Chapter 14 #2
Celia gets into the passenger seat, and I start the engine.
The headlights cut through the darkness as we reverse out of the clearing and back onto the dirt track.
In a few hours, hikers might walk within fifty feet of Lang’s grave without knowing it exists.
In a few days, leaves and other debris will hide it even more, and within weeks, the forest will reclaim the site completely.
“Where are we going?”
“North. I have a place in Idaho.” I navigate the rough track carefully, avoiding the worst of the potholes and fallen branches.
“Remote, secure, and stocked with everything we need. I bought it from a former prepper when he found out he was dying and had no one to inherit all his careful preparations.”
“For how long?”
We reach the main road, and I turn the car toward the interstate.
How long will it take to neutralize the threat Lang represented?
How long before it’s safe for Celia to return to her normal life—if that’s even possible anymore?
I won’t lie to her again if I can help it.
“I don’t know. A while. You might never return to the life you had. ”
She stares at me in horror. “My mother...” She trails off into a silence that suggests she’s lost in her thoughts and pain.
We drive in continued silence for the next hour, the highway stretching ahead of us in an endless ribbon of asphalt and yellow lines. Celia stares out the passenger window at the darkness, and I focus on the road while my mind processes what just happened and what comes next.
I’ve involved a civilian in activities that could destroy both our lives.
Worse, I’ve involved a civilian I care about, someone who represents everything I thought I’d given up when I inherited leadership of mine and my brother’s organization that we built when we started over in the US at fifteen with the money Father had set aside to fund the family’s escape, before the assassin caught up with him first. The smart move would be to set her up with a new identity and enough money to disappear permanently, then never see her again.
I can’t do it. The thought of losing her now, after everything we’ve shared, feels impossible.
She’s seen me at my worst and hasn’t run.
She’s helped me bury a federal agent without breaking completely.
She’s stronger than I gave her credit for, and that strength draws me to her in ways I don’t fully understand.
The highway curves ahead, and I adjust the steering to follow it. Beside me, Celia shifts in her seat, and I catch a glimpse of her profile in the dashboard lights. Beautiful and haunted, changed by what we’ve done together but not broken by it.
Not yet, anyway.
We still have a long drive ahead of us, and longer challenges waiting at the end of it.
Lang’s death will bring consequences I can’t fully predict, setting forces into motion that will test both of us in ways we haven’t imagined yet, but for now, we’re safe, we’re together, and we’ve successfully eliminated the most immediate threat to our survival.
It’s not much, but it’s enough to build on.
The miles roll by beneath our wheels, carrying us away from the grave and toward whatever comes next. In the passenger seat, Celia finally breaks the silence.
“I need to ask you something.”
I glance at her, noting the serious tone in her voice. “What?”
“When this is over—when we’re safe—what happens to us?”
The question cuts to the heart of everything I’ve been trying not to think about. What happens to us? What kind of future is possible for a Russian mobster and the civilian he’s dragged into his world? What kind of life can we build on a foundation of shared criminality and mutual dependence?
“I don’t know.”
“But you’ve thought about it.”
I have thought about it. More than I should, and more than is smart for someone in my position. I’ve thought about what it would be like to wake up next to her every morning, to build something real and lasting with someone who knows exactly who I am and what I’ve done. “Yes.”
“And?”
I pull the car into the right lane to pass a slow-moving truck, using the maneuver to buy time to organize my thoughts.
How much honesty is too much? How much hope is dangerous?
“I think we have a chance. If we’re careful, if we’re smart, if we get lucky.
” I merge back into the left lane and settle into a steady cruising speed. “But it won’t be easy.”
She makes a low sound but doesn’t ask more questions. She doesn’t ask me to clarify if I see building a future with her, or us going separate ways. I’m afraid she’s envisioning the second and isn’t in the right frame of mind to discuss the first option, so I let it rest for now.
The best things in life require sacrifice, risk, and the willingness to fight for something that matters more than safety or comfort.
What we have—whatever it is—falls into that category, at least for me.
I don’t know yet how she feels about that.
The realistic side of me knows she’ll flee from a murdering bratva pakhan as soon as she can, but a tiny, hopeful part of me clings to the idea that instead, she’ll find a reason to stay.
We drive through the night, and gradually I notice Celia’s questions becoming stranger and more disconnected.
She asks about the color of the moon, whether I think Lang had a dog before deciding he didn’t, because he tried to kick Sariah, and if the trees we pass are the same species that grow in Russia.
The random thoughts she speaks aloud without context or connection reveal she’s unraveling more clearly than any bald statement could.
I keep expecting her to break down completely, to finally process what we’ve done and fall apart. Instead, she seems to be floating somewhere outside herself, observing everything from a distance that protects her from the full impact of events.
Then, somewhere outside Susanville, she starts crying.
Not sobbing or wailing, but quiet tears accompanied by soft sniffles. I pull off at the next exit and find a deserted parking lot behind a closed gas station. When I stop the car and turn off the engine, the silence is broken only by the sound of her breathing.
“Celia?”
She doesn’t respond as she continues crying with the kind of steady, exhausted grief that suggests she’s finally allowing herself to feel everything she’s been holding back. I reach for her tentatively, not sure if physical comfort is what she needs or wants.
She doesn’t pull away when I touch her shoulder, so I pull her closer, letting her cry against my chest while I hold her. Her tears soak through my shirt, warm and genuine, and I stroke her hair without conscious thought.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, though we both know it’s not. Nothing about this situation is okay and won’t be okay for a long time but lies are sometimes kinder than truth.
She cries for ten minutes, maybe fifteen, releasing pressure that has been building since the moment Lang broke into her house. When she finally pulls away, her eyes are red but clear, focused in a way they haven’t been for hours. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For falling apart.”
I smooth a strand of hair away from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek since she isn’t recoiling. “You didn’t fall apart. You’re still here, still functioning, and still helping. That’s not falling apart.”
“It feels like it.”
“The night I helped Dmitri dispose of the assassin’s body, I threw up three times and couldn’t eat for two days.” The admission comes easily, another piece of honesty offered to balance the scales between us. “He had to do most of the work because I kept having panic attacks.”
“Really?”
“Really. Being scared doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
She nods slowly, accepting the reassurance even if she doesn’t fully believe it. “Are you ready to keep driving?”
I start the engine and pull back onto the highway. The road ahead stretches into darkness, but the destination is clear now. We’re going to my safehouse in Idaho, where we’ll figure out our next moves and wait for the chaos following Lang’s death to settle into predictable patterns.
It takes us another day and a half of driving, stopping only for gas and food and a few hours of sleep in the car at a rest area. By the time we reach the compound, we’re both exhausted and hollow-eyed, running on adrenaline and stubbornness.
The safehouse sits on two hundred acres of former prepper property outside Sandpoint, surrounded by forest and accessible only by a single dirt road that winds through trees for three miles before reaching the gate.
The previous owner spent a fortune on security systems and reinforcement, then found out he couldn’t prepare against stage-four liver cancer and had no one to give his property to, since he’d spent so long walling himself off from the world.
I bought it through shell companies and holding corporations, then spent another fortune upgrading the electronics even more and adding trustworthy personnel.
It’s one of three fortress-like properties I maintain around the world for situations exactly like this one—remote, secure, and stocked with everything needed for extended stays.
I have safe houses, but they’re a joke compared to this property.
Leonid meets us at the gate, materializing from behind a tree with the silent efficiency that made him invaluable in Saint Petersburg and keeps him alive in America. He was Dmitri’s friend first, but he’s like a brother to me now. His eyes are the same—calculating, cautious, and missing nothing.
“You look like hell.” His greeting is characteristically blunt, delivered in accented English for Celia’s benefit.
“Feel worse.” I get out of the car and stretch muscles that have been cramped for hours. “Any problems?”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle.” Leonid’s attention shifts to Celia, who’s climbing out of the passenger seat with the careful movements of someone operating beyond their normal limits. “This is her?” His disapproval is overt.
“Celia Bourn. Celia, this is Leonid Buzinsky.”
She extends her hand with automatic politeness, and Leonid shakes it with surprising gentleness.
His expression softens slightly as he takes in her appearance, noting she’s disheveled and exhausted, but still trying to maintain social conventions in circumstances that have moved far beyond normal courtesy.
He’s still clearly disapproving, but the slight softening is encouraging.
“Welcome.” His tone carries slight warmth beneath the formal words. “You are safe here.”
“Thank you.”
The simple exchange highlights everything wrong with this situation.
Celia shouldn’t be here and shouldn’t need to be grateful for safety in a fortified compound run by Russian criminals.
She should be home in her renovated house, worrying about guest reviews and job applications, not learning to navigate the protocols of organized crime.
But she is here, and she’s handling it with more grace than I expected. It’s another sign of the strength I’m learning to recognize in her that allowed her to help bury a federal agent and drive for two days without completely losing her mind.
“Come,” says Leonid, gesturing toward the main building. “I’ll show you around and get you settled.” The words must be for Celia because I’m familiar with the property. That he’s trying to make her feel welcome removes some of my concerns.
As we walk toward the compound, I catch Leonid giving me a look that says we need to talk privately and soon. Bringing Celia here complicates everything and introduces variables that could compromise operational security and put everyone at risk.
Yet looking at her now, walking beside us with quiet dignity despite everything she’s been through, I know I made the right choice. I wouldn’t want her anywhere else but at my side. Knowing how selfish that is doesn’t override the deep sense of satisfaction I have that she’s part of my world now.
The compound’s main building comes into view, solid and reassuring against the backdrop of forest and mountains. Home, at least temporarily. A place where we can rest, plan, and figure out how to build something lasting from the ruins of what our lives used to be.
It’s not much, but it’s a beginning.