“And what about Nemcova? What does she have to do with Bekami?”
My father wraps my wound with gauze. “Everything, unfortunately.”
Beside me, Aksel twitches.
“You got another one here,” Todd tells Aksel.
“Another what?” Aksel says combatively, looking over at him.
Todd retrieves a pair of tweezers. “Another bullet, Rambo.”
I slide my hand into Aksel’s; he squeezes it tight.
“If you’re who they want”—I turn back to my father—“why don’t they go after you? Why are they so determined to get revenge through me?”
My father sighs. “CNF thinks you can help them get what they need.”
Aksel winds his free arm protectively around my waist.
“Still?” I say, both infuriated and bewildered. “Why?”
My mind spins. I’ve been used as part of my parents’ diplomatic covers my entire life. My parents chose their operations over me. They are no different than Bekami—using me to accomplish their missions.
The truth cuts into my skin like Farhad’s blade—Istanbul was because of my father. He chose his job—his obligations—over keeping me safe.
I will always be in danger because through me, terrorists like Bekami can retaliate against my father. Blackmail him into doing, or giving them, something.
I hit the window button with my right finger, rolling it down. Frigid air sweeps through the car.
I catch my father’s eye and throw my necklace out as far as I can.
My father finishes bandaging my arm and wipes his hands off on his pants.
Aksel straightens up. His arm behind my back flexes hard as granite. His fingertips press down on my hip, as if he’s holding me in place.
Ahead, I see lights on the ground.
Tarmac.
We’ve been in the car twenty-three minutes when the Suburban brakes beside a C-2 at the edge of an empty runway.
CHAPTER 40
Panic rises within me like a fast-approaching tide.
An airman ducks beneath the doorframe of the plane, stepping onto the platform at the top of the retractable stairway. Another airman in a flight suit at the bottom of the stairway bellows, “Two minutes!”
My father reaches the bottom step and turns back, beckoning me forward.
I stand motionless beside the Suburban, whispering, “No.”
“Sophia.” Aksel steps in front of me. His eyes sweep my face. “You’re leav—”
“No, I’m not,” I say, shaking my head. I look over Aksel’s shoulder at my father, standing at the base of the stairway.
“We’ve got to get in the air, Sophia, come on!” my father bellows.
Fear that has nothing to do with Bekami overwhelms me. “I’m not leaving you,” I gasp. “I’m not going.” I link my fingers determinedly with Aksel’s.
An airman steps up to me and puts a hand on my elbow, easing me forward.
“Hey,” Aksel snaps, pushing the airman’s arm off my elbow. His eyes are hostile. “Do not touch her.”
My father runs back toward us.
The airman puts his hand back on my elbow. “She has to come.”
“No, I don’t!” I wrestle my arm free.
“We have to go,” my father says, reaching us. “Flight plan’s initiated—”
“I don’t care!” I shout. My vision is blurry. Clutching Aksel’s hand, I stumble backward, away from my father, from the plane. “I’m not leaving!”
Tears roll down my cheeks. I feel the blood drain from my face, from every part of my body.
“We’ll come back soon,” my father reassures me.
“No, we won’t!” I shout. “We never come back!”
Aksel’s eyes flash between my father and me.
Can we escape? I can grab my father’s gun, take a double-shot at the left fuel tank. Aksel can get into the SUV, spin and reverse, enabling me to climb easily into the passenger seat—
“Now,” my father says firmly. “We go now!”
“I’m not going with you—”
“—or they will be able to track us.”
“They have been tracking us! Almost two years they’ve been tracking us, and you haven’t stopped it!”
“Ninety seconds!” another airman shouts from the bottom of the staircase.
“Stop being obstinate and get on the damn plane, Sophia! You know protocol!” My father is hurting. I see it in his eyes—that same glassy, tormented expression he wore when he walked into Jozef’s office; when he saw me for the first time in eleven days—beaten, filthy, and covered in blood.
Now I am standing, beaten, again.
The jet revs high. The airman shouts again. “Seventy-five seconds!”
Out of the corner of my eye I notice movement. I look up to see my mother emerge in the doorframe atop the stairway. She is dressed in jodhpurs, boots, and a dark green button-up blouse, her hair pulled off her face in a barrette.
Ordering the airman to stand aside, she leaps down the steps two at a time.