Page 135 of Savage Hearts
He holds it to his ear and says curtly,“Da.”
He’s silent for several moments, listening. Then he lowers his head and says “Da” again, only this time it sounds resigned.
When he turns to look at me, his eyes have shuttered like blinds drawn over windows.
“What is it? Is everything okay?”
“You need to pack a bag. Right now.”
My heartbeat picking up pace, I sit up. “Why?”
“We’re going to the city.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
RILEY
It’s a ten-minute walk through the woods to where Mal keeps his truck, concealed in a low brick structure built into the side of a hill. From there, it’s an hour on a rutted dirt road into town, a charming alpine village with an airstrip for small planes on one end. The flight to the city lasts just under two hours.
Like everything else he does, Mal pilots the Cessna with ease and confidence.
We land in Moscow without ever having spoken a word since we left.
I don’t know why.
I don’t know why I’m afraid, either.
But I sense instinctively that this is a big deal, him taking me into the city. More than simply being the place where he works, it’s also the place where his boss is. Where Spider is. Where danger waits for both of us.
In the forest, we could pretend he lived a different life. His absences were short interruptions in an otherwise peaceful little bubble. We were a snow globe on a shelf.
But the snow globe shatters the moment we touch down at Sheremetyevo airport, and I’m exposed to the other side of Mal’s life.
The darker side.
Where all his monsters live.
A black Phantom waits for us on the tarmac. The driver takes our bags and loads them into the trunk without looking at me, not even to acknowledge my existence.
It feels purposeful. Like he knows something terrible will happen if he glances my way, and he won’t dare risk it.
Mal says something to him in Russian. Then the driver bows—he bows—and opens the back door.
Mal climbs in behind me, then we’re off.
And I can’t stop looking out the windows. Moscow at night is a glittering fairy tale of lights, people, and movement. It seems larger than San Francisco by a factor of ten.
Mal takes my hand and squeezes it. “What are you thinking?”
“There’s no snow.”
“We’re not in the mountains anymore.” After a beat, he says, “What else?”
How well he can read me. When I look down at my hands, he wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me against his side, lowering his head to murmur, “What else,malyutka?”
I lean my head against his shoulder and close my eyes. “Everything else.”
He kisses my forehead gently. I’m glad when he doesn’t say more.
