Chapter 20
Yefrem
T he sound of retching from the bathroom pulls me away from the financial records I’ve been analyzing for the past three hours.
It’s the fourth time this week that Celia has gotten sick, and each episode seems worse than the last. I set down my pen and listen to the muffled sounds of her distress while my jaw tightens with concern.
When she emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, her face carries the pallor of someone who’s been fighting their own body.
She moves with the careful precision of glass that might shatter, as if sudden movements could trigger another wave of whatever’s attacking her system.
I watch her return to her seat at the laptop, noting how she avoids meeting my gaze.
“You need to see a doctor.” The words come out sharper than I intend, frustration bleeding through my careful control.
She shakes her head and opens a new browser window. “It’s just stress. My body is still processing everything that’s happened.”
The explanation sits wrong in my chest. Celia has adapted to our situation with the kind of resilience that impresses even Leonid.
She’s thrown herself into the investigation work with determination that borders on fierce, showing none of the psychological breakdown that might manifest in physical symptoms. If anything, she seems to have found purpose in our mission to expose Lang’s corruption network.
Yet the nausea persists, getting worse instead of better.
Each morning brings the same routine—she wakes feeling fine, then within an hour she’s rushing to the bathroom.
The pattern is too consistent to be random stress responses.
“Maybe it’s something you’re eating.” I study her as she takes small sips from a glass of water.
“Or some kind of bug you picked up during our travels.”
“Maybe.” Her tone suggests she doesn’t want to discuss it further.
I return to the financial documents spread across my table, but concentration fractures when worry gnaws at my focus.
The records show clear patterns of money laundering through shell companies, with payments that correspond exactly to case dismissals and evidence tampering.
Lang’s network is more extensive than we initially realized, reaching into at least six different field offices.
Leonid reenters from his supply run, bringing cold air and the scent of pine trees with him. He removes his jacket and settles at his laptop without comment, but I catch him glancing toward Celia with something that looks like concern.
“Did you get everything we needed?”
He nods.” Everything remains secure too. I saw no movement on any of the access roads, no unusual aircraft activity, and no one in the town paid much attention to me either way.” He opens a new database query. “How’s the financial analysis coming?”
I push one of the spreadsheets toward him. “We have enough to implicate at least fifteen agents directly, with circumstantial evidence on another dozen. The money trail is clear—payments from known criminal organizations followed immediately by favorable outcomes in federal cases.”
He studies the numbers with the same sharp attention he applies to everything. “This is enough to bring down entire field offices, which will start the domino effect of bringing down their criminal associates.”
“If we can get it to the right people who will act on it and not ignore it without getting killed first.” My gaze drifts toward Celia, who’s staring at her laptop screen without typing. “We need to be certain about our next moves. We won’t get a second chance.”
The afternoon crawls by as we continue building our case against Lang’s network.
The evidence overwhelms with its scope, but presenting it safely requires careful planning.
Every corrupt agent we expose creates more enemies who want us dead.
If we don’t present this loudly enough not to be ignored, it will be swept under the rug, and we’ll be disappeared.
When evening approaches, I suggest we take a break and prepare dinner.
Celia offers to help, though she moves with the deliberate slowness of someone conserving energy, keeping one hand pressed to her stomach.
I assign her the simple task of chopping vegetables for salad while Leonid and I handle the cooking.
As she works, she pauses occasionally to breathe deeply, fighting off what looks like waves of nausea. When she reaches for the tomatoes, the knife slips slightly, which is unusual for someone generally so precise.
“You should rest.” I move closer. “Leonid and I can handle dinner.”
“I’m fine.” Even as the words leave her mouth, she sets down the knife and presses both hands to the counter for support.
I catch Leonid’s gaze across the kitchen and nod toward Celia. He follows my gaze and something shifts in his expression—not quite surprise, but a kind of recognition that makes unease prickle along my spine.
After Celia excuses herself to lie down, claiming exhaustion, I corner Leonid by the stove where we’re browning meat for pasta sauce. “Have you noticed anything unusual about her behavior?” I keep my voice low though she’s unlikely to hear us with the cinderblock walls.
Leonid continues browning the meat without looking at me. “She’s been through a lot. It’s natural that she’d need time to adjust.”
“This isn’t adjustment stress. She’s sick every morning, tired constantly, and can barely keep down food.” I study his profile, noting the careful neutrality of his expression. “You’ve noticed it too.”
“I’ve noticed you’re worried about her.” He finally looks at me. “Maybe you should talk to her directly instead of speculating.”
The suggestion seems reasonable, but something in his tone bothers me. Leonid is usually forthright to the point of bluntness, offering his opinions whether they’re requested or not. This diplomatic deflection is unlike him. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
He doesn’t blink. “There are lots of things I don’t tell you. Most of them aren’t my business to share.” He turns back to the stove with finality that ends the conversation.
That night, Celia falls asleep quickly beside me, exhausted despite having done relatively little during the day.
I lie awake listening to her breathing, trying to make sense of the symptoms I’ve observed and Leonid’s evasive responses.
Something is happening that I don’t understand, and the not knowing gnaws at me like hunger.
When she stirs restlessly around midnight, I reach for her instinctively, pulling her closer against my chest. She settles into my embrace with a soft sigh, and I allow myself a moment to simply hold her, to feel grateful for her presence despite all the chaos it’s brought.
The thought of losing her terrifies me more than any enemy I’ve faced. She’s become essential to my existence in ways I never anticipated, anchoring me to something beyond survival and revenge. Whatever is making her sick, we’ll find a solution. I won’t let anything happen to her.
Dawn comes early, bringing pale light through the compound’s tinted, reinforced windows. Celia shifts beside me, then suddenly bolts upright with a sharp intake of breath. Before I can fully wake, she’s stumbling toward the bathroom with one hand clamped over her mouth.
I follow immediately as my brain snaps fully awake, reaching the bathroom just as she drops to her knees beside the toilet.
The retching sounds are violent and prolonged, worse than I’ve heard before.
I kneel beside her and hold her hair back from her face, rubbing gentle circles on her back as her body convulses.
When the spasms finally stop, she remains hunched over the toilet, breathing heavily. Sweat beads on her forehead despite the coolness of the morning air.
“This has to stop.” I help her sit back against the bathroom wall. “Whatever is causing this, we’re getting you medical attention today.”
She shakes her head weakly. “We can’t risk bringing a doctor here, and I can’t leave the compound safely.”
“Then we’ll figure out another way, but you can’t keep going like this.” I study her pale face, noting the dark circles under her eyes, and the way her hands tremble slightly. “Talk to me, Celia. What’s really going on?”
For a long moment, she doesn’t respond. She stares at the bathroom floor with an expression I can’t read that’s part fear, part resignation, and part something else entirely.
“I need to tell you something.” Her voice barely rises above a whisper.
The tone sends alarm through my chest. “What is it?”
“I’m pregnant.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I rock back on my heels, staring at her in stunned silence as the words crash over me. Pregnant. She’s carrying my child. “How long have you known?” My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
“Since yesterday. Leonid got me a test when I asked him to.”
The mention of Leonid’s involvement sends a spike of anger through me. “You told him before me?”
She frowns at me. “I didn’t tell him anything.
I asked him to buy me a pregnancy test, and he’s not an idiot.
There’s only one reason I’d need one.” Her voice gains strength as she defends her choice.
“I wanted to be sure before I said anything to you, and I needed a little time to absorb it too. I was planning to tell you this morning, but—” She gestures weakly toward the toilet.
I process this information slowly, my mind struggling to adjust to this new reality.
A baby. Celia is carrying my child, and she’s been dealing with this knowledge alone while I remained oblivious to what was happening right in front of me.
“Are you...” I search for the right words. “How do you feel about it?”
“Terrified, but also...” She pauses, seeming to consider her words carefully. “I want to keep it. The baby, I mean. Despite everything that’s happening, despite how complicated this makes things, I want our child.”