Chapter 18 - Vasily #2
I pulled up the security feeds from the island on my tablet.
The house looked peaceful—guards at their posts, no movement on the perimeters.
I switched to the interior cameras and found Gaby in the library, exactly where I'd left her.
She was reading now, her feet tucked under her, a cup of tea steaming on the table beside her.
Safe. She was safe.
But the wrongness wouldn't leave me.
I called Kirill. "Status report."
"All quiet, boss. No movement on any approach. Mrs. Chernov is in the library. Staff going about their normal routines."
"Any anomalies? Anything that felt off?"
A pause. "Nothing, boss. It's been completely calm."
Completely calm. Just like the intelligence had been completely clean.
I ended the call and sat very still, my mind racing through possibilities I didn't want to consider.
Pankratov knew about the island—Lucas had given him that information before he died. He knew where I'd hidden my wife, knew the location of my most vulnerable asset. If he wanted to hurt me, truly hurt me, that's where he'd strike.
So why was he attacking New York instead?
Unless he wasn't.
Unless New York was the feint—the shiny distraction designed to draw my attention, my forces, my presence away from the real target.
I grabbed my phone and called Semyon.
"What is it?" he answered immediately.
"The intelligence about the New York attacks—I need you to verify it again. Every source, every detail. Something's wrong."
"Wrong how?"
"It's too clean. Too convenient. Pankratov knows I'm on the island with her. If he wants to destroy me, the smart play isn't hitting the docks—it's hitting her."
Silence on the line. Then: "You think the whole thing is a setup? That he wanted to draw you out?"
"I think we need to consider the possibility." I was already moving to the cockpit, my heart hammering against my ribs. "How long would it take for a strike team to reach the island from Athens?"
"Depending on the route... four hours. Maybe less if they had boats staged nearby."
I'd been in the air for two hours. If Pankratov's men had launched at the same time I took off—
"Get me everything you can on Armenian movements in the Aegean over the past forty-eight hours. Charter boats, helicopter rentals, anything."
"I'm on it."
I ended the call and pushed into the cockpit. The pilots looked up, startled.
"Turn the plane around," I said. "Now."
"Sir, we're only two hours out. We still have eight hours to New York—"
"I don't care about New York. Turn us around. Get me back to the island as fast as this plane can fly."
The pilot hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Yes, sir."
I returned to my seat as the plane banked hard, beginning its long arc back toward Greece. My hands were shaking as I pulled up the island security feeds again.
Still quiet. Guards at their posts. Gaby in the library.
But even as I watched, something changed. One of the perimeter guards—the one stationed at the northern approach—turned his head sharply, looking toward something off-camera. His hand went to his weapon.
Then the feed cut to static.
I switched to another camera. Static.
Another. Static.
One by one, every feed from the island went dark.
I called Kirill. The line rang once, twice—then nothing. Dead air. Not even voicemail.
I tried Gaby's phone. Same result.
I tried the main house line, the security office, every number I had for that island. Nothing. All of it—silent.
I sat in the humming cabin of my private jet, thousands of feet above the Mediterranean, and felt my world collapse.
They were there. Pankratov's men were on my island, and I was hours away.
Gaby. The baby. Everything that mattered.
And I couldn't reach them.
I called Semyon, my voice barely recognizable. "Contact anyone we have in Greece. Military, police, private contractors—I don't care who. Get them to that island now."
"What's happening?"
"The feeds are dead. The phones are dead. He played us, Semyon. The whole thing was a fucking trap, and I walked right into it."
Silence. Then: "I'll make the calls. How far out are you?"
I checked the flight time, feeling the number like a knife in my chest. "Three hours. At least three hours."
Three hours. An eternity. A lifetime.
Enough time for Pankratov's men to do whatever they wanted to my wife and my unborn child.
"Find them," I said. "Find anyone who can get there faster than me. I don't care what it costs."
"I will. Vasily—"
"Just do it."
I ended the call and stared at the blank screens that had shown me her face just minutes ago. The static where her image should be. The silence where her voice should be.
I'd promised to come back. Promised nothing would keep me from her.
And now she was alone, facing God knew what, because I'd been stupid enough to fall for the oldest trick in the book.
I closed my eyes and saw her as I'd left her—standing in the sunlit library, her hand raised, her eyes bright with tears.
Come back to me, she'd said. Promise me.
And I'd promised. But promises meant nothing if I couldn't keep them.
There were things I should have said. Words I'd been too cautious to speak, feelings I'd held back out of fear or superstition or some misguided sense that there would be time later.
Now, staring at the static where her face should be, I felt the weight of everything unspoken pressing against my chest like a physical wound.
If something happened to her—if I never got the chance—
I couldn't finish the thought. Couldn't let myself go there.
Instead, I stared out the window at the endless blue below and willed the plane to fly faster.
Hold on, I thought, as if she could hear me across the miles.
Hold on, little dove. I'm coming.