Page 119 of Secret Weapon

Because if Alex did think those things, he’d be absolutely right.

Nine was the shield I used to hide the real Darya from the world and sometimes even from myself.

Today would be no different.

“I’m fine,” I repeated, then the server finally brought our food, and I turned my attention to a plate of waffles with fresh fruit on the side so I wouldn’t have to face Alex.

So I wouldn’t have to face the truth.

The carbs sat in my stomach like buckshot, and I spent the next hour studiously reading the guidebooks.Alex chipped in every so often with a suggestion, and I jotted everything down when all I wanted was to be alone.On my own, I could cope.I was in control.Alex took over the watch while I went for a bathroom break, necessary after three cups of coffee, but when I got back, he’d dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the table and packed up our stuff.

“What happened?”

“Timonenko just left.”

Now I saw him, strolling along the street, and I took up the tail while Alex headed for the car as we’d parked nearby.Had Timonenko left to buy lunch?Or was he going somewhere else?

I stayed at a safe distance as he stopped at a deli two blocks away and ordered…well, everything, it seemed like.Food for the whole office?When he emerged with three bulging paper carrier bags, I figured he was the designated lunch gopher, but then he turned left out the door instead of right, and a tiny buzz ran through me when he continued to a parking garage, one of those upscale places that would detail your car inside and out while you worked.The valet didn’t ask for his ticket, so I had to assume he was a regular.

“It’s a go,” I told Alex, holding my phone to my ear but speaking into my watch.

I didn’t have to give him the address because Blackwood had provided me with the watch earlier, which doubled as an all-in-one communication and tracking device.I didn’t much like the latter feature, but apparently it was standard operating procedure, and at least Black had shown enough decency to explain the features to me instead of just implanting it into my body while I was unconscious.So I’d agreed to wear it.I could always toss it if I decided I didn’t want them checking up on me anymore.

Two minutes later, the valet pulled up in an emerald-green Mercedes convertible, and Timonenko climbed behind the wheel, checking his hair in the mirror while the top folded down.

“He’s mobile.”

“Twenty seconds.”

Alex appeared from a side street in the Porsche, and as soon as I closed the passenger door, he pulled out into traffic.

“Emmy and Black will take over at the consulate, and Ana’s going to follow us in case we need to switch out.”

Timonenko didn’t act like a man in a hurry.When we got stuck in traffic, he tapped his fingers on the edge of the door, but in time to the music blasting from his stereo rather than out of impatience.At least if he vanished from sight, we’d only have to listen to find him again.He’d also be deaf before he hit forty.

“Didn’t have him pegged for a country fan,” Alex said.

“Sometimes, people surprise us.”

Alex glanced across at me, then reached out and twined his fingers through mine.

“Yes, they do.”

The screen on the dash showed a map overlaid with our tracking data, and I watched as our blue blob turned onto the Pacific Coast Highway.Had the general sat like this in his office, studying us from afar as we played our deadly games?The thought lit a spark of anger in me, but I tamped it down.That was the past.Dead.Gone.There’s only one tiny piece of my old life left—Ana—and the rest is history.Instead, I focused on the present.The white blob by the consulate must have been—ironically—the Blacks, and Ana’s red dot was a mile behind us, keeping pace.

“Who’s green?”I tapped a blob in Long Beach.“Hallie?”

“Hallie and Vance.They went to check out Bryant Angelou’s place in Naples.They say it’s nice.”

“Nice” was an understatement.We found that out a little later when Timonenko slowed to turn into the driveway.He had to wait a moment for a truck to leave first.Ella’s Catering Supplies.Angelou was planning a party?

Maybe we had this all wrong—diplomats spent half their lives going to events, and it wouldn’t be unusual if Timonenko attended a get-together.A showcase for Russian cinema, perhaps?A fundraiser for theatre students back home in Moscow?Like the rest of the arts, the Russian film industry was underfunded.

Alex slowed as we rolled past, and I peered through the open gates to the mansion behind, a monstrosity of giant terracotta cubes stacked haphazardly on top of each other.The architect had taken the “bigger is better” approach and stuffed the home onto an undersized lot with a perfectly manicured square of lawn out front.Or was it AstroTurf?Hard to tell from that distance.Another truck was parked to the side, this one filled with those tall round tables people put their drinks on at parties.Loading or unloading?Two men in coveralls walked out of the house empty-handed.Ah, unloading.A third man followed, and I only caught a glimpse of him before we were past the house and out of sight, but it was enough to make my breath hitch.

Because in that instant, I knew we hadn’t been wrong.

Timonenko and Angelou were up to their eyeballs in dirt.

I knew where the weapon was.

And I’d never, ever be able to escape my past.

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