SKOPJE, NORTH MACEDONIA
As Stanislava rampaged through the Millers’ closet in search of the paper files the reporter had allegedly left there, Abalos covered Miller’s wife’s mouth with his hand, tired of her nonstop moans and sobs. Curious about how the other part of the operation was going, he used his other hand to pull out of his pocket the earbud he had stolen—well, borrowed—from the spares the Spetsnaz had brought with them at the briefing. He had already encoded it to the right frequency prior to leaving the safe house so that he could listen in to the back-and-forth chatter between the eight-man Spetsnaz team General Belousov had flown in.
As far as he could tell, the Spetsnaz hadn’t made contact with the Americans yet. Since the meeting location was known, they hadn’t bothered following the two American agents. Six out of the eight Spetsnaz had moved to static positions, with the other two standing by in the exfil vehicles. There was no point in rushing the job. They just had to wait for the Americans to fall into their trap.
True professionals.
The day before, Abalos had spent more than four hours with them and Stanislava going over the ops plan and its contingencies. It was the first time since Kabul that he truly felt like he was part of an exceptional team. Working for General Velásquez had certainly proven to be financially rewarding, but he had never felt a brotherhood-like connection with any of the cartel members. Although some of them had served with the Mexican military, none of them had demonstrated a level of abilities that matched Abalos’s.
That was why he’d brought his younger brother Thiago into the fold.
And now Thiago’s gone.
Abalos’s throat tightened, and his spirits momentarily dropped as he thought about his brother. He couldn’t wait to meet Donovan Wade and the female FBI agent face-to-face. He’d talked to Stanislava about the loss of Thiago. She had seemed to feel genuine empathy at his loss and had shared something very interesting with him. Until very recently, Donovan Wade’s brother Harrison was said to have been one of Russia’s most prized intelligence assets. Although his death hadn’t been independently verified by any of Russia’s intelligence services, it was believed that Harrison had killed himself shortly after being arrested for treason.
To Abalos, this was an important piece of the puzzle as he tried to understand how Donovan Wade operated. He and the female agent had eliminated, no, slaughtered Berganza’s entire team.
And my Thiago.
Having to live with the shame of Harrison’s treasonous actions meant that Wade wasn’t only fueled by patriotism or a paycheck, he was there to prove to the whole world that he was better than his traitorous brother. It explained Donovan’s behavior and intensity.
As a bonus, it was obvious to him that Stanislava held a solid grudge against the female FBI agent. Stanislava had exhibited the same fervor Abalos had for seeing the two Americans punished for what they’d done. On a more personal level, to say that Stanislava had swept him off his feet would be an understatement. For the first time in his life, he had felt an instantaneous connection with a woman. Within two minutes, he had recognized it for what it was.
Lust.
He didn’t know what the future held for him, but, after last night, he had already made the decision that no one else but him would ever touch Stanislava.
She was his, and his only.
Having her by his side dulled the pain his brother’s murder caused him.
“I have it,” Stanislava said, showing him a shoebox as she walked past him, heading down the hallway toward the dining room. “I think you’ve killed her.”
Abalos’s eyes moved to Lucas Miller’s wife.
Well, shit. She was dead. He’d accidentally asphyxiated her by blocking her airway. He rose to his feet, took a step back, and shot her in the side of the head. He removed the suppressor, dropped it into his inside jacket pocket, and holstered his pistol.
In the dining room, Stanislava had started to spread out the contents of the file onto the table. Included in the pages were 8×11 color copies of General Ramón Velásquez and various other high-level Mexican government officials. Stanislava pulled her phone out of her pocket and took quick snaps of the photos. A sense of dread grew in the pit of his stomach. Abalos’s hand moved to his holster.
“What are you doing?” Abalos asked in Spanish, knowing from the night before she spoke the language fluently.
“Insurance policy,” she replied without even bothering to turn around. “Don’t worry, Francisco, I’ll send you the link.”
Abalos was taken aback by her honesty, and, for a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do.
“Why do you need an insurance policy?”
Stanislava stopped what she was doing and jerked her head in his direction, her eyes moving to his hand, which was still resting on top of his holster. She gave him a quizzical look.
“Oh, my, Francisco, you made love to me, and now you want to shoot me?” she said in Russian, her voice a throaty, sexy whisper.
A look of disappointment crossed her features, then it was gone. She took what remained in the shoebox and started scanning the typed pages and the written notes with her phone.
“Right now, maybe you feel that all is going well between you and your general, but in our world, my love, one needs to take precautions, guarantees, leverage, and insurance policies, don’t you agree? You never know when the person standing next to you will want to put a bullet through the back of your skull,” she said without looking at him.
Abalos knew she was asking him to make his choice. He moved his hand away from his holster and joined her at the table. He took a pen and a piece of paper and wrote something on it.
“My address. For the link,” he said, pushing the paper toward her.
“Smart move, Francisco. I’ll send it to you as soon as I’m done.”
Still passively listening to the chatter between the members of the Spetsnaz team, something the team leader said caught Abalos’s attention. He was about to mention it to Stanislava but refrained from doing so. His Russian was pretty good, but it wasn’t perfect. He had probably misunderstood. A moment later, though, when the team leader repeated the instructions, Abalos knew he had heard it right the first time.
Done with taking the pictures, Stanislava typed something into her phone and said in Spanish, “Sending you the link now.”
“Great. By the way, have you told General Belousov we’ve found the file?” Abalos asked.
Stanislava turned and smiled at him. She took a step toward him, closing the distance between them. Abalos felt the muscles in his stomach involuntarily tighten. Her eyes met his and held them.
“Not yet,” she said.
She cupped his face in her hand as a lover would, then she let her fingers move slowly down the side of his jaw. He could easily picture Stanislava standing next to him on a beach near Mallorca, wearing a simple dress, with some flowers in her hair, maybe. A look of pure, unconstrained love in her eyes . . .
But it wasn’t to be.
His right hand snapped out and he struck his palm hard against her chest. It was a quick, impersonal shove, as if he were reprimanding a dog. The knife in her left hand cut through the fabric of his shirt and sliced through his forearm. Her eyes widened in panic as she realized she had lost the upper hand.
Despite his wound, which he knew would start hurting seconds from now, he drew his pistol.
“Stop!” he shouted.
But Stanislava was committed now. There was no going back for her. They both knew it. Still, he waited a millisecond more than he would have if it had been anyone else. Then he pulled the trigger. Twice.
Both rounds punched into Stanislava’s chest. She staggered back a couple of steps, as though she was drunk, then her legs deserted her, and she fell. Abalos holstered his pistol and kicked the knife away. By the sucking noise she made with every breath she took, Abalos knew at least one of his rounds had punctured a lung. She looked at him, her eyes moist. He stood over her, calm, watching her with a certain curiosity.
He chuckled, but it was mostly at himself. She’d almost had him.
He sighed and knelt next to her. He took her hand in his and bent at the waist. He pressed his forehead against hers.
“I could seal the breach in your lung, you know?” he whispered in Russian. “I could save you if I wanted to. But I won’t. Die, bitch. Die.”