Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(22)
Novak nods. “Right. I figured as much. So you understand the value of my asset. Once she’s in place, Esguerra will have a hole in his security. However, it will take time.”
“There is no way to accelerate this process?” I figure I know the answer, but I still have to ask.
“No. I’ve tried to get to others on the inside, but they’re all too loyal—or too afraid of Esguerra. This is the only one that shows promise. However, the timing is what it is.”
I digest that for a moment, then ask, “So why approach me now? Why not wait until you have the asset in place?”
“Because if you’re not on board, I need to make alternate arrangements—and it takes time to find a skilled team and vet them. And in this particular case, with Esguerra’s reputation… Well, I’m sure you know how it is.”
“Right.” Even with the incentive of a hundred million euros, few people would be willing to cross someone as dangerous as Julian Esguerra. Almost everyone has something to lose, and Esguerra has no mercy when it comes to his enemies. I know, because I helped him decimate those who crossed him, wiping out entire communities in the process. The Colombian arms dealer doesn’t distinguish between the innocent and the guilty; everyone connected to his enemies pays.
“So.” Novak leans forward, his pale gaze intent on my face. “Can I count on you and your team when the time comes?”
I consider that for a moment and nod. “Yes, you can.” My tone is steady, though inside, I’m still reeling. My separation from Sara was supposed to last a couple of weeks—a couple of months, at most. Not the better portion of a year. It’s possible, of course, that what I need will come about meaningfully sooner than eight months, but right now, it doesn’t sound likely.
Novak won’t disclose the identity of his asset any sooner than he has to.
“Good.” His thin-lipped smile oozes satisfaction. “I was hoping I had the right man, and it sounds like I do. Just one more thing…”
I lift an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I hope you understand that the information I shared with you today is highly sensitive, and for your ears only. That means not sharing with anyone on your team.”
I was expecting that much after his preamble, so I nod. “Understood. And on our end, we’ll require a deposit. Usually it’s half upfront, but given the extended timing, we can accept twenty-five mil now, and another twenty-five closer to the job itself.”
Novak doesn’t bat an eye. “You’ll have the money in your account tomorrow.”
We shake hands, and as we do, I try to ignore the agonizing void expanding in my chest at the thought of the months ahead. Now that I’ve embarked on this path, there’s no choice, not really.
I have to do this. This is the only way forward.
If I want Sara for the long term, I have to give her the life she deserves.
Part II
19
Sara
The rest of November passes in a blur of hospital visits, random FBI interrogations, and waiting. Endless waiting. I feel like I’m constantly on edge, waiting for Peter to show up. Each time I cross the hospital parking lot, walk down the street, or fall asleep in my old bedroom at my parents’ house (my house, by virtue of belonging to a wanted criminal, has been seized by the government), I expect to be snatched up and carried away—if not by Peter, then by one of the men he hired to watch me.
And they are watching me. I know it. I feel it. It’s the same itchy feeling as before, the same paranoia-inducing sensation of hidden eyes following me. Some of it is due to the FBI agents stalking my every move, but not all. I’ve gotten good at spotting the Feds. It’s always the nondescript car across the street, the pedestrian who doesn’t quite belong, the lone man or woman at the bar.
Peter’s men are different. I never see them; I just feel their presence. They’re the shadow around the corner, the echo of footsteps in the parking lot, the itch between my shoulder blades. They’re there all the time, but never close enough for me—or the Feds—to spot them.
Of course, it’s possible I really am paranoid this time, but I don’t think so. I know Peter. He wouldn’t leave me here without keeping tabs on me. Or so I keep telling myself as week after week passes by without a word from him… without so much as a hint that he’s coming back for me.
I try to focus on the fact that I get to spend all this time with my parents, and I’m glad about that. I really am. Dad seems to have gotten a new lease on life since my return, swimming and doing his doctor-assigned exercises with renewed vigor and dedication. And Mom is getting better every day, her bones healing with the speed of a woman half her age. She’s still bedbound for now—a fact that drives her insane—but the doctors promise that she’ll start physical therapy as soon as her body can take it, possibly by the middle of January.
November rolls into December, and still, the interminable waiting continues. It’s like I exist in a limbo between my old life and the one I’d started to settle into with Peter. I’m living in my childhood home, surrounded by my family and friends, yet I can’t shake the sensation that I’m a guest, a visitor at a place I no longer belong.
I think my parents sense that, because as December advances, they start questioning why I’m not doing certain things, like looking for a new job or finding another place to live. I fend them off by saying that I want to focus on Mom for now, but as her health continues to improve, that excuse sounds increasingly hollow.