Remembering how she wrapped her lips around my fingers and begged me to stay.
There’s nothing normal about my infatuation with her. I’m sane enough to admit that. She’s the wife of a man I killed, a woman I tortured like I’d once tortured suspected terrorists. I should feel nothing for her, just like I’ve felt nothing for my other victims, but I can’t get her out of my mind.
I want her. It’s completely irrational, and wrong on so many levels, but I want her. I want to taste those soft lips and feel the smoothness of her pale skin, to bury my fingers in her thick chestnut hair and breathe in her scent. I want to hear her beg me to fuck her, and then I want to hold her down and do exactly that, over and over again.
I want to heal the wounds I inflicted and make her crave me the way I crave her.
She continues to sleep as I watch her, and my fingers itch to touch her, to feel her skin, if only for a moment. But if I do that, she might wake up, and I’m not ready for that.
When Sara sees me again, I want it to be different.
I want her to know me as something other than her assailant.
10
Sara
Over the next several days, my paranoia intensifies. I constantly feel like I’m being watched. Even when I’m alone at home, with all the shades drawn and doors locked, I sense invisible eyes on me. I’ve taken to sleeping with the pepper spray under my pillow, and I even bring it with me to the bathroom, but it’s not enough.
I don’t feel safe anywhere.
On Tuesday, I finally break down and call Agent Ryson.
“Dr. Cobakis.” He sounds both wary and surprised. “How may I help you?”
“I’d like to talk to you,” I say. “In person, if possible.”
“Oh? What about?”
“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.”
“I see.” There are a couple of beats of silence. “All right. I suppose I can meet you for a quick coffee this afternoon. Would that work for you?”
I glance at my schedule on my laptop. “Yes. Could you meet me at Snacktime cafe by the hospital? Around three?”
“I’ll be there.”
I end up getting held up with a patient, and it’s ten minutes after three by the time I rush into the cafe.
“I was just about to leave,” Ryson says, standing up from a small table in the corner.
“So sorry about that.” Breathless, I slide into the seat across from him. “I promise to make this quick.”
Ryson sits down again. The server comes by, and we place our orders: a shot of espresso for him and a cup of decaf coffee for me. My jitters don’t need the added caffeine today.
“All right,” he says when the server is gone. “Go ahead.”
“I need to know more about this fugitive,” I say without preamble. “Who is he? Why was he after George?”
Ryson’s bushy eyebrows pull together. “You know that’s classified.”
“I do, but I also know that this man waterboarded me, drugged me, and killed my husband,” I say evenly. “And that you knew he was coming and never bothered to inform me. Those are the things I know—the only things I know, really. If I knew more—say, his name and motivation—it might help me understand and get over what happened. Otherwise, it’s like an open sore, or maybe a blister that hasn’t been lanced. It just festers, you see, and it’s constantly on my mind. Someday, I might not be able to hold it in, and the blister might pop on its own. Do you see my dilemma?”
Ryson’s jaw tightens. “Don’t threaten us, Sara. You won’t like the results.”
“It’s Dr. Cobakis to you, Agent Ryson.” I match his hard stare. “And I already don’t like the results. George’s colleagues at the paper wouldn’t like them either—if they were to catch wind of them. That’s why you told me about the fugitive, right? So I’d keep my mouth shut and go along with the whole ‘he died peacefully in his sleep’ bullshit? You knew George’s colleagues would’ve investigated the hell out of the supposed mafia hit, and you didn’t need that. You still don’t, am I right?”
He glares at me, and I see his internal debate. Share classified information and potentially get in trouble, or not share it and definitely get in trouble? Self-preservation must win out, because he says grimly, “All right. What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with his name and nationality.”
Ryson glances around, then leans in closer. “He goes by many aliases, but we believe his real name is Peter Sokolov.” He pitches his voice low even though the tables around us are empty. “According to our files, he’s originally from a small town near Moscow, Russia.”
That explains the accent. “What is his background? Why is he a fugitive?”
Ryson leans back. “I don’t know the answer to that last question. I don’t have sufficient security clearance.” He falls silent as the server approaches with our drinks. After the server leaves, he says, “What I can tell you is that prior to him becoming a fugitive, he was Spetsnaz, part of the Russian Special Forces. His job was tracking down and interrogating anyone deemed a threat to Russian security—terrorists, insurgents from the former Soviet Union republics, spies, and so on. He was reportedly very good at it. Then, about five years ago, he switched sides and started working for the worst of the criminal underworld—dictators convicted of war crimes, Mexican cartels, illegal arms dealers… In the process, he came up with a list of names—people he believes have harmed him somehow—and he’s been systematically eliminating them ever since.”
My hand
