“Technically, I broke that one. But, yes, I have a new burner. And he has the number. In case.” She hands four bousoukis to one of my guards to purchase before setting an exasperated leer on me. “As was noted already.”
“In case what?” I dust a wayward wisp of her hair off her forehead and cradle her face.
She melts into my touch, but there’s no mistaking her distress. “I don’t know exactly.” Shaking her head, she steps away, tugging me out of the store to stow away in an alcove of the building, the two of us veiled by the shade. “What do you wantme to say? I’m here with you. I am makingyoumy priority. Even if things seem convoluted, that much should be evident. I love you.” Her molars grind—something is obviously gnawing at her. “I’ll do whatever it takes to preserve this, to be what you need.”
“Zara, stop.” I cup her chin, my thumb and index finger directing her jaw toward me. “This isn’t about being what I need. You are more than I ever imagined having, more than anyone else in the universe could be for me. In every way. Just by fucking existing. This is … I want to know that you see us as partners, that no matter what is going on, you believe that you can come to me, that you will. We’re stronger together.”
“I do believe that. But … my father …” She forces her gaze up the hill toward the enchanting town before her fingertips smooth over my scruff and her lips brush against mine. “There are some things I need to handle my own way. And I need you to trust that even though you’re older and wiser and I like nothing more than wearing something that reminds us both that I belong to you, I know best in some areas. You’ll have to place your faith in me, like you’ve asked me to place mine in you.”
With every ounce of frustration for her obstinance and veneration for her fortitude, I kiss her. Until her knees are weak, and her body is pliable, and her breaths are panting pleas. And in that fusion, our love for one another is palpable, but my unspoken command is too. I expect to be filled in.
We finish shopping, and eventually, with a giant bag of goodies draped on my shoulder, we hike toward a church that is high on our list of sights to visit. The stark blue dome is striking against the pristine glow of the white exterior, and the path in and out of it is an intricate maze of stairwells, flower beds, and lookouts. The views of the surrounding islands and Santorini’s caldera are jaw-dropping—so beyond the pictures we obsessed over when picking our destination. We silently soak it in for a few minutes before trekking inside to marvel at the architecture.
And the second our feet land on the intricate marble floor—the instant Zara, my guards, and I breach the holy sanctuary, with empty pews, save for two dozen men pretending to visit—we know.
We know, like you know when the phone rings at two a.m., or when a doctor’s face is a bit too wary, or when the traffic slows down beyond all comprehension and speeds up at the same time for an impact that will never stop juddering your bones.
Like you know when the flames steal the wrong soul.
And then it’s a blur of carved oak and stained glass, incense and atonement.
Zara fires pistols from both hands while knocking out a guy with a roundhouse kick before half my guards have registered what’s happening. A shower of bullets sprays toward us. My gun is drawn, but she flies across the church—much like she did during the game of hot lava with my family—throwing me to the ground and screaming at one of my guards to cover me.
He listens to her, shoving me behind a pew and lying atop my crumpled frame.
“Get the fuck off me.” I knee him in the thigh as a warning and roll out from the pew, using it as coverage as I fire my own shots.
Three of my guards are down, but Zara is like something out of a legend. Like one of the Amazons of Greek mythology come to life. She’s so fast, thwarting the shots and physical attacks of whoever the fuck these men are. I lodge a bullet in the throat of the one closest to her, and she glares at me for half a second, as if she’s pissed I’m not cowering on the floor. With my eyes on her, I take out another charging her just as she hits one near me in the temple, and the guard hovering closest to me growls, enraged, and pushes me down again.
From this angle, I spot another assailant rushing from behind her, but she senses him. Her guns must be emptybecause she’s fending him off with kicks and punches. I scurry to the other end of the aisle, shooting a man in the face when he pops up out of nowhere.
A priest emerges from the confessional, which distracts me for a beat, until I clock his weapon and take him out. I turn just in time to catch three more of my guards dead before the pulpit—a modern-day sacrifice, laid at the foot of an altar—and Zara breaking some fucker’s neck. She snatches his gun before she darts to the back after a guy who took off that way. One of my guards chases her, and the other stays with me to clear the church.
My heart batters against my sternum as I survey the carnage. Mosaic inlays with crimson grout and a massacre.
There’s no one else left standing. But there is an asshole, panting for breath. He’s shot in the abdomen, blood spilling from his lips. The terror in his brown eyes reveals that he knows his death will be slow and agonizing.
I stoop down and hold the barrel of my pistol to his forehead. “You want to die quickly?”
A barely perceptible nod, but an entreaty nonetheless.
“Tell me who the fuck sent you?”
He coughs and sputters, and for a beat, it seems as though he won’t be able to respond, but then he croaks out, “Kratos.”
Kratos?That’s the group Keller mentioned, the client that Zara had killed for him.
With my stomach in knots, I pepper him with more questions. “Why? Who are they? What do they want?”
After a minute, it’s evident he can’t get anything else out, or he refuses to, so I keep good on my word and end his misery.
“There’s no one else to question,” my guard informs me, checking pulses of the two dozen men lying in puddles of gore. “But we have to get you out of here. I’m calling it in.”
We have cleaners all over the world, though being in a foreign country is certainly more precarious. In a touristy place of worship, no less. I’ll likely need to reach out to one of my CIA contacts. Leaving my guard to deal with the initial communication, I sprint in the direction that Zara left. I know she can handle herself, but I want to get her out of here and untangle whatever the fuck we just stepped into.
The guard who followed her nearly pummels into me, pasty and breathless. “She’s gone. I …”
“Gone?” I roar, an unrecognizable bellow that ricochets off the dome ceiling, painted with saints and feasts and the holy resurrection.
