“Dmitri—”
“That’s an order.” I take my jacket. “If I don’t make it out, everyone involved dies slowly.”
15
Katya
The zip ties bite off circulation, but that’s the least of it when Scarface calls me, “the FSB bitch” like I’m not three feet away.
“She doesn’t remember shit.” His partner is cleaning his nails with a tired knife. “Look at her. Blank as a newborn.”
Scarface drags deep and blows smoke in my face. “Boss says she’s faking it. Government operatives are trained to resist their handlers.”
Government operatives. FSB. Handler.
The words slot in with a click, like a lock I was warned not to touch.
“What handler?” I ask, because sitting silent feels like giving up.
Both men laugh, but there’s no humor.
“Playing dumb won’t save you, sweetheart,” Scarface says. “Your boyfriend’s got half of Moscow looking for you, but we’re not worried. This spot’s clean.”
“My boyfriend?”
“Dmitri fucking Kozlov. You know that better than anyone, considering you’ve been sleeping in his bed for weeks.”
The way he says it crawls over my skin, but something else bothers me more. Why the hell is he referring to Dmitri as my boyfriend and not my husband?
“How long have you been watching us?”
“Long enough to know the marriage is bullshit,” Knife Guy says.
My stomach knots. If even they don’t buy it, what does that say about me?
“Long enough to dig up what you are. FSB who got too close to Kozlov.”
An FSB operative. The words hit like a sledgehammer, but not because they’re shocking. Because they feel almost… right.
“That’s impossible.”
“Our sources say Alexandra Volkova’s been missing from government files for months. Someone with your exact description and skill set.”
The name hits me like a wrecking ball, splintering everything I’ve been clinging to as real. It’s been floating around in my head for days, popping up in conversations and dreams like a ghost I can’t quite catch.
“That name…” I trail off. “I’ve heard it before. I don’t know why.”
“Sure. Just like you don’t know why your reflexes beat most soldiers’. Or that your handler’s tearing apart Moscow for his missing agent.”
“Who is that?”
“Come off it. You know who.”
But I don’t. The name is heavy with meaning I can’t reach. No faces. No memories. Just dread cinching my throat.
“Look at her,” Knife Guy says. “She really doesn’t remember.”
“Doesn’t matter. Orders are orders.” Scarface thumbs a text.
