Page 109 of Lethal Legacy

That’s it.

“If you can’t get ahold of them, don’t worry,” I reassure him. “If we can’t get new passports, it doesn’t matter. It’s not as urgent as I thought it might be.” I feel a sneaking sense of relief at saying that, which in turn makes me feel guilty. I can’t afford to get complacent, to place my faith blindly in Roman. At the same time, every day I spend cocooned in this newfound life makes the thought of running again loom darker in my mind. Which incites a different kind of guilt.

But Papa is shaking his head. “Not that,” he says, again without his customary hesitation. There’s a dark edge to his face that sends a real glimmer of fear down my spine. There’s something he doesn’t want to say, and that worries me more than anything.

“Please.” I kneel in front of him, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Tell me what is wrong.”

He takes a deep, ragged breath and passes a hand over his face. His eyes, when they finally meet mine, are shadowed with such pain it hurts me inside.

“Alexei,” he says roughly.

I’m momentarily so shocked that all I can do is stare at him. We’ve had no contact with Alexei from the day we left Miami. To my knowledge, we had no way of contacting him even if we wanted to risk it. So when I answer, all I can do is repeat the name, my voice little more than a whisper.

“Alexei?”

Papa nods. Fear grips my heart.

“Is he—oh, God. Is Alexei...?” My voice trails off, unable to speak the dreaded words.

“Nyet, docha.” Seeing my fear, Papa grips my hand. “He is alive.”

Oh, thank God.

“My—friend. Argentina.” Papa speaks slowly, with a lot of hesitation, but still more coherently than he has in months. “Alexei—contact them.”

I frown. This is an entirely new development. Papa has never allowed me anywhere near his contact in Argentina. In fact, he’s been positively militant in keeping their identity a secret. When we first got to Argentina, Papa was still well enough to speak coherently. It’s only since his recent strokes here in Spain that his speech has been so badly affected. Back then, he was insistent that I remain entirely removed from his contact. At the time, I was new enough to our changed circumstances to accept his command without question. In the years since, however, I’ve pushed more than once for information. Papa has always staunchly refused to say a word.

To discover, after all this time, that the Argentinian contact is a potential channel of communication to the brother I love and miss so deeply feels like something akin to betrayal.

“You’ve been in contact with Alexei?” Releasing Papa’s hands, I sit back, battling to keep my anger under control.

His mouth tightens. “Never—until this.” The truth in his expression calms me somewhat. “Emergency,” Papa manages. “Only contact—if emergency.”

“Ah.” It’s beginning to make sense. “You gave Alexei the details of your Argentinian friend and told him to contact them only in the case of an emergency?”

Papa nods vigorously.

“Then what is the emergency? Did your contact tell you?”

His hesitation increases my mounting anxiety. His mouth is a grim line, and I can sense the battle he’s fighting inside himself. “Papa.” I grasp his hands again. “You told me once that nobody can fight an enemy they don’t know about. I need to know what dangers we might face. Please, trust me with this?”

I can feel his reluctance, his internal fury that he must share information like this with me, his daughter, whom he still believes it is his job to protect. Part of me is impatient; after all these years, surely I’ve earned the right to have a seat at the decision table? But a deeper part of me, perhaps the part that recently witnessed Roman’s fury at my mistrust, understands instinctively how hard this is for my father. I force myself to wait patiently.

When he finally does speak, however, a childish part of me wishes I could have remained in ignorance forever.

“Alexei,” he rasps, the words dragging from him like blood from a stone, “says—Orlovs—coming.” His blue eyes fix on mine, the reluctant truth in them striking my heart in two. “He say they—know—we here.”

Fear grips me hard enough that I’m temporarily unable to speak.

“Too—late—to run.” This last is said heavily. It’s this, I realize, that has stopped Papa from saying anything to me. He’s done the math. He knows that if Alexei has given this warning, then people are here, in Malaga, looking for us. And if they’re this close, then Papa is right: it’s too late for us to run.

“They found us?” My voice is barely a whisper.

He drops his head. “Da,” he says heavily. “I—think I—knew.”

I know what he means. There have been too many coincidences lately.

The robbery.

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