Page 7 of 10 Days to Surrender

Kosti rolls a cigarette and lights it. I grimace. The smell of it makes my mind go to Feliks. Kosti got word to him for me, somehow, some way. He’s camped out in a Bronx safehouse, living under cover of darkness, waiting for my orders.

What those orders are and when they’re coming is a mystery to us both. I’ve been foaming at the mouth with thoughts of getting back to New York and putting a knife through Dragan’s throat.

The first time I snatched the car keys off the kitchen table and tried to go do exactly that, Kosti told me it was too soon. “Your body is broken, Sasha. Push too hard and it’ll fail on you when you can least afford it.”

“My body will do what the fuck I tell it to.”

He found me an hour later, kneeling in the dirt, unable even to finish the walk to the truck.

I had no choice but to acknowledge he was right—I’m not strong enough yet. Not sharp enough to do what must be done.

My body will heal eventually, though.

My mind?

That’s another question entirely.

Six weeks spent aimlessly horizontal gives a man too much time to think. And I had too much to fucking think about.

Well, too much and not enough. Because ultimately, all roads led to the same place.

Ariel.

Try as I might, I couldn’t keep my thoughts away from her. Even if I started with schemes of how to root out Dragan, where he might be vulnerable, how to reach him… inevitably, I ended up thinking of her.

Let me?—

No, Sasha. You had your chance.

I stand, spit, and start to curl the rock.

“The demons are alive and well today, I see,” remarks Kosti. The sun coming up over the treetops has his face glowing pink now.

“The demons can go fuck themselves.”

I watch him out of the side of my eye as I keep curling the rock up and down. He’s a difficult man to figure out, and he has shown little interest in answering questions.

Why’d you save me?

You seemed like a worthwhile investment.

Then why’d you fuck me over in the first place?

Family is a funny thing, Mr. Ozerov.

I can make neither head nor tails of the old bastard. As far as I can tell, he’s content to rot in these woods until my beard is as gray as his.

“At least give me some news,” I say between grunted exhales. “It’s been a week.”

He shrugs. “I’ve given you all I have.”

“Bullshit. ‘The Serbians think you’re dead’ came five months ago. ‘Things have stayed quiet’ was four. ‘No sign of her’ hasn’t changed since the first time I asked.”

I don’t have to explain who “her” is, thankfully. I have no intention of ever saying her name aloud again.

Kosti puffs on his cigarette and gazes thoughtfully into the rising sun. “Would you like there to be some sign of her?”

“I asked for news, old man, not psychiatry.”

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