I count in my head. The minutes drag on until it’s dark once again.
Still, no one.
No dinner.
More anxiety sets in. I don’t know how I get through another night. It’s hell. I can move a bit, but not enough to get the circulation in my arms going. I can’t feel them anymore, which is a strange kind of relief. The worst is the fear. It’s killing me. I just want it to be over. I practice every mental skill I know for disconnection from reality, but it’s no longer enough.
By the time the sun rises again, I start wishing Yan had killed me before he’d left. I’ve barely slept in all the time they’ve kept me here, and sleep deprivation is cruel on the mind and body. I’ve seen big men broken with that kind of torture. Even if it wasn’t my captors’ intention, it’s taking its toll. I ease back on the bench, trying to relax my muscles, when I hear it.
A footstep.
I still, not daring to so much as breathe.
There. Another.
I turn my head toward the sound. It’s coming from the side of the shed. A voice filters through the wall, speaking softly in Russian.
“She no longer serves a purpose.”
Sokolov. I go rigid, my heart pumping hard.
A smooth, deep voice replies, “I’ll take care of it.”
Yan.
My first reaction is overwhelming relief. Joy, even. He’s alive. Then the terror sets in. Like the joy, it’s a natural response. It happens unguarded, before I have time to put up defenses around my emotions.
The words run in repeat through my mind. I’ll take care of it. They chill my body and freeze my heart. Cold shivers set in.
It’s time. Yan is going to kill me.
I’ve been trained to deal with death, to expect it as part of the outcome of every mission, but nobody’s trained me to cope with having feelings for my killer. I’m not even sure what I feel for Yan, only that his words fill me with immense grief. But what did I expect? I know who he is, what we both are. There’s no other way this could’ve gone. Still, it’s as if the dagger is already twisting in my heart, the damage far more painful than if it were for real.
I strain my ears, but the voices are gone, their footsteps ominously quiet.
Where is he? Why doesn’t Yan come inside? Why doesn’t he just do it already?
I’m sweating and shivering. My teeth are chattering. All biological reactions to a specific mental knowledge. I’ve accepted my fate, but my body doesn’t comply. As long as I’m breathing, my body will keep on fighting to survive.
I think of Hanna. For what it’s worth, I say a prayer for her. I think of my parents, of the last time I saw their faces. It’s a hurtful memory I don’t often revisit.
When the chain on the door finally rattles, I’m ready. Yan’s big body fills the frame. He’s carrying a tray. For a moment, we just look at each other. I drink him in, how alive he seems, how strong.
I’m glad it’s him. I’m glad he’s my executioner.
He leaves the tray on the chair and flicks on the light before locking the door.
I don’t speak. I wait for him to say it.
He crosses the floor and stops next to me. His handsome face is clean shaven, and he smells good. Fresh, with that understated hint of sandalwood and pepper. He looks refreshed too, as if he’s slept ten hours or more. There’s not a trace of tiredness on his features, only dark determination and cold calculation.
“Henderson is dead,” he says.
I battle to swallow past the dryness in my throat. “What happened?”
His smile is mocking. “Do you really want to know?”
What he’s asking is if I care. I nod.
“He attacked the house.”
What? “Here?” This shed must be far from the main house for me not to have heard any gunshots.
Yan nods. “The guards took him and his team out.”
I take a wild guess. “The Delta Force men?”
“They got what they deserved.”
The words are measured. They carry a message, a promise, but it’s the ice in his eyes that makes me tremble harder than I already do. It throws me off balance, that frostiness, not because he hates me, but because his hate hurts.
He loosens the rope, giving it more stretch, and helps me to sit up. I stare at him. What is he doing? He fetches the tray and sits down next to me, balancing it on his lap. There’s a plate covered with a silver lid and a glass of white wine. It’s a beautiful glass with a skillful cut and long stem. Drops of condensation run down the glass. I don’t understand. But then I take in the ornate knife and fork, and I get it. I grasp the meaning of the pretty crystal and expensive cutlery.
This is a last meal.
My conclusion is confirmed when he lifts the silver lid to reveal a scrumptious-looking dish of chicken on rice, complete with a sprig of parsley as garnish. The rich aroma fills my nostrils. Under different circumstances, my mouth would’ve watered, but my empty stomach only churns.
“Pollo con chocolate,” he announces. “I’ve been told it’s one of the best Latin American dishes.”
“Who made it?”
“Esguerra’s cook.” He scoops up a forkful and brings it to my mouth. “Open.”
“Is it poisoned?”
He chuckles. “No.”
He has no reason to lie. He can easily force it down my throat if I refuse to eat. I part my lips not because I’m hungry, but because I don’t have a choice. If this is my last meal, I should try to make the most of it.
When he carefully pushes the fork into my mouth, the flavors burst on my tongue. The dish is creamy with a savory, peanut-flavored sauce and a hint of cacao that complements the chicken surprisingly well. The bite of chili that registers
