15. Katya
Katya
The zip ties bite off circulation, but that’s the least of it when Scarface calls me, “the FSB bitch” like I’m not three feet away.
“She doesn’t remember shit.” His partner is cleaning his nails with a tired knife. “Look at her. Blank as a newborn.”
Scarface drags deep and blows smoke in my face. “Boss says she’s faking it. Government operatives are trained to resist their handlers.”
Government operatives. FSB. Handler.
The words slot in with a click, like a lock I was warned not to touch.
“What handler?” I ask, because sitting silent feels like giving up.
Both men laugh, but there’s no humor.
“Playing dumb won’t save you, sweetheart,” Scarface says. “Your boyfriend’s got half of Moscow looking for you, but we’re not worried. This spot’s clean.”
“My boyfriend?”
“Dmitri fucking Kozlov. You know that better than anyone, considering you’ve been sleeping in his bed for weeks.”
The way he says it crawls over my skin, but something else bothers me more. Why the hell is he referring to Dmitri as my boyfriend and not my husband?
“How long have you been watching us?”
“Long enough to know the marriage is bullshit,” Knife Guy says.
My stomach knots. If even they don’t buy it, what does that say about me?
“Long enough to dig up what you are. FSB who got too close to Kozlov.”
An FSB operative. The words hit like a sledgehammer, but not because they’re shocking. Because they feel almost… right.
“That’s impossible.”
“Our sources say Alexandra Volkova’s been missing from government files for months. Someone with your exact description and skill set.”
The name hits me like a wrecking ball, splintering everything I’ve been clinging to as real. It’s been floating around in my head for days, popping up in conversations and dreams like a ghost I can’t quite catch.
“That name…” I trail off. “I’ve heard it before. I don’t know why.”
“Sure. Just like you don’t know why your reflexes beat most soldiers’. Or that your handler’s tearing apart Moscow for his missing agent.”
“Who is that?”
“Come off it. You know who.”
But I don’t. The name is heavy with meaning I can’t reach. No faces. No memories. Just dread cinching my throat.
“Look at her,” Knife Guy says. “She really doesn’t remember.”
“Doesn’t matter. Orders are orders.” Scarface thumbs a text.
“What if Kozlov finds us first?”
“He won’t. And if he does, he’s outnumbered ten to one.”
A shoe scrapes outside. Both men freeze like they’ve been hit with a live wire.
“Nothing,” Knife Guy whispers.
“Perimeter,” Scarface orders. Knife Guy’s already moving toward the window.
The building explodes into violence before his third step.
The first shot cracks, then shouts and return fire from everywhere. I roll off the chair I’m tied to, teeth jarring on concrete, clear of the center.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Scarface scrambles for his gun. Knife Guy dumps rounds through broken windows.
More gunfire erupts from every direction at once, accompanied by the crack of flashbangs.
Through the chaos, a voice cuts clean: “Where is she?”
Dmitri.
Scarface turns, his gun halfway up. He doesn’t have a chance to fire. A single round punches through his forehead, and he drops like a cut marionette.
Knife Guy lasts two seconds before three rounds stitch his chest. He topples over crates, and his weapon skitters away.
The gunfire dies abruptly, replaced by the sound of boots on concrete and voices calling out confirmations. I struggle against the zip ties, but they’re too tight to slip.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
“Boss, she’s over here!”
Dmitri fills the doorway, suit torn, eyes bright with murder. He takes in the scene—two dead men, me tied to an overturned chair with blood on my face and clothes—and clenches his jaw.
“Are you hurt?” He’s already on his knees, slicing the zip ties with a knife that wasn’t there a second ago.
“I’m fine. Scared, but fine.”
“Good.” He lifts me. His touch is gentle, but his eyes aren’t. “We need to go. Now.”
“Wait.” I scan the warehouse. “They knew things about me. About my past. They kept saying ‘handler.’”
Dmitri goes very still. “Word for word, Katya. Don’t leave anything out.”
“They said I’m not who I think I am. That someone’s been looking for me since I disappeared. They insinuated my marriage to you is fake.”
The last part comes out like an accusation, and I watch his face carefully for a reaction. What I see there isn’t surprise or denial; it’s something almost like guilt.
“Katya—”
“Tell me the truth. Is our marriage fake?”
His jaw ticks. Silence stretches, heavy enough to bruise. His hand tightens on mine until it almost hurts, and that’s his only answer.
Boris hits the doorway, blood on his shirt. “Boss, we need to move now. Police in ten. More coming from the north.”
“More of who?”
“Whoever these assholes were working for. At least twenty vehicles heading this way.”
Dmitri grabs my hand and pulls me toward the exit. “We’ll finish this later.”
Sirens rise as we hit the cars. He shoves me into the back of the armored sedan and slides in after me, his hand already at my cut.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just a scratch.”
“Let me see.” He tilts my face toward him gently, the gesture at odds with the man who just left two bodies cooling on the warehouse floor.
The car tears through the district, leaving the warehouse behind.
Dmitri risked everything to save me.
That matters more than any of the lies.