Marisol curses in Spanish, which is the only way I’ve ever heard such words from her. Her Latin roots come out when she’s stressed, emotional, or angry. “Call Adrian. Let him handle it,mija.”
I shake my head though she can’t see it. “Adrian will send ten armed men and turn a café into a crime scene. I need to forceEric into the open and find out if the threat to my mother is real. If it is, I need to know before he has time to act on it.”
She exhales harshly. “Don’t beestupido. If you’re going to do this, take Fedor at least.”
“I’m taking Fedor and the full security detail.” I’m already walking toward the front of the house. “They won’t dress down this time. I want Eric to see exactly who’s standing behind me and decide if his proof is worth delivering in front of witnesses.”
“Aurora, this is a bad idea, you know it’s a bad idea, and you’re going anyway because Eric pushed the one button that overrides your judgment. That’s what he does. That’s what he’s always done.”
She’s completely right, and I’m going anyway. “I know. I’ll call you when it’s done.”
“Aurora…”
I hang up. I regret cutting her off immediately, but if I listen to one more word of reason, I’ll stop, and I can’t stop because my mother’s name is in that letter, and it’s a threat, not a warning.
Fedor is in the kitchen. I tell him I need to go to the marina café and meet someone. He goes from neutral to hostile before I finish the sentence. “Absolutely not.”
“I’m going, Fedor. You can come with me, or I’ll walk.”
He says something in Russian that I don’t understand but can interpret from the tone. He thinks I’m being reckless, and he’s correct. He pushes back, and we argue for a minute until I start toward the front door.
“Wait.” He sounds angry and concerned. “When Adrian kills me, know my blood is on your hands.”
“He won’t kill you.”
He mutters, “He can make me wish I’m dead.”
I don’t respond to that. “Bring the full detail, but no civilian clothes this time, and have them armed. I want them visible.”
“They’re always armed.” He shakes his head but makes a call, speaks rapidly in Russian, and the four operatives arrive at the garage within minutes, fully suited and armed. They look exactly like what they are, and I want them to. If Eric sees me walk in flanked bybratvamuscle, he’ll know I’m not coming alone, and I’m not coming afraid.
We take the convoy to the marina. Fedor drives my vehicle in the middle. I sit in the back with my hands folded in my lap, managing the adrenaline, because I learned how to walk into a room full of dangerous men at Echelon, and a marina café is just a room with a view.
We arrive. The café is small, with outdoor seating along the waterfront, a dozen tables under canvas umbrellas. I scan the space.
Eric isn’t here. His letter said he’d be waiting here all day, but there’s no sign of him. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
The tables are half-full of tourists and locals eating lunch. I look closer but still don’t see him. Fedor positions himself beside me and scans the space. “He’s not here,” he says after intense scrutiny conducted in seconds.
“He said he’d be waiting here all day.” I pull out the secure phone to check the time. He said the marina café. This is the only one within walking distance of the area.
Suddenly, a commotion erupts at the edge of the marina, thirty yards away. Two men are shoving each other near the boat slips, voices escalating, and bodies colliding. It looks like a drunken argument, but the timing is surgical. Every gaze in the café turns toward the noise. Chairs scrape, and two of my detail move instinctively toward the disturbance, breaking formation before Fedor can stop them.
Three men close in from different angles, moving fast through the scattered crowd. They move like they’ve rehearsed this, each one taking a precise line that isolates Fedor from me. One reaches him before he can draw, driving a shoulder into his ribs and slamming him sideways into a table hard enough that the table collapses.
Fedor takes down the first man with an elbow strike and catches the second with a hook that sends him reeling, but the third comes from his blind side and drives something into the back of his knee. Fedor buckles, and all three pile onto him. He’s still fighting when he hits the ground, but three against one with no weapon drawn is a losing equation even for Fedor.
I run. I get four steps before an arm hooks around my waist from behind and lifts me off the ground. I drive my elbow backward and connect with a face. He grunts and loosens his hold, and I twist free and swing, catching someone across the chin with my fist. The pain shoots up my arm, but the man staggers, and I scream as loudly as I can. No one stops to help because the crowd is scattering, but some people are on their phones, and someone has to be calling 9-1-1.
I make it three more steps toward the café entrance before a second man cuts me off. I change direction, heading for the waterfront railing where there are people, and someone might intervene. I almost reach it. I touch the metal rail before arms lock around me from behind, pinning mine to my sides. I kick backward, connecting with a shin, and try to bite the arm across my chest, but a hand clamps over my mouth and someone lifts me entirely.
I’m carried toward a van parked at the edge of the lot. The side door is open, and the interior is dark. I twist, kick, and try to scream through the hand over my mouth, making every second of this as difficult as possible. One of them curses in a language I don’t recognize, and another grabs my legs to stop the kicking. Arseny is fighting two men near the café entrance, bloodied but standing. Two other operatives are tangled in the staged disturbance thirty yards away and can’t get to me. Yuri is moving toward me but is too far away to reach me in time.
They throw me into the van. I hit the floor hard, my head making a cracking sound against the bare metal on the floor. There’s not even a rug or cover to blunt the impact, which sends a white flash through my vision. The door slams shut, and the van lurches forward before I can get to my knees.
I press both hands against my stomach, thinking of the babies. Everything else drops away, including the fear, the pain in my elbow, and the rage at my own stupidity. I did this. Eric pushed the button, and I let him, just like I always did, and now I’m in the back of a van with my twins inside me and no one knows where I am except the men who took me.
I get to my knees to peer out the back tinted window. The marina café recedes , and I watch it shrink as the van accelerates, trying to memorize the turns because that’s what Adrian would do.Left, then straight, then right. The van smells like diesel, canvas, and sweat. My observation period doesn’t last long because the pain in my head is overwhelming.
