It has been eight months since I called Max, and the last six have passed in a private clinic in upstate New York. Detox, counseling, then four surgeries. A new nose, chin, and cheekbones, and dozens of laser treatment sessions to hide my scars and the tattoo on the back of my neck.
The trees—so green they don’t look real—sway gently in the breeze outside my second-floor window. A few minutes ago, two men came to install a mirror in my bathroom—the first one I’ve seen since I came here.
Max leans against the wall next to the door, a wide smile on his face. “You’ve outdone yourself, Foster,” he says, then turns all his attention to me. “Go ahead, Sloane.”
I cannot get used to this new name. According to Max, Sophie Lebdev cannot ever become a model. Her passport was scanned entering the United States two years ago, and immigration knows she never left.
So now I am Sloane Sanders. New name. New face. And now that my surgeries are done, soon I will have a passport declaring me an American citizen.
Every day I have taken classes. How to walk. How to speak without an accent. How to read and write flawless English. I worry what will happen when I leave this place. Will Max turn out to be just another bad man pretending to be good? Can I really pass for an American? Or will everyone I meet see right through me?
Some nights, I lie awake with these fears. But since I fled Rodney’s dingy apartment with only my purse and my mother’s locket, no one has hit me. No one has fucked me. My room here is small, but I have a collection of books, a brand-new cell phone, a sketchbook, and an expensive set of charcoal pencils. When I told Max I used to draw as a child, he showed up with art supplies the very next day.
Dr. Foster removes the last bandage—the one over my nose—and grins. “Turn around, dear.”
I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. It’s not only the surgeries. Her shoulders no longer hunch. Her eyes are clear and bright—and blue, thanks to contact lenses—and for the first time, I think maybe Max was right. I will be a model, and I will never have to spread my legs for a man again.
Chapter One
June
Griff
“What the hell is the Ambassador doing here?” I let the door slam behind me, then fasten the top two buttons on my white dress shirt. My boss, Major General Austin Pritchard, keeps things at the office casual most days. Polo shirts and black pants, the occasional button-up. But we all keep a change of clothes on site for occasions like this.
“No fucking clue.” Pritchard smooths the wrinkles from his khakis, then unlocks his desk drawer and pulls out a shoulder holster and an M9 Beretta. “But she’s headed back to the Embassy in twenty minutes, and we’re her escort.”
His hazel eyes are tired. We’ve been here six months, and from what little I’ve been able to pry out of the man, this assignment? It’s punishment for Austin going AWOL from some JSOC publicity tour because his sister needed him.
I know he hates it here, but after my last post in Kuwait, this is a walk in the park. The CIA set me up in a sweet apartment in a secured building, the food is amazing—while being cheap as fuck—and Austin’s a good guy. Haunted in ways I don’t understand, but aren’t we all?
Pulling out a map—an honest to God paper map—Austin spreads the damn thing across the desk and highlights a ten-kilometer route between our office and the Embassy. “See any pinch points?”
I stare at him like he’s lost his marbles. “Yeah. Too many. Two of these streets are under construction, and I think I saw a new sidewalk market setting up on this corner this morning. We gotta find another way.” When Pritchard gives me the side eye, I add, “Sir.”
“Well, this is the way the Ambassador’s staff insisted we go. Go convince them otherwise.”
“Me? I’m not in charge. Wouldn’t this be better coming from you?“
“The Ambassador is friends with my CO. Pretty sure she thinks I’m a fucking idiot.” Austin shakes his head, his shoulders slumping with his sigh. His commanding officer, Commander Ivan Clarke, was the one who sent him here, and one late night over a bucket of beers, he told me he didn’t expect to have a job when this assignment ended.
“Fine. But make sure Nagan’s driving. If I can’t change her mind, we’ll need a beast behind the wheel.”
* * *
“Back the fuck up!”From the front seat of the armored SUV, I twist around, hoping to whatever God is up there the rest of the caravan isn’t right up our asses. The Ambassador wouldn’t listen when I explained how dangerous this route was. She wanted to see the new school the United States government helped fund.
Nagan wrenches the wheel to the left, but it’s no use. We’re boxed in. Abandoned vehicles line both sides of the narrow street and ahead of us? Nowhere to go.
The map was wrong. The end of the street is now a bazaar with dozens of stalls and a suspicious lack of women and children milling about. The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and I grab the radio.
“Pritchard! We’re blown. Get the Ambassador out of here!”
I’m too late. His reply’s lost to the gunfire hitting the sides of the SUV. At least it’s bulletproof.
To a point.
One I don’t want to test. Pritchard, the Ambassador, her driver, and her teenage son are in the vehicle behind us, and two more of our guys bring up the rear.
