“Get out.”
The doctor shoots me one last disapproving look before heading for the service entrance, and Katya emerges in his place, fully dressed in jeans and a fitted sweater that somehow makes her look more dangerous rather than less.
“Everything okay?” she asks, noting my expression. “You look tense.”
“Business issues. Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Maybe I want to worry about it.” She crosses her arms, and the gesture pushes her sweater tightly against her body in a distracting way. “Maybe I’m tired of being protected from everything that concerns my life.”
There’s an edge to her voice that wasn’t there yesterday. She sounds colder. More direct. The real Katya is bleeding through the amnesia like water through cracks in a dam.
“Some things are better left alone.”
“And some things are too important to ignore.” She steps closer, moving into my personal space with the confidence of someone who’s never been afraid of confrontation.
“What makes you think this is anything outside the ordinary for me?”
“Because you’re scared.” She tilts her head, studying my face with the kind of focus that makes me feel like a specimen under a microscope. “And you don’t seem like someone who scares easily.”
Direct hit. She’s reading me perfectly.
“Get some rest.” I step back to put some distance between us. “We’ll talk later.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
But watching her walk away, I know it’s a promise I might not be able to keep. From the sounds of it, the FSB is closing in, and my time with Katya—willing or unwilling—is running out.
6
Katya
Blood drips from my hands, but it’s not mine.
I’m standing over three bodies in what looks like a government facility, and I know how each one died.
The man by the door? Shot to the temple.
The woman by the window? Neck snapped.
The runner? A knife between the ribs, angled up into his heart.
My reflection stares back from a dark computer screen, and the face looking at me isn’t the confused art curator Dmitri keeps telling me I am.
This woman has ice in her veins and death in her eyes. She knows what she is.
A killer.
I move through the facility like I own it. Corners, exits, threats—I clear them without thought.
My body flows from one position to another with practiced ease. The knife in my hand feels like an extension of my arm. It feels natural and right.
I remember the mission briefing. Three targets. High-value assets who betrayed their country. My job was to eliminate them without leaving evidence.
The first kill was too easy.
The man never saw me coming. One swift movement, and he crumpled onto his keyboard.
