Choking back a sob, Semyon nods. “Thank you…Wren. Zion say always you were…how does it go…? In his angle?”
“In his corner?” I chuckle as Semyon offers me a weak smile. “For a long time, Z was the only family I had. And family always has each other’s back.”
39
Ryker
The hour-long drive passes in a blur. A handful of cars on the motorway, yellowish cones of illumination from the occasional light posts breaking up the total and complete darkness, and a surprisingly comfortable silence between West and me.
As soon as Wren told him she could hook up a video chat for him, his entire demeanor changed. Well, no. It changed when I approved the call.
No unauthorized communications. One of my many rules. And while I won’t go so far as to tell my team they can bring their personal mobile phones with them, I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I couldn’t talk to Wren—at least every day or two. Not now.
“That’s some hard thinking you’re doing, Ry,” West says as he pulls off the motorway onto a side road and cuts the lights. We both flip on our night vision heads-up displays, and the lonely country road is painted in blues and greens and grays.
“Why’d you stay?”
“With Hidden Agenda?” He taps his earbud. “Fifteen minutes out, India.”
“Roger that. Satellite images are clear. But they’re on a ten minute delay.”
West clicks off comms and glances over at me, one brow arched.
“Yeah. With Hidden Agenda. Clearly, I’ve been an ass since I got out of Hell.” I pat down my vest again, double and triple checking my equipment—as best I can in the cramped sedan. There aren’t many cars big enough for my six-foot-eleven-inch frame.
West’s laugh confirms that yes, I was a complete asshole. But he shrugs. “I needed the money at first. Insurance for the kids’ program at the dojo is highway robbery. But,” another turn, and he slows the car down to a crawl, “after I got shot, when you and Inara were practically holding vigil at that dirty veterinary office in Colombia, I realized what I’d been missing.”
“You were missing bullet wounds and duct tape? Sweating your balls off in a tropical jungle? Wading through a river and then pulling leeches off your ass?” Snorting, I lean forward to peer out the windshield. Any unexpected movement could be a threat.
“Fuck no,” he says with a chuckle. “The way a close-knit squad feels like a family. I saw it with you and Inara. And when I wasn’t sure I was going to live, and the two of you took turns with the ice packs and blood transfusions…I felt it too. I love Cam. She’s my heart and soul, and I’d die before I’d let anything happen to her. But I need you and Inara in my life too. I’m a SEAL. You know how it is. SEALs, Special Forces, Rangers. They burn it into you. ‘Never leave a man behind.’ You don’t find that closeness, that total and complete loyalty anywhere else in life. I won’t go back to the SEALs—even though there are some days I miss my old life more than anything—I can’t do that to Cam. But I can do this.”
“Thank you. I…don’t say it enough. Or…at all.” Running my gloved fingers over the beads around my wrist, I take a deep, centering breath. If we pull this off, we’ll be one step closer to getting the fuck out of Russia. And I need Wren to be safe.
* * *
West pullsthe car off the road and parks behind an overgrown row of hedges five hundred yards from Popov’s home. At 2:00 a.m., he should be asleep—and easy to capture. Except we have no idea what type of security he has around his estate.
“Going in,” I say as we exit the vehicle. “No chatter.”
“Roger that,” Inara replies, as calm as ever. As the slight hiss of the static clicks off, I shut out everything except the mission. West gestures to the right with two fingers, then circles his wrist. After I repeat his motion as confirmation, I start creeping towards the house.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re fifty yards from the back door. I flip on the thermal scanners on my heads up display. A large patch of red on the top floor. A smaller orange glow downstairs is fading. Maybe a fireplace or heater. It’s diffuse, larger than a body would be.
West pulls out the signal jammer and flips it on. If Popov has an alarm system, this should short it out. After a flurry of hand signals, we rush the house, West with his dart gun at the ready, me with my lock picks.
The tumblers click one after another, and then we’re in. An overwhelming smell of onions makes my eyes water, and I signal to the left. Clear the downstairs before we approach what we hope is a bedroom.
Inara can see everything through the camera built into my display, and I find the source of the thermal reading—a massive cast iron stove in the kitchen that’s still warm to the touch. Everything is meticulously clean, not a pot or knife out of place.
The living room whispers opulence, with rich velvet and thick carpets—perfect for muffling footsteps. After checking another three rooms, including what appears to be Popov’s office, I meet West at the stairs.
I have a hundred pounds on the former SEAL, and though the stairs feature the same thick carpeting as the rest of the house, I hang back, letting West navigate the rise and check for creaks.
When he makes it to the top without a sound, I follow. Popov’s bedroom door is cracked, and we angle glances inside. Two targets. Satin sheets pool around the woman’s hips, and her obviously fake breasts point directly at the ceiling.
Popov sleeps on his side, loud snores shaking the walls. Blankets cover most of his body, making my shot that much harder.
Holding up my left hand, I start the countdown. Five…four…at three, I wrap both hands around the pistol grip and draw down on Popov. We keep the count and fire within a millisecond of one another. But my shot hits the edge of the blanket, and Popov jerks, coming alive with a roar as the woman screams. Before she can even untangle her legs, she slumps back against the pillows, unconscious.
