It’s impossible …
Aksel’s eyes are dark and accusatory, sweeping over every patron.
But the man is no longer in the diner.
Aksel’s grip tightens. “We’re leaving.”
Outside, we hurry toward the Range Rover. The rickety SUV has been replaced by a sleek sports car, but the F-150 is still parked on the passenger side.
Standing between this truck and Aksel’s Range Rover is the man in the baseball hat.
He is leaning casually against the truck, smoking a Ziganov cigarette, with his arms folded, his head tilted to the side, watching us. Waiting.
Aksel steps forward, shielding me. His face is livid.
“Excuse me,” Aksel says with cold politeness. He nods toward the passenger’s side of the Range Rover, a half meter from the man. “You’re blocking our way.”
The man looks between the door and me. “Am I?”
His voice. His eyes. His buffed and polished fingernails.
Aksel’s breath comes out in a thin silver vapor. “You can move, or I can move you, but either way, in five seconds, she’s going to get into the car and we’re going to leave.” Standing beside me like a Spartan warrior, Aksel’s eyes blaze.
Abruptly, the man takes a step toward Aksel, like a tiny squirrel provoking a chained dog. Glinting in the man’s hand is the shining, polished edge of a blade.
“Get out of my way, boy,” the man says.
I slide my hand toward my clutch, my Ladybug.
Aksel steps closer to the man. He towers over him menacingly. “Five.”
Aksel’s knuckles are white; his right hand is clenched so tightly I worry he’ll break his own fingers; his left hand inches toward his side—his SIG. “Four.”
The man watches Aksel, still not moving.
“Three,” Aksel growls. His eyes are daggers. His body reminds me of the grizzly, about to charge.
I take a breath, preparing my motion.
The man’s face breaks into an impish grin.
Sneering, he mutters to me in a raspy, repulsive voice, “A scar for a scar.”
Then he ducks around the truck and disappears.
Seconds of stunned silence follow his departure.
Aksel unlocks the door, ushers me in, and walks brusquely to his side. It isn’t until Aksel is seated beside me and reversing onto the street that he grimly asks, “What did he say?”
As the shock recedes, fading to a dull hum in my ear, I realize why Aksel asks me this.
The man hadn’t threatened me in English.
He threatened me in Chechen.
CHAPTER 33
“Aksel, take me home.”
“Home?” he says, like I’ve suggested the moon. “I’m not taking you home.”
Between staring at me and checking the rearview mirror, I’m not sure how Aksel can watch the road. I reach into my satin minaudière and fumble for my phone. I call my father. One. Two. Four. Seven times. No answer. I call my mother. Nothing. I clutch my phone—what use is this anyway?
“I need to go home, Aksel,” I insist. “I have to talk to my parents.”
“Damn it, Sophia! That guy will know exactly where you live—”
“He doesn’t … he can’t …”
… A scar for a scar …
He does.
Aksel clenches the steering wheel. “I’m not taking you home,” he grits through his teeth.
“You’re going a hundred and ten. That truck can’t go over eighty—”
“Which truck?” says Aksel.
“His red one. He’s been driving it for months. Rusty Dodge. Mid-eighties. I don’t know American cars well …” I chatter to keep my mind occupied. “But we’re ahead of him—this is the fastest route to Waterford, right?”
Aksel grimaces. At the ramp crossing Highway 81, Aksel acquiesces. He turns east. Soon we turn onto Edgewood Lane. The tires crunch over the salted pavement as we pull into my driveway.
Outside, Aksel draws his SIG with his left hand. With his right, he seizes my hand in a ferociously protective grip. Side by side we rush up to the house. The living room is dark. I push open the glass french doors into the den. The six whiteboards have been taken down. A few embers burn in the fireplace, but the Prussian sword … the Dala horses … everything else remains.
My heels click as I run to the kitchen. No note.
Aksel walks around the perimeter; he checks the back door, side door.
“Sophia, we shouldn’t stay here.” He doesn’t sound afraid, but exasperated, like it’s the obvious conclusion and why am I not agreeing? But it is all thundering through me. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it back.
Breathe … Hold … Count backward from a thousand by thirteens in Dutch …
“Sophia?”
This isn’t happening. I bite my lip to stop it quivering.
“We really should go,” he says.
Attempting to regain my composure, I