Chapter 23 #2
He pulls me from the vehicle and into his arms, holding me against his chest with the kind of desperate intensity that suggests he thought he’d lost me.
I can feel his heart hammering against my cheek though I can’t hear anything but a whirring sound currently and smell the cordite and sweat that cling to his clothes.
“We need to move.” Leonid’s voice cuts through the moment loudly enough for me to hear, so he must be shouting. “More could be coming.”
The drive back to Sandpoint passes in tense silence.
I sit in the back seat beside Yefrem with his arm around my shoulders while both of us process what just happened.
Gradually, my hearing returns to normal, and my thoughts start to become solid again.
The folder of evidence rests on his lap, blood-stained but intact, and whatever the contact died trying to give us, we have it now.
“That was Agent Kim.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I recognized him from the surveillance recordings.”
Yefrem’s jaw tightens. “What did he want?”
“He wanted the location of where you’re hiding the evidence you’re compiling.
” My voice cracks. “They’re planning to frame you for murdering someone named Patricia Hendricks.
” I lean against his shoulder, drawing comfort from his solid presence.
“They want to make it look like you killed a clean agent to cover your tracks so they can use all their resources to find you. Of course, you won’t survive the arrest.”
“Assistant Director Patricia Hendricks.” Leonid’s voice carries grim recognition. “Twenty-year veteran, spotless record, and currently investigating corruption in multiple field offices. She’s come up on our radar as a potential ally.”
Yefrem sounds disgusted. “They’re going to kill her and blame me.”
“That was the plan. Frame you for her murder and get every clean agent in the Bureau hunting you personally.” I close my eyes, trying to shut out the memory of Kim’s casual discussion of murder. “He offered me a deal of a new identity and relocation in exchange for cooperation.”
“And?”
“I told him I needed time to think. Then you showed up.”
Yefrem pulls me closer, his voice rough with emotion. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. I should never have brought you along.”
“Don’t.” I sit up and face him directly. “Don’t apologize for treating me like a partner instead of something fragile that needs protection. I insisted on being here.”
Even as I say it, I know something fundamental has changed.
Being held at gunpoint, threatened with death, and having someone casually discuss murdering me and our unborn child has altered my existence.
“I want you to teach me to defend myself properly.” The words come out with more force than I intend.
“Not just carrying a gun I might not be able to use effectively. Real self-defense skills.”
“Celia...”
“I refuse to be a liability, especially with a baby on the way. What happened today can’t happen again.”
He studies my face, looking for signs of trauma or shock. Whatever he sees there seems to convince him I’m serious.
“All right. We start tonight.”
A couple of hours later, back at the Sandpoint compound, Yefrem leads me to the indoor shooting range that occupies one corner of the facility. The space smells of gun oil and cordite while fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows on concrete walls lined with acoustic foam.
“Show me what your father taught you.”
I take the Glock 19 he hands me, checking the chamber and safety with movements that feel rusty but familiar. The weight distribution brings back memories of Saturday afternoons at the range with my dad and the patient way he corrected my stance and breathing.
“Isosceles or Weaver?”
“Isosceles. Dad said it was more natural for most people.”
I position myself at the fifteen-yard line with feet shoulder-width apart and arms extended in a triangle formation that feels comfortable despite years without practice. The target downrange is a standard silhouette of a black outline on white paper.
The first shot surprises me with its accuracy because it hits center mass, slightly left of the bullseye. Muscle memory, apparently, doesn’t fade as quickly as I thought.
“Again.”
I fire five more rounds in steady succession, and each one finds the center mass area with reasonable precision. Not perfect, but competent. Good enough to stop a threat at close range.
“Your father taught you well.”
Secondhand pride suffuses me. “He insisted I understand guns aren’t toys or symbols. They’re tools with one purpose, which is stopping threats.” I lower the pistol and engage the safety.
“We’ll work on speed and accuracy, but your fundamentals are solid.” He replaces the target with a fresh one. “Let’s see how you handle stress.”
For the next hour, he puts me through increasingly complex drills, including drawing from concealment, shooting from cover, and reloading under pressure. Each exercise builds on the last, creating scenarios that simulate real-world defensive situations.
By the time we move to the compound’s small gymnasium, sweat sticks my shirt to my back, and my hands ache from grip strength exercises, but I feel more confident than I have since this entire situation began.
“Hand-to-hand combat is different from firearms.” Yefrem removes his shirt, revealing the network of scars that map the violent history of his life. “Guns give you distance and stopping power. Close combat is about leverage and opportunity.”
He demonstrates basic defensive positions, showing me how to break free from common holds and create distance for escape.
His movements are fluid and precise from years of training and real-world application.
“Your advantages are speed and unpredictability. Most attackers expect compliance from women, especially pregnant women. Use that assumption against them.”
We practice for another hour, working through scenarios that might occur in confined spaces or when weapons aren’t available. He’s careful not to make contact that could hurt me or the baby but pushes me hard enough that I understand the seriousness of what we’re doing.
“Why did you learn to fight?” I ask during a water break.
The question seems to catch him off guard.
He’s quiet for a long moment, toweling sweat from his face while considering his answer.
“My father was an associate of the St. Petersburg bratva . Not high-level but connected enough that violence was always a possibility.” He sets down the towel and meets my eyes.
“He tried to shield me and my brother from that world, but children see everything eventually.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight when I saw my first beating. Ten when I understood it could happen to me if I wasn’t strong enough to prevent it.
” His voice carries old pain. “My father taught me to fight because he knew he couldn’t protect me forever.
I think, even then, he was planning to double-cross the local bratva and get us to America. ”
The image of a young Yefrem learning violence out of necessity breaks something in my chest. “And your brother?”
“Dmitri was a year older and naturally better at it. He protected me until I was old enough to protect myself.” He reaches for my hands, studying the calluses forming on my palms from tonight’s training. “I don’t want our child to grow up in a world where fighting is necessary for survival.”
“But if it is necessary?”
“Our child will be ready, but I’ll do everything in my power to make sure it doesn’t come to that.”
The determination in his voice makes me believe him. This man who’s killed federal agents and buried bodies, who’s built his life around violence and risk, wants something different for our family.
“I love you.” The words come out soft but certain.
He pulls me closer, careful of my tired muscles and the new life growing inside me. “I love you too. Both of you.”
When he lifts me and carries me toward our room, I don’t protest. The day has drained something essential from both of us, and right now, I need the comfort of his hands on my skin and the promise of sleep in his arms. We make love slowly and tenderly.
Later, after showering together, we lie in darkness with his hand resting on my stomach. The baby is still too small to feel, but knowing life grows there changes everything about how I understand my own body and what I’m willing to risk.
“They’re going to come for us harder now.” His voice cuts through the quiet.
“I know.”
“No more half-measures. We can’t rely on hoping we can expose them without getting blood on our hands.”
I turn to face him in the darkness. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying tomorrow, we stop playing defense and start hunting them instead.”
The words should terrify me, but they don’t. After today, after being held at gunpoint and threatened with death while carrying his child, something fundamental has shifted in how I view this conflict.
“Good,” I say, and mean it. “I think we should start with the assistant director. Kim said she was due to die within days. They might have pushed that back since they didn’t capture or kill you today, but if they haven’t…”
“She’s in danger, and we might be her only hope.” He laughs softly, but it’s hard rather than amused. “I’m sure she’ll never see that coming.”