This gets a squeal of excitement from Yelena. “I always wanted a puppy, but Daddy says our house is too small and cities aren’t good for puppies.”
“Well, now things will be different.” Rin kisses her cheek. “We have to go now. But we’ll see you again soon, okay?”
I check that Georgios has gotten a good start on his new career—the paperwork has all gone through and he’s had several business lessons. There are goodbyes all around.
Another flight, this time from New York to Houston. It seems longer than the flight from Baku to London.
Then, finally, after what feels like a lifetime, Rin and I standing in our bedroom.
We just stand there, for a while, as if unsure what to do with ourselves.
Rin sags. “Honestly, right now, I just want a shot of whiskey, and to sleep for a long fucking time.”
I collect her in my arms. “That sounds like a perfect plan.”
She rests against me. “Perfect. You get the whiskey, and I’ll get the bed ready.”
By the time I’ve come back with a bottle of Yamazaki and two glasses, Rin has the eighty-seven throw pillows she insists makes the bed look pretty tossed aside and the blankets turned back, and she’s laboriously, exhaustedly kicking off her shoes and socks.
It’s been four days since she took the shot—we’ve crossed the world and sat for countless post-action events, because the ending of Spaulding and the events that led up to it were, it turns out, of international importance. We’ve barely slept, except to doze on the planes.
She manages to get her boots and socks off.
“I don’t think I’ve been barefoot since Tunis,” she mutters.
I pour a measure of whiskey into the glass and hand it to her. Another into mine, and then set the bottle on the floor by my feet as I sit on the edge of the bed beside her. We clink glasses, and drink the fifty-five-year-old amber whiskey. It goes down smooth, burns like fire in our bellies.
“More,” she hisses. “One more.”
I pour another measure. This isn’t shooting whiskey, most certainly not—but this is an extraordinarily unique moment.
We sit together, swaying in exhaustion, sipping whiskey in too-big slugs. It’s making my head spin already.
Rin clumsily hands me her glass. “Okay. Can we go to sleep in our bed now?”
I set the glasses and the bottle on a table in the corner of our room. When I turn back, Rin is crawling to the head of the bed, exhaustion and alcohol making her delirious and funny.
I peel my shirt off, my shoes, toe my socks off, hopping awkwardly. Shuck the pants I’ve been wearing since I surrendered myself to Spaulding’s lackey.
We had word while in New York that both Rasmussen and Djakovic have been…found. Roth put a massive bounty on their heads, and that was that—A1S hunters did their work.
“Rin, let’s get your clothes off.”
She’s collapsed onto the bed, hair in her face. “Mmm-mmm.”
“Two seconds. Think how great it will feel to get that bra off.”
This gets her. “Titties haven’t been free since Tunis either.” She peers at me through a screen of messy blond. “Help?”
I haul her upright and help her out of her shirt. She’s wasted, the two full measures in less than ten minutes blazing through her already exhausted system. Normally a terrible idea. Still a terrible idea. But I know she won’t be able to bring herself down—not under these circumstances.
Instead of letting me help her with her bra, she flops to her back and struggles with the jeans, the tight, stretchy material catching on her thighs.
“I’m stuck.” She finally quits struggling and peers at me again. “Help.”
I laugh, and tug the denim off, toss it aside. “There you go, my love.”
She somehow manages to flop upright. “Titties. Free the titties.”
