21. Katya
Katya
Gunfire echoes in my head before I even open my eyes.
“Target drill in thirty,” the wall speakers crackle. “Agent Sidorov, assume position.”
My hands move on their own. Makarov. Weight, grip, the tiny hitch in the trigger. Mine like a second spine.
Others file into place. My vision tunnels. Only the kill box exists.
Three targets. One hostage. Rules: neutralize, preserve, finish under two minutes.
I advance through the mock apartment, clearing each room with movements so fluid they feel choreographed. Slice the pie. Keep the sight line. Show nothing but the muzzle. My body doesn’t ask permission.
Target one pops. Two to center. He’s falling before I think the word “shoot”.
Number two hides behind the hostage. Amateur. I shift a hair and thread the shot. He drops. The civilian breathes.
Number three crouches behind a table. I’d already pinned him by the cadence of his breath.
“Time,” the voice calls. “One minute, forty-three seconds. Excellent work, Agent.”
I lower the gun and face the glass. A man in a crisp uniform nods his approval. His face remains frustratingly blurry, but when he speaks, I know I’ve heard the voice before.
“Your scores keep breaking the curve,” he says. “How do you feel about moving to wet work?”
“Ready, sir.” The response comes automatically.
“Good. Deep cover next. You’re Alexandra Volkova, art curator. Hold it as long as needed to pull intel on ? —”
His voice drifts off, and the dream fractures.
I wake with my heart hammering against my ribs and sweat coating my skin. I need several seconds to remember where I am.
Dmitri’s estate. Our make-believe getaway.
“Bad dream again?” Dmitri’s voice is rough with sleep.
I calm my breathing and roll toward him. Instinct says hide it. “The accident,” I lie. “Glass. People screaming. I’m fine.”
“You were talking in your sleep. Something about target practice and clearance times.”
My stomach drops. “Probably something from a movie. You know how dreams mix random memories.”
He props himself up on one elbow and rubs his eyes. “Sounded pretty specific for random movie fragments.”
“Dreams lie.” I stretch, fake a yawn. “What time is it?”
“Early. Sun’s barely up.”
“Perfect. I’m going on a run before the heat.”
“A run?” He frowns. “Doctors said no strain until?—”
“The doctors said a lot of things. Most don’t apply anymore.” I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Just a light jog. Nothing crazy.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No need. I know you have business calls to make, and I could use some time alone to think.”
He doesn’t like it—I can see the reluctance in the way he works his jaw—but he relents. “Stay within sight of the house.”
“Of course.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m laced up on the porch. Dmitri watches from the kitchen window. I give him a sunny wave and take the gravel path.
The act falls away the moment I’m out of sight.
My stride opens up, eating ground. Instinct maps everything—sight lines, cover, exits. The dream followed me into daylight.
At the trees, I cut left and vanish. I move through the forest like a ghost, placing each step to minimize noise while maintaining speed.
My body remembers how to use natural cover, stalk targets, and watch without being watched.
Thirty meters. Low branch. One shot would take that bird clean. I don’t remember learning it; I just know.
It lives in muscle and reflex, not thought.
I find a clearing where fallen logs create a natural obstacle course. I begin testing my physical limits. Balance beam work across narrow branches. Jumps between uneven surfaces. Combat rolls that flow seamlessly into defensive positions.
Every move feels burned into me, like muscle memory I was never meant to forget.
Which means Dmitri lied about my past. No more questioning it.
I should be devastated. I’m not. Relief hits instead.
The lies finally make sense. I was never his confused little art curator. I’m a trained operative, and my cover’s been blown.
Now the only question is whether Dmitri knew all along, or if he’s been played just like me.
He seems to genuinely care for me and be concerned for my well-being, but that could be part of an elaborate deception.
I need more information before I make any decisions about how to proceed.
I complete my circuit of the grounds and return to the house at the same easy jog I started with, making sure to appear winded and slightly tired when I reach the front porch.
“How was it?” Dmitri asks when I enter the kitchen.
“Exactly what I needed. The fresh air helped clear my head.” I grab a water bottle from the refrigerator and take a deep swig. “Any urgent business problems demanding your attention?”
“Nothing that can’t wait. I was thinking we could explore the lake this afternoon. Maybe take a picnic.”
“Sounds lovely.” And it does, despite everything. Whatever role Dmitri is playing in my current situation, my feelings for him appear to be authentic. The chemistry between us, the way my body responds to his touch, and the growing emotional connection… none of it feels manufactured.
Which makes this whole situation infinitely more confusing.
“I’m going to shower and change,” I tell him. “All that running worked up quite a sweat.”
“Need any help with that shower?”
My thighs squeeze together at the image of him washing every inch of my body while water falls around us, but as tempting as that is, my mind is too much of a mess to even think about that right now.
“Behave yourself,” I tease, injecting just enough playfulness in my voice. “Save some energy for later.”
“Later?”
“You promised to show me the lake. I’m hoping that might involve skinny dipping.”
His eyes go dark with interest, and he smirks. “I like the way you think.”
“Good. Give me a few minutes to make myself presentable.”
In the bathroom, I strip out of my running clothes and study my reflection in the full-length mirror. It doesn’t show a wife; it shows a weapon. Lean muscle. Scars that only come from combat.
My thumb finds the crescent moon on my wrist. I press it like a bruise, something I’m supposed to remember.
The shower gives me time to think without Dmitri watching my every reaction. If I am a government operative, there should be protocols for situations like this.
People looking for me. Extraction procedures.
If those people existed, wouldn’t they have found me by now? Dmitri’s security is good, but it’s not impenetrable. A determined government agency should be able to locate one of its missing operatives.
Unless they don’t want to find me.
The possibility that I’ve been abandoned or burned by my own agency adds another layer to an already impossible situation. If my own people have written me off, then Dmitri might be the only person standing between me and whoever wants me dead.
Or he might be working with them.