On closer look, I see I was right. It’s a good disguise. Brilliant. But that smile gave him away. It’s the same smile he had on his face that day at the station when he looked at Mina and me before averting his eyes. The same arrogant smile I recognized in his photograph.
Nagy seems helpless, harmless, but still. I keep my gun trained on him. “What the fuck happened?”
“Poison,” Mina says, not taking her eyes off Nagy.
I fix my attention on the needle in his neck. “What poison?”
“Strychnine.”
I’m battling to digest the information. “Where did you get it?” I should’ve left a weapon with her, for fuck’s sake. An oversight I’m not going to forgive myself for.
“Adami.”
“You knew he’d come looking for you here,” I say as the knowledge sinks in.
“I didn’t know, but I wanted to be prepared.”
Nagy gurgles, his eyes rolling back in his head. I know what strychnine does. It acts on the nerves that control muscle contraction, mainly those in the spinal cord. It causes agonizing muscle spasms and affects breathing. Death follows from cardiac arrest, respiratory failure, or brain damage.
I touch the hand in which Mina is gripping the gun to pull her attention to me. “Do you want to finish him off?”
Her voice is calm. “No.”
I respect that. Nagy convulses. He curls into a ball, snaps straight, and curls up again. His fingers twitch. His body goes still. Finally, his eyes turn dull.
“It’s over.” I reach for the gun in her hand. “His?”
“Yes.”
I put the gun aside and slip mine back into my waistband. “How did you manage to take it off him?”
“I pretended to be asleep. He was going to smother me with a pillow. I stabbed him in the neck with the syringe before he could see it coming. We wrestled. He reached for the gun in his thigh holster, but the poison took effect before he could get a good grip. The gun fell when he stumbled and knocked over the nightstand. That gave me enough time to get out of bed and grab it.”
“You’re bleeding.” I lift up her gown. “Let me see.”
“It’s nothing.”
I unwrap her bandage with unsteady fingers and inspect the wound underneath. “It’s not nothing. You tore a few stitches. Come here.” Pulling her small body to me, I hold her tight, feeling her warmth, her fragility, her aliveness. I still haven’t recovered from nearly losing her at the Hotel Paris, and now this. If Nagy had succeeded… I tighten my hold on her, refusing to think of that possibility, pushing the knowledge of her illness deep inside. “I should’ve given you a gun,” I say, my voice strained as I pull back to meet her gaze. “That was a fucking stupid mistake.”
“I slept with the syringe under my pillow, just in case.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think it was important.”
Yes. To her, it wouldn’t seem important. It’s simple insurance, something people like us take for granted. I take a breath and remind myself that she’s like me. Tough. Capable. Merciless, when she needs to be. Still, my heart feels like it’s about to explode each time I picture her in danger. “I want to know these things in the future,” I say, my tone hard. I search her eyes. “Even the mundane things you think don’t matter.”
“Okay,” she says easily, still calm as fuck, but the tremors I’m starting to feel in her body tell a different story.
“It’s over,” I murmur, cupping her delicate jaw. “He can’t hurt you anymore.” Recalling her wound, I force myself to let her go. “We better let Adami look at those stitches. I’ll call for cleanup.”
“Who are you going to call?’
“Our government connection will be happy to know he’s rid of Nagy.”
“He must still be upset about the war that played out in the hotel.”
“He got not only Dimitrov, but also Filipović. He’s happy enough.”
I’m about to go get Adami, but Mina steps up, wraps her arms around my waist, and buries her face in my chest. “I want to get away from all of this. Just for a while.”
Folding my arms around her, I gently stroke her hair. “How does Mozambique sound? The weather is warm year-round, and one can buy an island for next to nothing.”
“That sounds good,” she whispers.
“What about a Robinson Crusoe style house? On pillars on the water.”
“Sounds like paradise.”
“I’ll get you a nurse, and one for Hanna, too. I already checked with the researcher running the clinical trial. We’ll be able to do your treatment at home, as long as we check in at his lab in Europe once a month. I’m having everything prepared as we speak.”
“You planned it in advance,” she accuses, lifting her head to gaze up at me.
“Not adding on a lab that’s practically a small clinic. On stilts.” I smile down at her. “That part only happened yesterday.”
“Sun, sea, Hanna, you, and me. Yes, that sounds infinitely good.”
I kiss her lips. “Let’s clean this up, shall we?”
I want to wipe everything clean. I may not be able to take away what she’s suffered, but I’m going to damn well make it better.
* * *
“Oh, come on,” Ilya says, trying not to look guilty. “Admit it. I did a good job.”
Anton, Ilya, and I are standing in their room, wearing the shirts, ties, and suits my brother bought. The fit isn’t bad. Neither is the style. But when I look down at my borrowed Crocs—white, no less, with a black fucking suit—I want to slap Ilya on the head.
“It would’ve been almost all right if you hadn’t forgotten the shoes.” At least he and Anton get to wear their boots.
“You didn’t say anything about shoes,” Ilya complains.
Anton tries hard to smother his laughter. “It’s not so bad.”
“Yeah.” I adjust my shirt cuffs with a yank. “Right.”
“The cake is a winner.” Anton gives up and erupts in a fit of snort-laughter.
“Hey.”
