33. Ofelia #4
Don’t move. I see Alexei’s mouth move rather than hear him, see the fierce blaze in his lone eye, then he’s leaped from my body, and the world snaps into focus as he calls curt commands to the other men on the clifftop.
He draws his gun and shots crack the air, breaking whatever spell I’ve been under.
There’s a rush of yelling and movement, during which I remain on the ground, completely winded from the explosion or the fall to the earth or both, unable to move even if I wanted to.
I hear the unmistakable sound of bullets hitting flesh at close quarters, a wet, meaty thud I’ve heard too many times in my life to mistake for anything else.
Finding my breath, I’m starting to move when a bullet smashes into the rock behind my head, barely inches from where I’m lying.
“Stay down!” Alexei materializes beside me. “There’s a fucking sniper,” he snarls to Jack, who is low to the ground several paces away.
“I know,” comes Jack’s voice. “I’ve already got people on it. Stay down until I know we’ve got him.”
Alexei crouches beside me, gun still in his hands. His face is the mask I know all too well. “Ofelia,” he says curtly, “are you hurt?”
“No.” I can barely croak the word out. “The yacht.” I stare up at him, dread twisting my stomach. “What—is it—”
“I don’t know.” He cuts me off before I can ask.
Mickey.
Lars.
Lourdes.
Benny.
My brother. My closest friends in the world.
They can’t be dead.
It can’t happen. It’s impossible.
My brain won’t allow it.
You were in a bomb blast before and survived. It’s the first truly coherent thought that enters my mind, and I cling to it like a buoy in a storm. A blast doesn’t mean death.
“We’ve got the sniper,” Jack says tersely. “But I’m not sure how secure we are. We need to get to my uncle Luca’s house. Ofelia will be safe there.”
Alexei takes my hand, and I scramble to my feet.
He half carries me past the inert bodies of several attackers, my feet barely touching the ground as he bundles me into the sedan and slides in behind me.
Jack sits in the passenger’s seat while one of his security detail takes the wheel, spinning the car onto the road in a spray of gravel.
Jack starts speaking to someone on his phone in a low voice, but I don’t pay attention, because I’m too busy watching Alexei’s face as he holds his own phone to his ear.
I don’t need him to tell me that nobody’s answering. His remote, closed face and the utterly dead expression in his eye is confirmation enough. His eyepatch is back in place, along with the blank mask I dread.
Seeing me watching him, he turns to the window, trying number after number, none of which answer.
We drive at breakneck speed away from Palermo, higher into the mountains toward the Bellini villa.
Jack touches his comms. “Speak to me,” he says roughly, his face pale and set beneath his tan.
I hold my breath as he passes a shaking hand over his face, then almost collapse with relief when he sees me watching him and gives me a slight smile.
“Copy,” he says. “Keep me updated. Your friends are all alive,” he says, his eyes shifting between Alexei and me. “With some injuries, most not bad.”
Most?
I tense as his eyes settle on Alexei. “Lars was shot before the blast went off,” he says quietly. “They’re taking him to the hospital.”
I reach for Alexei’s hand, but he pulls away as if he’s been electrocuted, his face utterly dead. “Tell me what happened.” His voice is calm, measured, and so detached that, despite myself, a shiver of fear trickles down my spine.
“Divers,” Jack says briefly. “My men spotted them before they managed to set all the charges, took nearly all of them out while Mickey and Lars got everyone off the yacht and into inflatables. They think that whoever had the trigger for the blast managed to get a shot at Lars before he pressed the button. His shot might just have accidentally saved them, since Lars went into the water and dragged Mickey with him a split second before the bomb went off. My men just picked the two of them up. Your brother will be fine,” he says to me, which is a comfort I’m grateful for.
“He managed to keep Lars afloat and alive until my men got to them.”
It doesn’t escape me that his reassurance doesn’t include Lars.
“Why were they shooting at Lars if it’s Alexei they want?”
Jack doesn’t answer. I follow his eyes as they cut to Alexei.
“Because they thought Lars was me.” Alexei answers flatly, staring straight ahead, his face cold and still as stone.
What?
I look between him and Jack. Alexei doesn’t meet my eyes, but when Jack does, the resignation in his face is all the confirmation I need.
“It makes no sense.” My voice shakes. “We were so careful—”
“How bad?” Alexei cuts me off, his voice harder than the bullets that hit the stone behind me only moments ago.
“Bad.” Jack doesn’t flinch from the question.
“It was a head shot. We won’t know more until he gets to the hospital.
” He turns to me. “My guess is that they thought it was a switch. Figured it was you two who flew in and that the people who left soon after were decoys using your disguises. Lars has been impersonating Alexei so often lately it would be a fair assumption.”
Seeing Alexei’s face, Jack abruptly stops talking and turns back to the front.
Oh, God.
I know, with a sickening, lurching certainty, that he’s right.
And looking sideways at Alexei’s face, utterly devoid of any trace of emotion, I know something else.
Alexei won’t ever forgive himself for this.
Whatever chance I had of repairing the damage Mickey’s words did is gone.
Along with any chance we had at a future.