Epilogue
Katerina
The room smells faintly of polished wood. There’s a feeling of anticipation. Small flags line the walls. Families sit shoulder to shoulder in folding chairs. Children swing their legs nervously. A judge stands at the front of the room beneath the American seal.
My name is called. Not Katerina Morozov. The name I chose. The new name that belongs to me.
I rise. Hawk stands near the back of the room, hands clasped loosely in front of him, posture steady, eyes locked on me like he’s tracking a landing.
Only this time, I’m not something he has to extract. I step forward.
The oath is simple. I repeat each word carefully. Renounce,
defend and support. The syllables feel heavier than they should. Not because they bind me — but because they free me.
When it’s finished, the room erupts into applause. I don’t cry. Not here. But my throat tightens anyway.
The certificate is placed in my hands and it’s official. I am now recognized as a legal American citizen. Russia can never own me again.
When I turn, Hawk is already moving toward me. He doesn’t sweep me into his arms. He doesn’t draw attention. He simply takes my hand and squeezes once.
“You did it,” he says quietly.
“No,” I correct softly. “We did.”
Outside, the air feels different. It’s a clean start without watchers, handlers, chaos and complications.
“I have one more thing,” he says.
Suspicion rises.
“That tone usually means trouble.”
“It’s the good kind.”
He guides me toward a black SUV waiting at the curb.
We drive in silence for nearly twenty minutes, the city thinning into outskirts, then airfields.
A small private airport comes into view.
I glance at him.
“Hawk.”
He doesn’t answer. He just parks, steps out, and walks around to open my door. Beyond him, on the tarmac, sits a sleek single-engine aircraft gleaming in the sun.
“You’re not serious,” I say.
“Very.”
He takes my hand again.
“I told you … I adjust.”
“This is not adjusting. This is escalating.”
He smiles faintly.
“Trust me.”
I do. That’s the difference now.
Inside the cockpit, everything smells like metal and fuel and sun-warmed leather. He runs through preflight checks with practiced precision.
“You’re sure you don’t want to know where we’re going?” he asks.
“I know where I’m going,” I reply.
He taxis smoothly down the runway. The engine roars and the ground falls away. As the city shrinks beneath us, I feel that old instinct — scanning, calculating, preparing for the next shoe to drop. Then I look at him and let it go.
Hours later, the Pacific spreads endless and blue beneath us. When the island comes into view, it feels unreal. Green cliffs. Black volcanic rock. White surf crashing against shoreline.
“Welcome to Hawai‘i,” he says.
We land on the Big Island as the sun dips lower, painting everything gold. Warm air rushes into the cabin when the door opens. It smells like salt and flowers and something ancient.
A rental Jeep waits at the edge of the tarmac. He tosses our bags into the back and climbs behind the wheel.
“Where are we staying?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
The drive takes us along winding coastal roads and then inland toward a secluded stretch of greenery overlooking the ocean.
A private hideaway comes into view — low wooden structure, wide windows, lanai facing the horizon. No neighbors in sight. No cameras. He kills the engine. The ocean roars softly below.
“This isn’t temporary, is it?” I ask.
He looks at me.
“No.”
I step out of the Jeep slowly. The air wraps around me — warm, alive, unthreatening. He comes up behind me and slides his arms around my waist.
“You don’t disappear,” he says quietly near my ear.
“Neither do you.”
The sun slips lower, painting the sky in orange and violet. Now, the horizon doesn’t look like an escape route. It looks like something I get to walk toward.
And this time … I’m not running.