Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(3)
Ilya frowns, his skull tattoos gleaming in the morning light as he sits down on a barstool. “Are you sure about this, man? A hundred million is juicy, but this is Esguerra we’re talking about. Kent’s going to get involved and—”
“Fuck Kent.” I break the next egg so viciously it splatters on the side of the mixing bowl. “That bastard deserves it after the way he fucked up with Sara.”
“But Esguerra?” Anton says, getting over his shock. “The guy’s got a small army on his payroll, and that jungle compound of his—you said yourself it’s impenetrable. How the fuck are we supposed to—”
“That’s why we’re meeting with Novak, to find out what he’s got up his sleeve.” I’m starting to lose patience. “I’m not fucking suicidal; we’ll only do this if we can make it out alive.”
“Really?” Yan crosses the kitchen and sits down on a barstool next to his brother. “Are you sure about that? Because Sara did get hurt on Kent’s watch.”
His voice is silky soft, but I know a challenge when I hear one.
Keeping my expression calm, I walk over to the sink and wash all traces of raw egg off my hands. Anton, who knows me best, prudently steps away, but the Ivanov twins don’t budge from their seats, regarding me with identical green stares as I casually round the bar and approach Yan.
“So you think I’m reasoning with my dick?” The softness of my voice matches his. “You think I’m willing to get us all killed to punish Kent for letting Sara crash?”
Yan swivels his barstool to fully face me. “I don’t know.” His expression is mildly amused, but his eyes are cold and sharp. “Are you?”
My lips stretch in a grim smile as my right hand closes around the switchblade in my pocket. “And if I were?”
Yan holds my gaze for a few tense seconds as the air in the room thickens with challenge. I like Yan, but I can’t let this insubordination stand. He knew what he was signing up for when he joined this team, was fully aware that to participate in the lucrative business I was building, he’d have to help me with my personal agenda. That was our deal, and I intend to hold him to it, even if it’s now Sara who motivates my actions instead of my dead wife and son.
“Yan.” Ilya’s voice is quiet as he rises to his feet and places a massive hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Peter knows what he’s doing.”
Yan remains silent for a moment longer, then inclines his head with a hard-edged smile. “Yes, I’m sure. He is the team leader, after all.”
His words are conciliatory, but I’m not fooled. I’ll have to be extra alert on this mission.
Yan could easily become a complication.
4
Sara
As the five of us eat breakfast, I can’t help but notice the tension at the table. I don’t know if something happened before I came down, or if everyone is as jet-lagged as I am, but the easy camaraderie I’ve observed between Peter and his men doesn’t seem to be there this morning.
Instead of bantering with each other and entertaining me with anecdotes about Russia, Peter’s teammates wolf down their omelets in silence and swiftly disperse, with Anton taking the chopper on a supply run and the twins heading out for a training session in the woods.
“What’s going on?” I ask Peter when we’re the only ones left in the kitchen. “Did you guys have a fight or something?”
“Or something.” He gets up to clear away the empty plates. “Let’s just say that not everyone agrees with my chosen course of action.”
“What course of action?”
“I’m contemplating accepting another job offer—a particularly lucrative one.”
I frown and get up to help him stack the dishes in the dishwasher. “Is it dangerous?”
His smile lacks any hint of humor. “Our life is dangerous, ptichka. The work we do is just part of it.”
“So why are the guys objecting?” I put down the plate I was rinsing and face Peter, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “Is it somehow worse than your usual Mission Impossible gigs?”
His steely gaze warms at my worried tone. “It’s nothing you need to stress about, my love—at least not for a while. We won’t even meet with the potential client until mid-December, and that meeting will decide if we take this job or not.”
“Oh.” My worry abates slightly, edged out by growing curiosity. “Are you meeting this client in person?” At Peter’s nod, I ask, “Why? You don’t normally do that, do you?”
“No, but we’re going to make an exception this time.” He doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate, and I decide to leave it alone for now. Mid-December is weeks away, and he’ll tell me when he’s ready—probably when he hasn’t just argued with his teammates.
We finish the cleanup in companionable silence, and I marvel at how natural all this feels: having breakfast with Peter and his men, doing dishes, talking about his work. Never mind that we’re on an inaccessible mountain peak in Japan with a foot of snow already blanketing the ground, or that the work in question is gory assassinations. My time away from here—the days I spent in Cyprus with the Kents, followed by the two-week stay at the Swiss clinic—is already beginning to seem like a bad memory, a scary interlude in this new life of mine.