18. Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
THEO
O nce my little bird fell asleep, I slipped out of bed, and pulled out my laptop. I scanned through the recordings from the cameras, but none had caught the direction the masked man had come from. It was inconvenient, but it just meant I had to patch into the cameras nearby, whether from other residents or businesses in the area. It took a while, but I finally found the footage I sought. Unfortunately, it was from a 7-Eleven, and the quality was grainy at best. The masked man had been careful to avoid the main streets, but he couldn’t evade every camera in the city. I watched as he darted through alleyways and side streets, his movements quick and purposeful. He seemed to know exactly where he was going.
I followed his path, jumping from camera to camera until he emerged from a dark alley two blocks away just before approaching her house. I zoomed in on the footage, trying to make out any identifying features, but the shadows and pixelation obscured his face and clothing.
I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my tired eyes. I had to find out who was behind this, and when I did, I would put a stop to it once and for all.
I glanced at the clock—3:42 a.m.. I knew I wouldn’t get any hits, but I ran a facial recognition scan on the footage, hoping to find a match in the database. As the program ran, I leaned back, my eyelids growing heavy. Just as I was about to drift off, a soft ping jolted me awake.
The scan had found a match.
I clicked on the result, and as the profile loaded, my heart started to race.
It couldn’t be.
Not after all these years.
But there it was, staring back at me. A face I had hoped never to see again.
Igor Petrov.
Nikolai Petrov’s sadistic brother.
His right-hand man and enforcer . . . torturer . . . executioner.
I’d thought he was dead.
I had watched him fall into the river myself, his body swallowed up by the dark, churning waters of The Hudson River.
But here he was, his dead, ice-blue eyes staring back at me, reminding me of my past—one I had spent years trying to forget. Memories of the torture I’d endured as his prisoner had the breath in my lungs seizing as panic spread through my body.
Not for me.
But for her.
I glanced at my angel’s sleeping form. Her delicate features were softened in slumber, blissfully unaware of the danger lurking outside these walls. I knew all too well what Igor Petrov was capable of, the unspeakable horrors he inflicted on his victims. I knew the depths of his cruelty, the sadistic pleasure he took in breaking people. The things he had done to me . . . The thought of him getting his hands on her, my precious little bird, made my blood run cold. I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t.
I didn’t know why he’d been sniffing around her house, but I would find out. And this time, I wouldn’t hesitate to end him once and for all as I sliced his throat open and basked in the warmth of his blood.