"Why would they do that?" I asked.
"If he died of blood loss before he could be of any use as bait, the entire effort of obtaining him and transporting him here would be wasted, and Pugli would not have any leverage to draw me in."
"You must have some serious dirt on the man."
He nodded. "Oh, I do. Or I did. I turned it over to a German military intelligence officer who was—is—part of a multi-country, multi-agency task force investigating Roberto Pugli."
"So…did it help? Your evidence?"
He shrugged. "I do not know. The wheels of justice grind ever so slowly, internationally especially so."
"And you're not content to wait for legal justice to be meted out," I guessed.
His eyes glitter like chips of obsidian. "No. There can be no justice. Mere death is not justice, no matter how slow, agonizing, and protracted it may be. Torture is not justice." A shake of his head. "No, there is no justice for his crimes. But removing himfrom this earth with my own two hands is the closest thing to closure I will ever get."
"Revenge, eh?"
"No." His tone is intense. "Not revenge. The man forced my eyes open and burned my wife and infant twin children alive in front of me. Killing him is not revenge. Revenge would be dissecting his grandchildren while he watches. Revenge would be carving apart his wife. Revenge would be making him watch as I dissolved his daughter in a vat of acid."
"Jesus fucking Christ, Nicolae," I whisper, stomach twisting.
"No. I do not wish for revenge. His wife and family are innocent. He must pay for his crimes, and…" he ducked his head, gathering himself. “I will not find peace in this life until he is dead, and the only way I can know for sure that he is truly dead is if I put the blade into his heart myself."
"I suppose that makes sense."
"I would never and have never done those awful things to anyone, Miss Bennet. I was making a point."
I nodded. "I know. I…well, it's tempting to say I understand, but I know I can't. I just…I understand that you were making a point."
He looked away. "I am a killer, make no mistake, but I only deal death to armed combatants, never unarmed innocents, and never women or children." A pause, a tilt of his head. "If a woman were attempting to kill me, I would protect myself, however."
"I think that's fair."
We spent the next few hours talking. He told me the long, fascinating, and wildly improbable tale of how he met Tatiana, his lover. I'm not sure of their marital status, and it doesn't feel like my business to ask. He gave me the loose outlines of the others' stories, but he insisted the real telling belonged to those involved. It all just sounded so…crazy. Treks across the Brazilianrainforest, gunfights, blown-up drug palaces, midnight rescues, everything was just so intense.
Yet, that phone call was still replaying in my mind. They cared about each other. They were a family—a real, true family. They teased, joked, and poked fun, but it was obviously all in good humor.
I don't have that.
I've never had that.
I've always been Brys Bennett, Lawrence Bennett's only child, heir to the BDI throne and fortune. In the world of Manhattan's wealthy business elite, I was royalty. My friends were chosen by my mother when I was young. My schools were the best prep schools. Everything was just so.
And then Mom died, and I was The Sad Girl. I was the kid whose mom died. No one knew how to talk to me. I had no friends—I am not a naturally outgoing person. I'm quick-tempered, sarcastic, and can be kind of mean sometimes. That doesn't make you a lot of friends. I was part of the cool clique in the silver spoon academy I went to for high school but only because my dad was Larry Bennett and funded the PTO for a year with a single check, and we lived a block from the school and had a pool with a slide, a movie theater, and a pantry full of every kind of snack food and junk food you could think of.
I suppose all that isolation and friendlessness only intensified my…prickly personality.
The shit that happened to me my senior year at Yale is why I'm unable to trust anyone. But we're not going there, not even in the confines of my own mind. I have never spoken of it. To anyone. Ever. I doubt I ever will.
How could I? How do you put a nightmare into words?
Nicolae did, and rather succinctly at that. So it can be done, I suppose.
A strange noise fills the air; Nico and I are lounging in the truck bed, talking occasionally, and waiting. I have always been comfortable with silence, so sitting in my own thoughts is no hardship, and Nico seems to have plenty of his own thoughts to occupy him, so much of the waiting is passed in oddly companionable silence. Now, the silence is broken by the strange noise—a kind of low, quiet, dense roaring.
"What isthat?" I ask, sitting up.
"The jet," he answers. "My people." He pointed at a dot on the horizon, low and moving fast.
