We move together. Not urgently, as we have the whole day, an extraordinary and unfamiliar luxury, and I intend to use every minute of it. Her expression shifts with each movement, each subtle adjustment, and I absorb all of it and think that I could spend years studying this and never reach the end.
“I’ll never get enough of you.”
“Rolan... please.”
“Please, what?” I ask, needing to hear it from her.
“Please. I want to come.”
“Anything for you,moya koroleva.”
I quicken the rhythm. Her legs wrap around my waist as we reach the edge together and fall over it in unison.
Alexei and Mikhail are waiting in my office at eleven.
I’m ten minutes late, which Alexei registers with an expressionthat confirms he knows exactly why — and has chosen, wisely, to keep his observations to himself.
“Any news on Dmitri?” I say, settling behind the desk.
They exchange a glance. Mikhail reaches into his jacket and places a phone on the desk between us. Beside it, a folded piece of paper.
I open it.
I quit.
Two words and an irrevocable decision. I’ve known Dmitri for eleven years, and in all that time I’ve never seen him use more words than necessary. This is consistent with his character. It is not, however, sufficient.
“He has Maren Lavelle,” I say.
“We believe so,” Alexei says carefully.
“You believe.”
“We have no confirmed sighting since they departed the city.” He pauses. “The phone was recovered at a Greyhound station in Indiana. He didn’t want to be found, and he’s skilled at not being found. You trained him.”
The satisfaction of being correct is entirely absent when the thing you’re correct about is your own miscalculation. I lean back and breathe.
“Find him,” I say. “Additional resources, whatever the cost. My fiancée refuses to marry me until her friend returns, and my patience diminishes by the day.”
“Understood.”
“Landon Webb?”
Mikhail straightens fractionally. “Dominican Republic. He flew commercial, which suggests he’s not planning an extended stay. Too visible. He maintains accounts there, but nothing substantial. He’ll resurface.”
“When he does, I want to know before he clears customs.” I pause. “Don’t deploy anyone. He’s not worth the expenditure.But I want him flagged at every entry point in the continental United States.”
Mikhail nods. They file out, and as they clear the doorway, two figures appear in their place.
Ellie, wearing the pale yellow dress she’s favored lately. Beside her, partially concealed behind her leg, is Anya — clutching the fabric of Ellie’s dress with one hand and her sketchbook with the other. The sketchbook is her tell. She has something she wants to say and is gathering the courage to say it.
The expression on Ellie’s face is one I recognize immediately: negotiation. It’s transparent, and it’s always effective.
“What do my girls want?” I ask.
Ellie’s mouth curves, the smallest private acknowledgment ofmy girls.
“Anya has something to ask you,” she says. “Go ahead, sweetheart.”
