to focus. Stay alert. No distractions. When I get back, though, I have to be…better. With her.
The morning rush hour is largely over, and I merge into traffic on the motorway, mentally inventorying the various weapons I have with me again, despite my pre-mission ritual back at the safe house. We all have our own little quirks. Inara uses headstands to center herself. West has this long mantra he recites before every op. Me? I take inventory. Despite my memory—and my routines—I still worry every time I leave that I’ve forgotten something.
The addresses Wren sent me are less than ten miles from the little safe house, and I find a parking space across from a small town square with a fountain. Half a dozen kids—mid-twenties—gather, joking and roughhousing like only cocky boys can.
I can’t hang out in the car too long. I need to blend in. Disappear. So I pretend to send a couple of texts from my phone as I snap photos and video of the area. Then, I unfold my large frame from the car and stick a pair of fake AirPods in my ears. With the occasional nod or shake of my head to non-existent music, I amble down the street, taking in everything.
The kids watch me. Well, two of them do. The others play it cool. I should have packed the telescoping mic.
At a small cafe on the corner, I stop, using the window’s reflection to keep an eye on the kids. One of them is headed my way, so I duck inside. The place smells like boiled vegetables—cabbage mainly—and I try not to choke on the humid air.
Nodding to the older woman behind the counter, I point to a pile of pirozhkis in a glass case, hold up two fingers, and then gesture to the coffee pot as well. “Kaffe und zwei bitte?”
I don’t speak Russian, but my German accent is passable, and my papers identify me as a German citizen.
“English okay?” With a scowl, the old woman slides two of the pastries onto a plate. “No German.”
“Okay. How much?” I ask.
“Fifty. You want milk for coffee?” She stares past me, and when the door opens, her demeanor turns decidedly hostile. A string of Russian pours from her lips, and I turn, like any tourist would, to see one of the punks from the square.
He spits out a response that includes one of the few Russian words I do know—cyka.Bitch.
The woman points towards the door, and he flips her off before leaving. “Gopnik,”she mutters before turning back to me. “You take sweet.” Now, she’s almost apologetic as she thrusts another plate at me with a powdered dough ball in the center.
“Danke.” This…is promising. Zion used the same word—gopnik—in one of his codes. Inara confirmed it’s a general term for poor kids. The ones a cliché would call “from the other side of the tracks.” This could be nothing. Just punks being…punks. But given my proximity to the buildings on Wren’s list, I’m going to sit here and enjoy a cup of strong, hot coffee in this stuffy cafe, and see where it leads me.
19
Wren
Touching my swollen lips, I can still feel him. Taste him. And I want more. Ryker is one of the most infuriating men I’ve ever met. And I work for Dax Holloway. Pretty sure Dax has won the “Infuriating Man of the Year” award at least four years running. Not this year.
Turning my attention to the servers I hacked last night, I open a connection to the dark web and send Inara access credentials and an IP address. If I have to open Google Translate for every directory name I come across, this job will take a month.
