Ghosts over the Zambezi

The transition back into the sky was a violent relief. Once the landing gear retracted and the cabin pressure stabilized, the crew underwent a transformation. They moved with a mechanical efficiency, as if the silence of the desert had been replaced by a mandate for excess.

The scent of heating aluminum and savory oils filled the cabin as the attendants began preparing the meals—far more than the manifest would ever justify for a crew of their size. It was a silent acknowledgement of our presence, a way to provide for us without officially recording our existence.

"Eat everything," Boris muttered, staring at a tray of braised beef and root vegetables. "In my experience, the more they feed you on a flight like this, the longer the next stretch is."

"He's right," I added, popping the seal on a second bottle of water. "They're fattening us up for a long haul flight."

We ate until the hollow ache in our stomachs was replaced by a heavy, lethargic fullness. The adrenaline that had sustained us since Moscow was finally ebbing, replaced by the crushing weight of exhaustion. As the trays were cleared, we began to drift apart, claiming empty rows to stretch out and find whatever sleep the steady drone of the engines would allow.

I was settling into a seat near the bulkhead when I saw the cockpit door cycle open. The captain stepped out. He wasn't wearing a standard commercial uniform; he was in a dark, tactical flight suit that lacked insignia. As he scanned the cabin, his eyes met mine, then he jerked his head slightly toward the galley.

I stood up, my joints cracking from the lingering tension, and followed him into the narrow, stainless-steel space. He didn't wait for me to speak. He was already checking a tablet clipped to the galley wall, his movements clipped and professional. He wasn't a comrade; he was a transporter, and we were the liability he was paid to carry. The captain—a very attractive middle-aged man named Ivan—spoke in a voice that rivaled Henry Cavill’s.

"We’ve cleared the most contested airspaces," he said. "We’re over the ocean now, running dark on most transponders. We’ll be maintaining this heading for the duration."

"How long?" I asked.

"About ten hours from the moment we left the tarmac in Dubai," he replied, finally looking at me. "I'm giving you the heads up so when everyone wakes up, you can share this with them. It’ll be easier if they know what to expect when we land. It's going to be a long stretch before we're on the ground again."

I felt a clarity settle over me. Ten hours from Dubai, heading south-southwest at this velocity. Another ten hours of being ghosts, moving further away from the life we had left behind in Moscow. The math was simple, and the destination was unmistakable.

"Ten hours," I repeated. "That puts us deep into the interior. We're heading for Zimbabwe."

Ivan didn't confirm it with words. He just gave a slow, measured nod before turning back toward the cockpit door.

"Ivan," I called out. He stopped, his hand on the latch. "Once I’ve had three hours of sleep, come wake Boris and I. We’ll take over for a few hours so you and your co-pilot can get some rest as well."

Ivan turned back fully, raising an eyebrow in a look that bordered on derision. "Are you even licensed to fly a plane?"

I didn't blink. "I hold one hundred and eighty-nine pilot licenses from around the world. Boris holds one hundred and five."

The skepticism didn't leave his face, but his posture shifted slightly.

"Just so we’re clear," I added as I walked closer, "all of our licenses are active and in good standing. I also don’t appreciate the skepticism or your lack of belief in me and my licensures."

Ivan stared at me for a long beat, calculating the weight of those numbers against the exhaustion pulling at his own eyes. "Get your three hours," he said finally. "Then we'll see."

He stepped into the cockpit and closed the door.

I walked back to the bulkhead row, my legs feeling like lead. I didn't bother with a blanket or a pillow; I simply stretched across the three empty seats, adjusted my jacket under my head, and let the white noise of the engines pull me under. I fell asleep before I could even process the vibration of the floorboards.

Three and a half hours later, a firm hand shook my shoulder. I was awake instantly, my hand reaching for a weapon that wasn't there before my eyes even focused. It was Ivan. He stood over me, his expression unreadable in the dim cabin lighting.

"It's your turn," he said shortly. "I had my people run a background check on you while you were out. I had to be sure about those licensures. They came back clean. Every single one of them."

The sleep-haze evaporated, replaced by a searing, cold anger. I sat up, staring him down.

"You had me investigated?" I snapped. "I offer to do you a favor—to keep this plane in the air so you don't drop out of the sky from fatigue—and your first instinct is to run a check on me? I told you that my licenses were in good standing. My word should have been enough, especially considering I'm the reason you have a paycheck for this flight. My safety and my life – as well as my brother’s - are at constant risk as a direct but distant descendant of Tsar Alexander III. If it gets out that my real identity is found out and the fact that by my brother and I are on this flight, there could be threats against our lives."

I stood up, moving as close to him as the cabin allowed. "If I wanted to sabotage this flight, Ivan, I wouldn't need a pilot's license to do it. Next time I tell you I'm qualified, you believe me. I don't care how many people you that you trust on the other end of a sat-link but know that I care about keeping my brother and I alive. Don't ever waste my time or your resources doubting me again."

Ivan was too stunned to apologize, but he didn't argue either. He just stepped back, gesturing toward Boris. I didn’t bother to wake Boris and headed to the cockpit to fly the plane myself.

The cockpit was bathed in the dim, rhythmic glow of the avionics suite. The co-pilot looked up, his face gaunt with fatigue, and glanced at Ivan for confirmation. Ivan gave a short, stiff nod. As they vacated their seats, I slid into the left chair, feeling the weight of the aircraft settle into my hands.

I flew solo for the next four hours. The stars were vibrant above the Indian Ocean, a dusting of diamonds over a void of black water. The steady thrum of the engines was hypnotic, but the anger from the encounter with Ivan kept me sharp. Around the fourth hour, the cockpit door hissed open. Boris stepped in, looking slightly more human after his rest. He slid into the right-hand seat without a word, checking the gauges before settling in to assist.

"I heard what you said to him," Boris said after a long silence, his voice barely audible over the cockpit hum. "I am very proud of you for standing up for yourself. And for our brother. You handled that well."

"Thank you, Boris," I replied, my eyes fixed on the horizon. I felt the tension in my shoulders ease slightly, but another thought had been gnawing at me since the desert. I turned my head just enough to give him a sharp side-eye. "Boris? Did you really mean it? What you said about marrying me once we get situated in my home country?"

Boris didn't hesitate. He looked straight ahead at the navigation display. "I meant it."

I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a whisper that even the flight recorder might struggle to catch. "I don't believe you."

He finally turned to look at me, his expression earnest. "I will prove it to you when we get there. When we are finally safe, you will see."

I let out a slow, cold breath. "I know that Polina isn't truly your sister, Boris. She's your former lover and you guys almost married several years ago."

The cockpit went silent, the only sound the rushing air against the glass. Boris didn't look away, but the muscle in his jaw tightened. For ninety more minutes, we flew that plane together in a shared, heavy atmosphere before Ivan and his co-pilot returned to take the controls for the final few hours.

When Boris and I exited the cockpit, I moved ahead of him, my pace quick and my gaze fixed on the floorboards.

"Wait," Boris said, reaching for my arm as we entered the galley. "We need to talk about what you said. About Polina."

I pulled my arm away, not looking back. "There is nothing to talk about. The truth is out. Save your breath for the landing."

I moved past the galley and dropped into a jump seat near the exit. Boris started to follow, his face shadowed with a mixture of frustration and something I couldn't quite name. A flight attendant caught my eye as she was securing a galley latch. She noticed Boris trailing me, then looked at my face—tight and pale. She gave a small, understanding nod, stepping slightly into Boris’s path as if to check a supply bin, effectively giving me a second of cover. She glanced back at me, signaling she was okay with me sitting there.

"I need time, Boris," I said, my voice cutting through the hum of the cabin. "Go back to the row where your stuff is."

He hesitated, then turned and walked back into the dim cabin.

I needed to be alone, and this was as alone as I could be right now. The vibrating wall of the aircraft was the only thing supporting me. I had to come up with a game plan on how to tell Bob and Polina that we were going to land in Zimbabwe. I knew in the past Polina had struggles in Zimbabwe before moving to Moscow so I had to get us out of there fast.

 

The strategic ascent

The only thing I really appreciated about Popov was his terrifying but efficient driving. He didn't just get us to the airfield; he delivered us to the tarmac with the surgical precision of a man who measured survival in less than ninety seconds.

He didn't look at me nor the others. He kept his eyes on the terminal's perimeter, his hands steady on the wheel. "You have ninety seconds to clear this vehicle, grab your belongings, board that aircraft, and get airborne. If you are still on the ground when the clock runs out, the flight is gone, and you are on your own."

The urgency hit us like a physical weight. We weren't just boarding a plane; we were racing against a closing window of state-sanctioned protection.

"Go! Out, now!" I barked, the freezing Moscow air tearing at my lungs the moment I shoved open the door.

The transition was a blur of frantic, desperate motion. We scrambled out of the vehicle, our breath blooming in thick white plumes against the dark. I grabbed my bag, the leather stiff against my fingers, while Boris, Bob, Polina and Santiago hauled the rest of our gear toward the waiting air-stair. There was no time for grace or the lingering formalities of our station—there was only the necessity of speed.

A flight attendant stood at the top of the stairs, her silhouette sharp against the interior light of the cabin. She didn't ask for identification nor for our passports. She simply stepped aside, ushering us into the shadows of the plane as if we were nothing more than cargo. We were ghosts on this flight, and the lack of a paper trail was our only real protection.

"Hurry!" she hissed, her eyes scanning the dark tarmac behind us.

"Coming up!" Boris grunted, his boots thudding heavily against the metal steps as he practically threw the gear into the entryway.

I tumbled into the cabin, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I turned back, watching Bob and Polina scramble up behind me, followed closely by Santiago.

"Is that everyone? Are we clear?" I panted, looking toward the cockpit.

"Everyone is in. Seal the door!" Santiago huffed, his face flushed from the exertion and cold air.

Through the small window, I saw Popov. He remained a static, dark pillar beside his car, watching us with an expressionless gaze that offered neither comfort nor farewell. He had fulfilled his end of the bargain.

I wasn't entirely sure we would be able to do it—the timing felt impossibly tight, the margin for error non-existent. I sat in a seat next to the aisle, gripping the back of the seat in front of me until my knuckles turned white, silently pleading with the machine to move. Then, the engines roared into a deafening crescendo, the G-force pinned us back before we could even put on our seatbelts, and the cabin tilted sharply upward. As the wheels left the tarmac, my hope shifted into a vibrating reality.

For the first few hours, we were left entirely to our own devices. The flight staff was a ghost crew; they moved with a practiced silence, avoiding eye contact and offering no introductions. There were no safety briefings, no welcome drinks—just the steady, low hum of the engines and the oppressive weight of our collective silence. We didn't even know where we were heading but we knew that we were moving far away from Moscow, which was enough for the moment.

Halfway through the flight, the flight attendant who had ushered us aboard finally emerged from the galley. She stood at the front of the cabin, her expression unreadable.

"We will be stopping in Dubai to refuel," she said. "The stop will take approximately two and a half hours. During this time, you are prohibited from leaving the aircraft."

"Two and a half hours on the tarmac?" Boris asked as he stood. "Can't we stretch our legs in the terminal?"

The woman's gaze snapped to him. "No. Customs is always on the tarmac when passengers disembark. Since none of you are on the manifest, that would cause havoc and likely end in your detention as you are all ghosts on this flight. For your safety, you stay inside with the shades drawn. Understood?"

I looked at the others. The reality of our situation was settling in—we were safe from the Kremlin and Dubai customs for now, but we were prisoners of our own anonymity.

"Yes," I said for everyone.

She gave a nod and disappeared back into the galley, leaving us to contemplate the hot hours ahead in the Dubai desert heat, trapped inside a plane where we didn't exist. I hoped that the air con would be on as it would be sweltering without it.

When we finally touched down on the shimmering tarmac of Dubai International, the engines powered down, but to our collective relief, the air conditioning held. The hum of the auxiliary power unit kept the cabin at a clinical, artificial cool that stood in stark contrast to the brutal white light visible at the edges of the window shades. Outside, the desert sun was hammering against the fuselage, radiating enough heat to melt the very air, but inside, we were insulated.

Despite the comfort of the air conditioning, these were still the hot hours—a grueling stretch of time that seemed to liquefy as we waited in the dark. We sat in near-total silence, the only light coming from the faint glow of the floor-level emergency strips. Every few minutes, a heavy thrum vibrated through the floorboards as the fuel trucks connected to the wings.

"It’s like a tomb in here," Polina whispered. She sat with her eyes fixed on the drawn shades, her light silk blouse barely shielding her from the psychological weight of the desert outside. Even with the cool air circulating, the atmosphere was stifling.

Santiago sat across from me, his jaw set in a hard line. He looked less like a man escaping and more like a man awaiting sentencing. "The price of being a ghost is higher than I anticipated," he muttered, checking his watch with a grimace. "Especially during these hot hours."

"How much longer?" Bob asked from the back.

"Refueling takes as long as it takes," Santiago replied without looking back. "Just stay still. Moving around only makes the air feel thinner."

"They're right outside," Boris added, gesturing toward the window shades. "I can hear them talking. Ground crew, fuelers - if one of them decides to look through a gap in the seal, we're done."

"They won't," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "This plane has the right clearances. As long as we don't give them a reason to board, we're just another transit stop on a busy morning."

"Unless the manifest gets checked against the headcount," Boris countered, his voice low. He was staring at his hands, his knuckles still scarred from his time in the cell. "If they count six heads and see zero names, we aren't just in trouble. We're an international incident."

The hunger hit me before the fear did. It had been hours since Moscow, and the adrenaline was finally wearing off, leaving a hollow ache in its place. I stood up and navigated the darkened aisle toward the galley. The flight crew was nowhere to be seen, likely in the cockpit or tucked away in their own quarters. I began to raid the galley, pulling open drawers and sliding back metal shutters.

"Find anything?" Polina asked from the cabin, her voice cutting through the hum of the power unit.

"Not much," I called back as my hands shifting through plastic trays. "Just the extras of whatever the last passengers didn't want like snacks."

There wasn't much left after the long trek from Russia. I found a few stray packets of pretzels, some crackers, and several cans of soda. I gathered what I could find and brought it back to the others.

"Pretzels and warm cola," I said, handing a packet to Santiago. "It's the feast of the anonymous."

"I'll take the crackers," Boris muttered, reaching out. "Better than the gruel they served in Lefortovo years ago."

We ate in a somber silence, the sound of crinkling plastic and popping tabs amplified by the quiet cabin. It wasn't a meal, but it was enough to stop the lightheadedness.

Shortly after we finished the last of the snacks, the main cabin door hissed open. The crew disembarked, leaving us alone in the pressurized silence for twenty-five minutes. Through the thin gap in the shades, I could see them standing on the tarmac, talking to ground handlers in the blistering heat before they reboarded.

"They're coming back," Santiago noted, leaning toward the window gap. "And they've got carts."

When they returned, they weren't empty-handed. They brought with them the scent of fresh catering and the metallic rattle of restocked carts. They were prepping for the next leg of the trip, and this time, the haul was significant. They loaded in fresh snacks, tons of beverages, and actual meals packaged in heat-sealed trays.

"Are those real coffee beans?" Bob asked, sitting up straighter as a familiar aroma filled the cabin.

The flight attendant began to move through the cabin again, her expression still neutral as she began distributing the new supplies. "Meals will be served once we are at cruise altitude," she said, setting a tray of cold bottled water down near us. "Help yourselves to the beverages for now. Hopefully the snacks will hold you over until then."

"Actual food," Santiago whispered, looking at a sealed tray. "I think I’m starting to believe we might actually make it."

I looked at Boris. He was still staring at his hands, but he reached out for one of the new beverages the attendant offered. "To the next leg," he said quietly, cracking the seal on a cold bottle.

We were still halfway across the world, and the shadow of the Kremlin was still there, but as the engines began to whine back to life, the hot hours were finally drawing to a close.

The threshold of exile

The alleyway behind the Metropol was a throat of shadows, smelling of damp stone and the sharp, metallic tang of an idling engine. There, leaning against the flank of a nondescript black sedan, stood Colonel Popov. He looked less like a man and more like a permanent fixture of the Russian state—immovable, cold, and devoid of emotion.

As we approached, his gaze swept over us with the practiced efficiency of a man who evaluated human beings as either assets or liabilities. "Imperial Highness," he said, his voice a low rasp. He turned his head a fraction toward my brother. "Grand Duke Artem."

He offered a curt, almost imperceptible nod to Boris and Polina, though his eyes lingered on Boris for a heartbeat too long—a silent reminder of the cell he had occupied only hours before.

I stopped short, the folder of passports clutched against my chest like a shield. "What are you doing here, Popov?" I demanded, my voice tight. "You made the terms clear at the Kremlin. Thirty-six hours to clear the border. You didn't mention an escort, nor did you mention anything about you blocking our exit."

"Plans have a way of evolving when the stakes are this high," Popov replied, his expression as unreadable as a slab of granite. "I’m your contact for the duration of the transit."

"The contact?" I felt a surge of cold fury. The man who had overseen the violation of my privacy, who had treated my lineage like a laboratory specimen, was now ostensibly our lifeline.

I stepped away from the group, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I reached into my pocket, my fingers fumbling with my phone. I needed to discuss this with Kay. I needed an anchor, someone to assure me this wasn't an elaborate trap designed to lead us back into a windowless room or a permanent cell. But before I could even thumb the screen, the phone came to life, vibrating with an urgency that mirrored my own.

It was Kay.

"Popov is standing in front of me," I said the moment I answered. "He says he's the one taking us out by plane."

"He is," Kay’s voice was calm, but there was an edge of steel in it. "You can trust him, Marie."

"Trust him?" I hissed, looking back at the Colonel, who stood perfectly still, watching the mouth of the alley. "Kay, this is the man who held Boris unnecessarily. This is the FSB agent who oversaw the DNA extraction and connected the dots between my brother and me. My brother, of all people. Popov represents the very country I am trying to leave."

"He’s been our primary channel inside the Kremlin for years. He played the part of the inquisitor because he had to maintain his standing. He is the reason those passports exist, and he’s the reason you aren't currently in a subterranean cell. He’s a double agent just like you."

I let out a harsh, cynical breath. "A double agent? That makes me more suspicious, not less. A man who can deceive his own nation for years can betray us in a heartbeat. I don't trust a man with two faces. By the way, Kay? I prefer the term ‘quadruple agent’."

"Yet Bob and I trust you. And you don't have to like the man to utilize him," Kay countered. "The regular border patrols have orders to flag anyone fitting your description. Popov is the only person with the clearance to override those protocols. Put your pride aside for once and get in the car. The Kremlin is a shark—if you stop moving, it will eat you."

We hung up; the conversation had reached its natural but bitter end. I stared at the phone for a long second after the line went dead. I looked at Boris, who was watching me with a quiet, watchful intensity, then back at Popov. He was now holding the rear door open, his silhouette framed by the dim glow of the car’s interior. I rejoined my brother, Boris, and Polina by the vehicle.

I tucked the phone away, my jaw set so tight it ached. I didn't trust him—I doubted I ever would—but as the Moscow wind bit into my skin, I realized that my survival was currently tethered to a man I despised.

"The window of opportunity is narrowing," Popov said, checking his watch with clinical detachment. “I’m doing what is necessary to get you out before the window closes.”

I joined the others outside the unmarked vehicle. The large sliding door was open; the leather seats were cold and smelled of industrial cleaner. No one spoke as we climbed inside. The doors thudded shut, sealing us in a heavy silence. Popov took the wheel, navigating the labyrinthine backstreets of Moscow with a phantom-like grace, avoiding the main thoroughfares where the state’s eyes were most numerous.

"Where are we going?" my brother asked.

"To a point of exit," Popov replied without looking back. "The flight is already fueled."

"And the guards on the road? The airport security?" Polina asked. "Sera said the FSB agreed to our release, but the city is crawling with patrols tonight."

Popov’s eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, meeting mine for a brief, icy second. "The FSB is not a monolith. There are those who want you dead, and there’s factions that want your dead bodies as trophies. They are the ones patrolling the roads, regardless of what the Kremlin has officially decreed."

The city blurred past in a smear of grey slush and yellow streetlights. Eventually, the urban sprawl gave way to the industrialized perimeter of the airport—the same one I had used only days ago to reach Santiago. I braced myself for the familiar sights of the terminal, but Popov bypassed the main security gates entirely. We headed instead toward the far edge of the tarmac, approaching a different hangar. I felt a flicker of genuine relief; the change in location suggested a level of tactical caution that even I couldn't find fault with.

As the vehicle came to a halt in the deep shadows of the hangar's eaves, Popov put the vehicle in park. "Wait inside," he commanded, his eyes already scanning the perimeter. "I need to ensure the handoff is secure.”

"Wait," I said, leaning forward before he could open his door. "Crack the windows and leave the keys."

Popov paused, his hand on the latch, and looked back at me with a look of weary recognition. The silence in the car deepened, expectant and heavy.

"Why?" he asked.

"I don't trust you not to leave us in here without fresh air," I said, my voice cold and unwavering. "And the keys will be my collateral. If this is a trap, I’d prefer to have a way out of the box."

"You think I would suffocate the last of the direct descendants of the Romanovs in the back of my personal vehicle?" Popov’s voice held a trace of something—perhaps amusement, perhaps exhaustion. Perhaps both.

"I think you would do whatever the highest bidder asked," I countered. "Leave the keys."

He stared at me for a long beat, weighing the insult against the reality of my dislike of him. Finally, he gave a sharp, singular nod. He tapped the controls to crack the windows just enough for the freezing night air to hiss into the cabin, then left the keys in the ignition and powered off the engine.

Without another word, he stepped out and moved toward a figure emerging from the hangar's side door.

The moment he was out of earshot, I reached into my bag. My fingers brushed past the passports and found the cold, familiar weight of my dagger. I pulled it out, the steel glinting in the dim exterior lights.

"Boris," I said softly.

I tossed the blade in his direction. I didn't need to look to know he had caught it; the faint, solid thwack of steel meeting a calloused palm echoed in the backseat.

"Marie..." Bob started to protest, his eyes wide.

"Not now, Bob," I said, my voice low and dangerous. As I began digging deeper into my bag for the small pistol I had tucked away, the sound of Boris shifting his grip on the dagger confirmed he was ready. We were in a hangar in the middle of the night with an agent of the state, and I wasn't about to be taken quietly twice in less than twenty-four hours.

I moved to the front passenger seat and Boris moved to the seat I had just vacated. I kept an eye on Popov and the stranger through the cracked glass. I could hear most of their subdued conversation in Czech; I was far from fluent, but I understood enough to follow the thread.

"Their names are cleared from the manifest?" I heard Popov ask, his voice tight.

"Everything is logged in the airport and the manifest is essentially blank. It leaves only the pilots, a skeleton crew and a few passengers," the other man replied. "The flight schedule is a mess. Half the runway is locked down for two different government transits—yours being one of them."

"I don't care about the other transit," Popov snapped. "I care about the window I gave you. Is the route to the cargo strip open?"

"It’s open for now," the employee said. There was a pause, a rustle of paper. "But you aren't the only one pushing for a fast exit. There’s a Brazilian named Santiago also requested it. He's here expecting you, and he wants to leave with whoever you’re moving. He’s booked the cargo strip, but I have you elsewhere... where there are fewer eyes."

"Is he alone?" Popov demanded.

"He arrived with two guards and he's making a scene about the delay," the employee muttered. "He doesn't like being told to wait in the shadow of a fuel truck."

Popov didn't hesitate. "He will be joining us. But listen carefully: his information does not get added to the manifest. He is a ghost. If anyone asks, the plane departed with the registered crew and the few passengers on the flight only. Clear?"

"And his guards?" the employee asked.

"They stay behind," Popov replied coldly. "Santiago travels with the people I have. No one else. Tell him to meet us at the secondary access point in five minutes. If he's a second late, he's staying in Moscow."

I went perfectly still. The news that Santiago was already at the hangar was one thing—but Popov’s insistence on keeping him off the record and the demand that he abandon his security added a dangerous new variable. I leaned closer to the gap in the window, straining to hear any final instructions. The men just nodded at each other and went their separate ways.

When Popov rejoined us, he climbed into the driver's seat and immediately turned to address the group in the back before meeting my gaze.

"We move now," he said, his voice dropping to a low, authoritative rumble. "The hangar is clear, but we have a limited time frame before the next patrol cycle. We are picking up one more passenger before we reach the strip. Santiago will be joining you. He won’t be on the manifest. If we get stopped with him, we have to deny that he’s part of your party. Do you understand?"

I looked back at the others. Boris gave a sharp, decisive nod, his hand still on the handle of the dagger I'd given him, though it was too dark to be certain. Bob and Polina murmured their assent, their faces set with a shared understanding of the risk.

"Yeah," I said, turning back to Popov. "Where are we meeting him?"

“At a private hangar twenty-five kilometers away,” Popov said.

The engine turned over with a low, predatory growl. Popov didn't use the headlights until we were clear of the airport’s immediate perimeter, weaving through a service road that felt more like a scar across the frozen earth than a path. Every few minutes, I saw the sweeping blue and red beams of patrol cars on the main highway, a few kilometers to our left—the "monolith" Popov had warned us about. They were looking for us, hunting for the very lineage Popov was currently smuggling out of the capital.

"They’re close," Boris whispered from the back, his eyes glued to the window. "Closer than they were at the Metropol."

"They're searching every exit corridor," Popov said, his voice level but tight. "If they see these plates, my clearance buys us exactly sixty seconds of confusion. Make sure your weapons are hidden, but within reach."

The twenty-five kilometers passed in a blur of hyper-vigilance. I sat in the front passenger seat, the pistol heavy against my thigh, watching the road through the side mirror for any tail that might have broken off from the main patrols. Popov drove with a silence that was almost deafening, his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead.

We eventually turned into a secondary airfield, smaller and even more desolate than the first. A single hangar stood at the end of a cracked runway, its corrugated metal walls shivering in the biting wind. As the car slowed, a figure detached itself from the gloom.

It was Santiago. He stood alone, a dark overcoat pulled tight against the cold, his posture vibrating with an impatient, nervous energy. As our vehicle came to a halt, he looked toward the car, his eyes searching the tinted glass for a sign of us.

"Stay in the car," Popov ordered as he put the sedan in park. "I'll bring him in."

"I'm not waiting in the dark like a piece of luggage, Popov," I snapped, stepping out into the freezing night. The air hit my lungs like a physical blow. I watched as Popov approached Santiago, the two men exchanging a few sharp words before Santiago gestured toward the hangar behind him.

"The guards?" I asked as they approached the car.

Santiago’s eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw the true weight of the situation reflected in them. "They’re gone, Marie. Popov was very clear. I travel as a ghost, or I don't travel at all."

"I told you the cost of your exit was total compliance," Popov added, his gaze flicking between us. "The plane is waiting. If you're quite finished with the reunion, we have a runway to catch."

"Where are my men, Popov?" Santiago demanded, his voice dropping an octave. "You said they would be relocated safely."

"They are being handled," Popov replied with clinical indifference. "But they’re no longer your concern. Your concern is getting through that door and staying silent."

“I’ll connect with my friend when it’s save to do so, Santi,”  I said as we headed back to Popov’s vehicle.

Santiago climbed into the back with Boris, Bob, and Polina, while I sat up front with the bastard Popov. The space suddenly cramped and charged with a new, frantic electricity. "Are you alright?" he asked, looking at me as I slid back into the front passenger seat.

"I'll be alright when we're at thirty thousand feet," I replied, my hand still resting on the bag containing the pistol.

Popov returned to the driver’s seat, his face as grim as ever. "The runway is clear," he said, his voice dropping. "But we have three minutes before the radar sweep resets. If you aren't airborne by then, the FSB factions will have enough time to realize we’ve bypassed the manifest. If they ground us, I can't protect you."

"Then stop talking and drive," I said.

He didn't wait for a further response. He floored the accelerator, and the vehicle surged toward the waiting plane—a sleek, unmarked Gulfstream that looked like it had been plucked from a dream of escape.

Shadows of the Kremlin

The sterile scent of the infirmary had begun to feel like a shroud. It was hours later when the heavy oak door groaned open, and Dr. Arisov stepped in, his face a mask of professional indifference. He clutched a stack of discharge papers like a deck of cards he was reluctant to play.

"You are stable enough to move," Arisov said, his voice clipping the ends of his words. "But you are not 'well.' Do not mistake the two."

Boris didn’t wait for the doctor to finish. He was already at my side, his large hands steadying me as I struggled to pull on my clothes. My fingers felt like lead, fumbling with buttons. "Easy," Boris whispered, his shadow looming protective and dark against the white walls. "We are almost out of this cage."

We weren't truly out, though. We were merely moved to a different part of the labyrinth. Two FSB officers, their suits so sharp they looked lethal, escorted us down to a windowless private office on the first floor of the Kremlin. The air here felt different—thick with the weight of state secrets and old blood.

Three more officers entered. They didn't offer handshakes.

"I am Colonel Popov," the eldest said, his eyes scanning me with the precision of a thermal scope. "To ensure the integrity of the record and the security of the Federation, we require a full biological profile. Hair, blood, and a buccal swab."

I looked at the silver tray of medical instruments they had brought in. Beside the FSB team stood a woman in a charcoal suit I recognized—a representative from my own embassy. She looked pale, but she nodded once. "I am here to oversee the chain of custody," she assured me, though her voice lacked conviction.

"I consent," I said, the words feeling dry in my throat.

The process was invasive and silent. The prick of the needle, the tug of the hair follicle, the scrape of the swab against my cheek. It was a ritual of ownership.

Thirty minutes later, the door was opened again. "You are free to leave the grounds," Popov announced.

I turned to Boris, expecting him to follow, but an officer stepped between us, a hand flat against Boris’s chest.

"Wait," I snapped, my heart hammering. "He's with me."

"Mr. Petrov is staying for further debriefing," the FSB colonel said.

"I'm not leaving without him," I argued, looking to my country's representative for help. She simply looked at the floor.

"He'll be fine," she whispered, her cowardice palpable as she refused to meet my eyes.

"You are leaving now," the officer said, his tone final. Boris caught my eye, a subtle shake of his head warning me not to fight.

"Go," Boris mouthed. "I'll find you."

I was shoved—politely, but firmly—out of the Kremlin's reinforced gates. The Moscow winter hit me like a physical blow. The freezing cold bit into my lungs, and the adrenaline that had sustained me began to evaporate, leaving only a hollow, bone-deep ache.

I stood on the sidewalk, my breath blooming in white clouds. I was on thin ice. I knew that calling Sera was a gamble—especially with Elena’s icy disdain looming in the background—but I was drowning.

I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers. It rang three times.

"Hello?" Sera’s voice was sharp, alert.

"Sera, it’s me," I choked out. "I’m outside of the Kremlin, but everything has gone wrong."

"Deep breaths," she commanded, her tone immediately shifting into the iron-clad resolve that made her who she was. "Tell me everything. Now."

"I was almost killed, Sera. A gunman," I stammered, the words tumbling out in a jagged, dark rush. "Boris arrived days ago to help a friend and I move a couple out of Russia, but he stayed behind to get me where I needed to go. It happened so fast—a gunman with a gun similar to the one used to execute my family. He tried to finish the job, but Boris saved me. I’ve been held in a secured wing of the Kremlin hospital, but then the FSB moved in. They treated me like a specimen, Sera. They took blood, hair, swabs... they treated me like a criminal while my own embassy representative stood by in silence. And now they’ve kept him. They won't let Boris leave. He’s still in there, behind those red walls, and I'm just standing here in the street. I can't get back in, Sera. They won't let me."

There was a pause on the line, the kind of silence that usually preceded a storm. "Listen to me," Sera said. "I have more pull in that city than the FSB likes to admit. I’m going to make some calls. I’ll get a rush on those DNA results so they have no excuse to keep questioning your identity, and I will get Boris released before the sun goes down."

"Thank you," I breathed, tears finally stinging my eyes. "And Sera? There’s one more thing. I can’t do this anymore. I wanted out from all governments, but now... it's the Russians specifically. I want nothing more to do with them. I want the paperwork finished. I'm done being their asset."

"Consider it done," she said, her voice softening just a fraction. "And I’m not just getting Boris out. I’ll start the process for Bob and Polina as well. Once they realize who you are, they’ll realize who Bob is. We’re getting all of you out of Russia. Just stay somewhere safe and keep your phone on. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you."

"Good. I have a Minister to threaten."

The line went dead. I stood there in the cold, the wind howling around the spires of St. Basil’s, and for the first time since the gun had been pulled, I felt like I might actually survive.

I started walking, my boots crunching on the packed snow. I couldn't go back to the Metropol to wait. The thought of the luxury there felt suffocating, especially knowing my brother was inside with his new girlfriend, oblivious to the frost settling in my bones. Instead, I sought out the familiar, grimy facade of the hostel I’d used before the hotel had become my sanctuary.

When I stepped through the door, the heavy air smelled of damp wool and floor wax. I kept my head down, bracing for a question or a look of recognition, but not a single employee or volunteer behind the desk looked up with more than a passing glance. They didn't know me. To them, I was just another drifter looking for a place to hide from the wind. I was deeply, profoundly grateful for that anonymity.

The hostel wasn't safe—not in the way a fortress like the Metropol was—but it was safer than the exposed streets, and infinitely better than the complicated, gilded life waiting for me at the hotel.

I was assigned a private room, small and cramped, but it had an attached bathroom. The space had recently been scrubbed with bleach; the sharp, chemical tang hit me as soon as I crossed the threshold. I was able to open the window a few inches to help clear the air. Even the bedding smelled faintly of it, a scent that felt more like a sanctuary than the hospital’s sterile shroud.

I secured my things, then went back to the communal kitchen and grabbed several bottles of water from the fridge. Walking back to the front desk, I caught the eye of the clerk.

"I don't want to be bothered for the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours," I said flatly. "I’ll be sleeping."

They nodded with the indifference of people used to the exhausted and the broken. I left it at that and returned to my room. Once the door was locked and the bolt thrown, I stripped, went into the small bathroom to wash the day away, and went straight to bed. In the shadows of that small, bleached room, I finally let the world fade to black.

Hours past as I slept, the deep, dreamless exhaustion of the hunted. The sharp trill of my phone eventually pierced the silence, vibrating against the nightstand. I fumbled for it, my eyes burning. It was Sera.

"It's confirmed," she said, her voice carrying a gravity that fully woke me. "The Kremlin’s DNA testing matches the results from Doc’s mechanic. There is no more room for doubt. You are Marie Alexandrovna Romanov."

I sat up, the bleach-scented sheets tangling around me. The weight of the name felt like lead.

"The Kremlin has been busy," Sera continued. "They’ve been putting the pieces together between you and Bob. They know who he is now but I’ve held them to the fire. The FSB has agreed to release both you and Boris from any further service or obligation. You’re done, Marie. Boris and his sister Polina will be permitted to leave within the next thirty-six hours."

I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since I entered that windowless office. "And the cost?"

"Exile," Sera said flatly. "The four of you—you, Boris, Polina, and Bob—are officially banned from the Russian Federation for the next fifteen years. Boris and Polina are essentially being stripped of everything. They will no longer be considered Russian citizens or residents. Their citizenship is to be revoked the moment they cross the border. However, I’ve secured the necessary paperwork for them; they will be entering the next country as individuals seeking political asylum. They'll be safe, but they can't look back for the next fifteen years."

I gripped the phone, looking at the cracked ceiling of the hostel room. We were being erased, cast out of the land that had tried to claim our lives. But we were alive, and for the first time in a generation, we were free.

"Thank you, Sera," I said, my voice finally steady. "One more thing before I go. Tell Elena she should be looking for a special delivery soon."

I didn't wait for her reply. I hung up the phone.

A new energy took hold of me, overriding the ache in my limbs. I showered quickly, the hot water scrubbing away the last of the Kremlin’s clinical grime. I dressed, packed my meager belongings, and checked out of the hostel without a word to the clerk.

I navigated the Moscow streets with a purpose I hadn't felt in years. I found a mid-grade local store, the kind that dealt in traditional staples but kept the high-end stock for those who knew to ask. I scanned the shelves until I found what I needed: a particular brand of caviar and a bottle of vodka that had once been the standard of the old elite. I picked the most expensive of both. The caviar and vodka set me back eleven thousand rubles.

I approached the counter and set the items down. The clerk began to ring them up with a bored, mechanical rhythm, but when I spoke, the air in the shop seemed to freeze. I gave him a specific address for delivery—the private residence of Elena—and as the words left my mouth, the man’s eyes went wide. His jaw practically hit the counter. He looked at me, really looked at me, his gaze traveling from my eyes to the bridge of my nose, as if seeing through the layers of the drifter and the victim to the ancient, royal blood underneath.

"The address," I repeated, my voice cool and unmistakable. "It needs to arrive within the hour."

He clicked his heels together, standing up perfectly straight with a sharp, military snap. He bowed his head in a gesture of profound, ancient respect, a ghost of a world that had been buried for a century.

"Forgive me, I did not realize," he whispered, his hands trembling as he took the payment. "Everything is exactly as it should be for the delivery."

I raised an eyebrow in his direction.

"It will be delivered in two hours, Imperial Highness," he said, his voice hushed and reverent.

"Thank you," I replied.

I walked out of the store, leaving him standing there in stunned silence. I didn't slow down. I began to run, my heart racing, heading back toward the red walls of the Kremlin.

I stormed inside the Kremlin, bypassing the outer layers of bureaucracy with a fury that no one dared to challenge. Security details reached for their radios, but something in my posture made them hesitate, a command in my stride that silenced the halls. I was met immediately by the same FSB agents who had taken my DNA samples—the ones who had treated me like a laboratory animal only hours before. Now, their eyes held a different light. They weren't looking at a specimen; they were looking at a legacy they could no longer contain.

"The paperwork," I demanded, stopping inches from Colonel Popov.

He didn't flinch, but he didn't sneer either. He signaled to an aide who produced a leather folder. "Everything is prepared," Popov said, his voice a low rasp. "The release forms for Boris Petrov and Polina Petrovna. The exit permits for yourself and your party. The paperwork for Petrov and Petrovna includes that they are seeking political asylum."

I snatched the folder, then looked at the two blue booklets he offered next, embossed with the double-headed eagle.

Two Russian Federation passports.

I flipped one open. There it was, printed in the clinical, official typeface of the state: Marie Alexandrovna Romanov. Beside it sat another: Artem Alexandrovich Romanov. My heart hammered against my ribs as I saw the names—names that had been whispers of ghosts, now stamped in ink by the very government that had tried to bury them.

"You are giving us these just to cast us out?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and triumph.

Popov stood at attention, his eyes fixed on a point just above my head. "Though you are banned from the Federation for fifteen years, Your Imperial Highness," he said, the title tasting like ash and iron in his mouth, "you should know that these passports never expire. The State recognizes the lineage. You will always be who you are, wherever you are."

I nodded my head slowly, snapping the passports shut and clutching the documents to my chest. The cold weight of the past was finally meeting the heat of the future. We had been cast out, but we had been reclaimed.

He stepped back and gave a stiff, formal nod. "Thirty-six hours. If you are still on Russian soil after that, the protocols change. Do not make us find you."

"You won't have to," I said but I didn't move. "And Boris? I want him. Now."

Popov looked at me for a long, silent beat, perhaps measuring the resolve in my eyes. Then, he turned to the aide. "Bring him."

The aide hurried away. I stood my ground, my heart a frantic drum against the leather folder. Moments later, the heavy door at the end of the corridor opened, and Boris stepped through. He looked tired, his face marked with the strain of the interrogation, but when he saw me, his eyes cleared instantly.

"Marie," he breathed.

I didn't wait for permission nor did I seek it. I closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, throwing my arms around him. He caught me, his large, familiar hands gripping the back of my coat, pulling me in so tight I could barely breathe. We hugged, and we couldn't stop hugging—it was the only thing that felt real in that cold, stone fortress.

"You're okay," he whispered into my hair, his voice thick. "You're okay."

"We're going home," I said against his chest, refusing to let go.

I turned on my heel, pulling Boris with me, and walked out of the heart of the machine. We didn't stop until we reached the Metropol Hotel.

We headed straight to the secure suite of the Metropol. The tension didn't break until we stepped through the door and saw them. Bob and Polina were there, waiting with an anxious energy that filled the room. The moment the door clicked shut, the room erupted into motion. We all moved at once, a tangle of siblings reunited under the most impossible of circumstances. We hugged each other, a frantic, silent confirmation that we were all still here, all still breathing.

After a long moment, I pulled Bob to the side. The suite was quiet now, the adrenaline of the reunion settling into something more profound. I reached into my folder and handed him his Federation passport.

He took it with a look of confusion that quickly turned to awe. He opened it, his thumb tracing the gold-embossed double-headed eagle, then the name printed inside: Artem Alexandrovich Romanov. He looked at me, impressed, the weight of the document apparent in the way his hands shook.

"They gave us these?" he whispered.

"They did," I said, my voice firm with a newfound certainty. "And they banned us for fifteen years. But look at that ink, Artem. It's a permanent record. Once our ban is over, we will be welcomed back whenever we want. They can't hide from the truth anymore."

I looked around the room. The air was thick with relief, but also a growing urgency. "We need to leave," I said, my voice dropping. “We have thirty six hours but we should leave sooner. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can move on with our lives.”

Santiago was compromised as

the act of helping a married couple escape had placed a target on his back, and by extension, ours. I stepped into the bedroom, closing the door to find a moment of privacy. I pulled out my phone and dialed Kay.

"We need out, Kay," I said the second she picked up. "We need out now."

"I know," Kay replied, her voice steady but clipped. "I've been monitoring everything with Sera. I'll reach out to my contact in the FSB to help facilitate your exit. They'll ensure the border protocols don't 'glitch' on your way out."

"Who is this contact, Kay?" I asked, a sliver of suspicion coloring my voice.

"You know who it is," she said simply.

The realization settled in my gut, but there was no time for questions. "We need to get out soon as possible."

"I'll arrange it," Kay promised. "But you need to be ready to move. Meet my contact at the back entrance of the Metropol in an hour and a half. Be ready for anything."

I hung up and walked back into the main room. Boris and Polina were already hovering near each other, talking in Russian. My brother was gathering his stuff.

"Do either of you want or need anything from town or your residences before we go?" I asked, looking from Boris to Polina. "We have a very small window of time before we leave."

They both shook their heads. "No, we both grabbed what we wanted while you were in the hospital," Polina said. "We just need the border."

I turned toward my brother, raising an eyebrow. "Artem, do you need anything?"

He looked at me, his expression softer than I’d seen it in years. He looked at the passport in his hand, then back at Polina. "No, I don't," Artem said. "I have my sister  mostly in one piece, my things are packed and I have my beautiful girlfriend."

I gathered the last of my belongings, my hands moving with a mechanical precision. We had little time, but the hunger that had been suppressed by adrenaline suddenly clawed at my stomach. We gathered in the small kitchenette area, consuming the food and water Fritz had meticulously stocked in the fridge. We ate in a heavy, shared silence—a last meal in a city that had tried to swallow us whole.

As the others finished their preparations, I pulled a piece of hotel stationery and a pen from the desk. I knew Fritz wouldn't be working when we slipped away, and the thought of leaving without a word felt like a betrayal of the one person who had made this gilded cage feel like a home.

I wrote the note quickly, the ink stark against the lavender and cream-colored paper:

Fritz,

By the time you read this, we will be gone. I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done for me during all of my stays over the years. Your kindness and your discretion were the only things that kept me sane in a world that felt like it was falling apart. You looked after me when you didn't have to, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Please know that your efforts did not go unnoticed. I wish you nothing but the best. Reach out to Sera to let her know if you need anything from me.

Sincerely,

Marie Alexandrovna Romanov

I left the note on the center of the dining table, weighted down by a ring that he had complimented me on many times – if he sold it, he would get more money than his total earnings for the last twenty-five years at the hotel. I took one last look around the suite—the luxury, the shadows, the echoes of a life I was finally leaving behind.

"Let's go," I whispered.

We turned toward the door, leaving the comfort of the Metropol for the uncertainty of the back entrance, and the long, cold road to the border. When we stepped outside, we were greeted by Colonel Popov.

Reunion and release

The moment Boris stepped into the room, the sterile hospital air seemed to vibrate with a sudden, heavy heat. It wasn't just about the physical craving—though that was screaming loud enough—it was the weight of fifteen years. He had been my shield, my silent guardian who never asked for a price, the only man who knew exactly how to dismantle my defenses and put me back together again. I knew then that this man has been in love with me for fifteen long years.

As he moved toward the bed, his gait was purposeful. Through the fabric of his trousers, the thick, heavy outline of his dick was unmistakable. He was already aching for me.

I opened my mouth to tell him exactly what I needed, but he silenced me with a low, rough chuckle. His eyes sparked with a dark, mischievous glint that made my toes curl.

"Don't say a word," he murmured, his voice a gravelly caress. "I’m going to give you everything you’ve been starving for….earth shattering orgasms from eating that perfect pussy of yours."

The promise in his voice sent a shiver straight to my core. I knew that look. It meant he wasn't just going to worship my pussy….he was going to worship me.

He stripped his shirt off with a fluid, rugged grace, his massive frame casting a shadow over the small hospital bed. I kicked the bedding away, the cool air hitting my skin just before he replaced it with his heat. I spread my legs wide, an unspoken invitation he accepted in heartbeats.

He was on the mattress in seconds, his hands firm on my thighs as he buried his face between my legs. Boris didn't just eat; he devoured. He used his tongue, teeth and mouth with such a mastery that only a decade and a half of devotion could produce. Time lost all meaning. The world narrowed down to the rhythmic pressure, the wet heat, and the salt of my own cum. I lost count of the times I came, my body arching off the thin mattress as I came against his tongue again and again, screaming his name into the quiet room.

When the last tremor finally subsided and I was finished shaking from all the orgasms and frequent cumming, he didn't let me drift. He sat up, his movements were gentle as he reached for my arm to let me know he was still with me. Boris gently pulled my bedding back over me, tucking me in before leaning close to search my eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low and genuinely concerned.

I nodded weakly, my voice still a ghost of a sound. "Incomparable," I whispered, reaching out to trace the rough line of his jaw. "You always give me exactly what I need, Boris. You have for fifteen years."

Boris put his shirt back on and pulled a chair up to my bed. He sat with me, his large, warm hand enveloping mine. He talked to me in a low, soothing rumble, recounting stories and sharing quiet thoughts that kept the shadows of the hospital at bay. I watched him as he spoke, the flicker of the monitors reflecting in his eyes, until my eyelids grew heavy and I finally fell asleep under his watchful gaze.

Later that night, Dr. Arisov came to check on me. He took one look at Boris and the state of how I looked, but he didn't ask questions. Instead, he quietly signaled for someone to bring an extra bed into the room, having it set up and pushed flush next to mine.

Once we were alone again, Boris stripped down completely and climbed onto the bed joined to mine. He curled up directly behind me, his massive frame a wall of heat against my back. He wrapped his powerful arms around me, pulling me tight against him.

He didn't just sleep, though. Throughout the night, I felt his hands and mouth on me again and again. He sucked, squeezed and bit my sensitive tits that leaked, his rough stubble and expert lips keeping me in a constant state of arousal. "You're so soft," he whispered against my skin, his voice thick with a hunger that never seemed to fade. "I could spend the rest of my life right here."

He kept me on the edge, fingering my pussy until I was slick and needy, his large hands moving with a possessive strength that made me melt. "You like that, don't you?" he rasped, his breath hot in my ear as I whimpered against him. "Knowing you're mine? Knowing I'm the only one who can make you feel this way?"

Several times, when the quiet of the hospital was at its deepest, he moved down to eat my pussy again, his devotion never wavering even in the dark. Each time, he drank me in as if he couldn't get enough of my taste, making sure I was completely satisfied before pulling me back into his chest. "Mine," he muttered fiercely against my inner thigh, "all mine."

Feeling the steady beat of his heart against my spine, I felt him finally exhale slowly as he fell asleep, his hold never loosening. I closed used my eyes, finally at peace, protected by the only man who truly knew me.

In the morning, when Dr. Arisov arrived for his rounds, the sunlight was just beginning to filter through the blinds. He walked to the side of the bed and looked down at me with a knowing, professional smile. He noted my vitals, but his eyes lingered on my face, seeing the relaxation in my features that no medication could provide.

"Well," he remarked softly, sounding pleased as he adjusted the chart. "It seems you have much more color in your cheeks today. It’s clear you had the best possible medicine last night."

I shared a look with Boris, who was watching me from the next bed with that same steady, protective gaze. "The best in the world, Doctor," I replied, my voice stronger than it had been in days.

Boris just smirked, his eyes never leaving mine. "Whatever she needs," he said simply.

After Dr. Arisov left us, the tension in the room shifted again. Boris stripped out of his clothes, his massive, heavy length fully aroused. He rolled on a condom and moved over me, his monstruous dick was a welcome pressure as he began to fuck my pussy. He was relentless, his thrusts deep and powerful as he reclaimed me. When he finally hit his peak an hour later, the sheer force and volume of the cum he unloaded caused the condom to break.

I let out a sharp, ragged groan the second I felt the hot, slick flood of his cum pouring from the broken latex, soaking into my core.

Boris stopped immediately, his brow furrowed as he looked down at me. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice thick with concern. "Did I hurt you?"

I looked up at him, the truth finally spilling out. "I just had an abortion," I rasped, my voice trembling. "I was so scared, Boris... there was a one in four chance that you’re father."

Boris went still for a heartbeat, his eyes darkening with an intensity I’d never seen before. He leaned down, his forehead resting against mine as his hands gripped my hair. "Listen to me," he growled, his voice a promise. "Once I get you out of here. I’m going to marry you."

“I wouldn’t want anything more than that, Boris,” I said.

The awakening

Consciousness didn't return with clarity; it arrived as a series of jagged, cold intrusions.

I woke to a room that felt clinically excavated from ice. The air was saturated with the sterile, cloying scent of high-grade antiseptic and the relentless, low-frequency thrum of life-support machinery. My first instinct was a primal urge to gasp—to draw a breath that would anchor my spiraling equilibrium—but my lungs were no longer my own.

The violation was absolute. A thick, invasive presence was wedged down my trachea, a plastic serpent that triggered a gag reflex every time I tried to swallow. I attempted to cough, but the reflex slammed into the unyielding wall of the tubing, setting off a frantic, metallic alarm that cut through the silence like a blade.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound was high-pitched and pitiless, pulsing in perfect, terrifying synchronization with the erratic thudding in my chest. I tried to shift, to rise from the bed, but my limbs were leaden anchors, heavy with the weight of sedation and trauma. My vision remained a fractured mosaic of fluorescent whites and shifting, indistinct shadows.

I tried to speak, to demand an account of my captivity in this sterile purgatory, but the silence was forced upon me. I was acutely, viscerally aware of the air being driven into my chest—a rhythmic, mechanical shove that felt like a foreign hand inside my ribcage.

Hiss. Click. Whoosh.

The ventilator was the master of my breath. I was merely a passenger in my own body.

Panic began to claw at the fringes of my mind. I reached up, my fingers trembling and disconnected, clawing for the intrusion in my throat. My hand hadn't traveled halfway before a firm, gloved hand intercepted my wrist, pinning it to the bedrail with a strength that was gentle but absolute.

"Don't," a voice commanded. It was soft, clinical, yet carried the weight of seasoned authority. "You will only succeed in injuring yourself, Marie."

I blinked, struggling to focus on the silhouette looming over me. The shadows resolved into a face behind a surgical mask and shield, eyes sharp with a weary intelligence. He lowered the mask, revealing a face deeply etched by the pressures of his craft.

"I am Dr. Arisov," he said, his voice a steadying anchor in the fog. "Chief cardiothoracic surgeon. You have been sedated for three and a half days. The ventilator is breathing for you because your lungs sustained severe trauma; they require rest to heal. If you fight the machine, it will fight you back. Do you understand?"

I couldn't nod. I could only stare, my pupils dilated with a cold, silent terror, as the machine continued to dictate the pace of my existence. I blinked twice.

He consulted a tablet, his fingers moving with practiced, clinical efficiency. "You have a small army in the waiting room, Marie. Bob hasn't left the hallway in thirty-six hours. Santiago and Boris are pacing like caged predators. They are waiting for me to confirm that you have woken up."

The names sparked a flicker of lucidity. My annoying but favorite brother was here. Boris was here. Santi was here. The world outside this frozen room was still turning, and I was the one holding the weight of it.

"I’m going to check your vitals again," Arisov said, his tone shifting to the professional distance of a surgeon. "Just breathe. The more you relax, the sooner we can discuss extubation. For now, you are safe."

Safe was a relative concept in my world. The doctor took his time checking my vitals but was absolutely thorough. As the doctor retreated, the monitors settled into a more human rhythm. I was alive, and I was not alone.

A moment later, the door slid open to admit Bob. He looked as though he had aged a decade since he left the suite at the Metropol Hotel—his clothes were rumpled, his eyes bloodshot with a profound exhaustion. He stood at the foot of the bed, his hands clenching the rail until his knuckles turned white.

"Marie," he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of the silence. He took a tentative step closer, looking at the ventilator with a mixture of revulsion and desperate gratitude. "Jesus, Marie. For a moment, we thought the light had gone out. Just stay still. Arisov says you're doing well. Keep fighting. We're not leaving your side."

He lingered for a heartbeat, his hand hovering over mine before he turned and fled the room, unable to witness the mechanical life-support for a second longer.

When Bob retreated, Santi took his place. He moved with a predatory stillness that even the hospital gown couldn't diminish. He stood by the monitors, reading the data as if searching for a weakness.

"The Volkovs are clear, Marie," Santiago said, his voice a low, raspy rumble that seemed to vibrate in the sterile air. "They crossed several borders sixteen to twenty-four hours ago. No tails, no fallout." He looked back at me, his jaw set like stone. He gave a single, sharp nod—a silent contract fulfilled. "You did your hardest job of getting two innocents out. Now do your other hard job; rest. Wake up properly so I can stop babysitting these two buffoons in the hallway."

Finally, the door opened for Boris. He didn't hover by the entrance. He moved directly to the bedside, his shadow falling over me like a heavy, protective shroud. He looked down at the tubes and the wires, his face a mask of cold, controlled fury directed at the unseen forces that had brought me here.

"This is not how our story was supposed to continue," Boris said, his voice dangerously quiet, vibrating with a dark promise. He reached out, his hand hovering near mine before he withdrew it, as if afraid he might shatter the fragile remains of my composure. "But you are alive. That is the only fact that matters. The people who did this to you believe they won because you are in this bed." He leaned down, his eyes burning with a cold fire. "They are mistaken. Rest, Marie. When you are ready, we will get out of here."

One by one, they had seen me. One by one, I had been reminded of the debt I owed to my own survival.

After the men were ushered back into the hallway, Dr. Arisov returned. He pulled a stool closer, his expression shifting into something grim and unvarnished.

"I imagine you want the truth," he began. "You were shot, Your Imperial Highness. The ballistics were rather specific. You were targeted by an operative with Kremlin ties. The weapon was an antique—a piece from the era dating the execution of your relatives in 1918. A symbolic execution attempt, though the damage was modern enough. The round tore through your chest, nicking your heart and destroyed part of your left lung."

He let the silence hang for a moment. "Your heart has been repaired; it is resilient. However, we were forced to remove a small portion of your lung, which is why the ventilator remains. Boris told us that you suffer from a chronic lung disorder, so we decided that the ventilator will help. But you are compensating well. If your trajectory remains positive over the next few hours, I will authorize extubation. We will see if you can carry your own weight again."

He stood to leave, adjusting the flow of my IV. "As for the man who pulled the trigger, he worked for the Kremlin and is no longer a concern. My understanding is that the government has already taken care of the matter."

He turned toward the door, but the words hit me with the force of a second strike. Taken care of. The clinical euphemism for a permanent silencing. If they had liquidated their own operative to bury the lead, I was a loose end in a very long, very bloody rope. I was a target that had been missed, and the Kremlin did not tolerate failure. They were going to get me in there as soon as they could for a DNA test.

The monitor above my head began to scream.

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep!

My heart rate surged, the numbers climbing into a frantic, bright red. I felt the ventilator struggle against the sudden tension in my throat as I lapsed into a mechanical hyperventilation. I was drowning in a sea of oxygen. The realization that I was trapped, immobilized in this bed while the wolves were still at the door, sent me into a blind, suffocating panic.

"Marie! Look at me!" Arisov shouted, spinning back. He slammed his hand against the emergency console, triggering a cascade of alarms. "She’s tachycardic! I need a crash cart, now!"

Within seconds, I heard footsteps thundering. I stared at the ceiling, my chest heaving against the machine's relentless rhythm, convinced that the next shadow to cross the threshold wouldn't be a healer, but a finisher. The hospital gown was ripped from my body, leaving me naked. I heard someone scream: “Clear!” before I passed out.

Sometime later, Dr. Arisov came into the room with a syringe. I wanted to tell him not to, but I felt a pinch in my IV line, and almost instantly, the world began to dissolve. The sharp edges of the room softened into grey, the screaming monitors faded into a dull, distant hum, and the panic was swallowed by a heavy, velvet darkness.

When I woke again, the room was shrouded in the muted orange glow of late afternoon. The first thing I noticed was the silence—the rhythmic hiss of the machine was gone. The second was the raw, burning agony in my throat. Every swallow felt like I was downing shards of glass.

I reached out with a hand that felt disconnected from my nervous system, my fingers fumbling until they closed around the plastic remote. I pressed the 'call' button.

It wasn't a nurse who answered. It was Dr. Arisov. He looked as though he had aged several more years in the interval, but his eyes held a flicker of relief.

"You're awake," he said, moving to the bedside. "And you're breathing on your own. Take it slow, Marie. Your throat will be an agonizing mess for a while."

I tried to form a word, but my voice was a broken, guttural rasp that died before it reached the air. "They..."

"Do not attempt to speak yet," he cautioned, his eyes fixed on the oxygen saturation levels. "Just breathe. The world isn't going anywhere."

I looked at him, the urgency of my situation overriding the physical pain. I signaled toward the bedside table with a trembling hand, miming the motion of writing. Arisov understood immediately. He pulled a silver pen from his pocket and produced a thick stack of clinical paper from a drawer, setting them on my lap.

My hand shook as I pressed the pen to the paper. The ink bled slightly as I forced out the question that was currently suffocating me.

Am I in the Kremlin?

I turned the page toward him. Arisov’s expression didn’t change, but he took a deep breath, his hands folding over his chest.

"Yes," he replied, his voice a low, steady whisper. "You are in the central infirmary. However, you are in a secured wing. I have personally vetted every individual permitted on this floor. These are my trusted personal staff—people who owe their careers to me, not the state. I have issued direct orders: no one employed or stationed by the Kremlin, military or otherwise, is to set foot on this floor. To them, this wing is a black site. You are as safe as I can possibly make you."

I looked at the door, then back at him. Even with his assurances, the walls felt like they were closing in. I began to write again, my hand steadier now that the adrenaline was fading into a cold, practical assessment of my own body.

Bring Boris back, I wrote. Underneath that, I paused, the pen hovering over the paper. Is it safe for me to have sex?

I handed the paper to Arisov. He took it, his eyes scanning the lines. He didn't blink or show a hint of professional discomfort; he had seen too much blood and bone to be rattled by the primal requirements of his patients.

"I will send Boris in shortly," he said, setting the paper aside. He met my gaze with a blunt, clinical honesty. "As for your second question... your heart is stable, but your lung capacity is severely diminished. Physical exertion of will be dangerous for a while. You risk tearing the sutures in your chest or, worse, triggering another cardiac collapse. For now, Your Imperial Highness, your focus must be on sitting up, then walking. Anything more intimate is off the table until I say otherwise. Understood?"

I scrawled one last line before he could leave.

Can he at least eat my pussy?

Arisov stared at the page for a silent heartbeat. Then, a sharp, genuine laugh erupted from him—the first bit of humanity I’d seen in the room. He shook his head, the exhaustion in his face giving way to a brief, amused respect.

"Yes, Marie," he chuckled, tucking the pen back into his pocket. "He can manage that without killing you. Just stay on your back."

He turned and left the room. A few moments later, the heavy door clicked open. Boris stepped back inside, the door locking behind him. He looked at the stack of paper on my lap, then at the look in my eyes, and I could see the cold fury in his expression begin to flicker with something else. His eyes were full of passion.

The extraction

The next hour was a slow-motion demolition of forty years of history. I stood in the center of the small, cramped living room, acting as the arbiter of what survived and what was left to the dust. The smell of old paper and woodwax filled the air as Viktor and Ludmilla moved with the frantic, disjointed energy of the shell-shocked.

Ludmilla emerged from the kitchen clutching a stack of stained, handwritten notebooks. Her knuckles were white. "These are my mother’s," she said, her voice trembling. "The recipes are the only things I have left of her."

I looked at the thick, heavy binders and then into her pleading eyes. I didn't let my expression soften. "We are packing for survival, Ludmilla, not for a kitchen. Those are too heavy and too distinctive. We're packing as light as possible. They stay."

"But—"

"No," I said, my voice flat. "If a border guard decides to flip through those and sees anything from your past, you’re dead."

She withered, slowly placing the notebooks on the counter as if she were laying a child to rest.

Viktor appeared from the hallway, dragging a heavy metal toolbox that scraped harshly against the floor. He looked at me, a desperate hope in his eyes. "My power tools? I can work anywhere if I have these. I can earn a living."

"The same rule applies, Viktor," I said, not even looking at the box. "Only clothing and personal hygiene. That is all."

"This is my life," he whispered, looking down at the scarred metal of the box.

"Your life is what I’m trying to save," I countered. "Tools can be bought. A new identity cannot be forged twice."

They continued to move through the apartment like ghosts. When Viktor picked up his smartphone from the charging cable, I stepped into his path.

"The phones and the tablets stay here," I commanded.

"But our daughter in Kazan—" Ludmilla started, her voice rising.

"If you call her, you lead the FSB straight to her door," I snapped. "You can never contact anyone you know again. It is for your safety, and more importantly, it is for the safety of those you are leaving behind. To the world, Viktor and Ludmilla Volkov must cease to exist tonight."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the muffled sound of a neighbor's radio through the thin walls. They looked at each other, the reality of the void they were stepping into finally sinking in. They were shocked, their faces pale in the dim light, but they nodded. They understood the price of life.

An hour and fifteen minutes after I had sent the text to Santi, the front door didn't creak; the door simply opened with a clinical precision. Santiago stepped inside, moving with a predatory grace that seemed entirely out of place in the domestic squalor of the apartment. He looked tired, his jaw set in a hard line, but his eyes were sharp.

"Santi, thank fuck," I said, heading towards him and we hugged. I turned to the couple. "Viktor, Ludmilla, this is Santiago."

Santiago didn't offer a handshake. He looked down at the four medium-sized bags sitting by the door. He nudged one with the toe of his boot, testing the weight, then looked at me.

"He is the one who will get you to the border," I explained. "He will take you to whatever country you choose, provided you have no history there. You cannot go where you are known."

Santiago checked his watch, his voice low and raspy. "We’re burning daylight, Marie. If we're doing this, we're doing it now."

Despite the weight of the bags and the weariness in their bones, the Volkovs moved to pick up their luggage. There was a stiff, quiet dignity in the way they shouldered the burden of their new lives. They were proud people, and even as their world crumbled, they refused to be handled like cargo nor let us take their bags for them.

I looked at them one last time in their house. "Once you walk out that door, you don't look back. And once we part ways at the airfield, we never speak again. Do you understand?"

Viktor looked at Ludmilla and back at me. They nodded.

"We understand," he said.

"Good," I said as I stepped aside to let Santi lead the way. "Then let's go."

As we stepped out into the biting night air, I froze, and I felt the Volkovs stiffen beside me. An ambulance sat idling at the curb, its lights off but its engine humming with a low, rhythmic vibration. In this neighborhood, an ambulance usually meant death or a state-sanctioned disappearance.

"An ambulance?" I whispered, looking at Santi.

"Quickest way I could get here and back to the airport without raising suspicion," Santi said, his eyes scanning the empty street. "Sirens open doors that bribes can't always reach. Get in."

He moved to the front and climbed into the passenger seat, slamming the door. I ushered the Volkovs toward the rear. We boarded the back of the vehicle, the sterile, metallic smell of the interior a stark contrast to the home they had just abandoned. The doors slammed shut, and we began to move, disappearing into the Moscow night.

It was a grueling ninety-minute ride. Santi had chosen a smaller, secondary airfield on the far outskirts of the city, one that neither of us had used in years. The distance was a gamble, but it was safer than the eyes that watched the major hubs. Inside the swaying back of the ambulance, the silence was deafening.

"Where are we going?" Ludmilla whispered, her eyes fixed on the vibrating floor. "Exactly?"

"To a place where nobody knows your face," I said, reaching into my coat. I pulled out two thick envelopes and handed them over. "Open them."

Viktor fumbled with the seal. "Aleksandr and Elena Petrov?" he read, his voice hollow.

"That is who you are now," I told them. "You are retirees from Voronezh. You’re moving to a warmer climate for your health. Memorize every detail in those folders. Your birthdays, your parents' names, the street you lived on. If you hesitate for a second at customs, it’s over."

"And the money?" Viktor asked, clutching the envelope to his chest.

"It’s already in the offshore accounts listed in the back," I replied. "It’s enough to ensure you never have to work again. Just be careful with it and don't spend it all in one place. You can’t draw attention."

When we finally rolled onto the tarmac, the jet was already idling, its engines a dull roar against the silence of the field. We stepped out into the wind, the scent of jet fuel sharp in the cold air.

Santi stepped toward me, and for a brief second, the clinical mask slipped. He pulled me into a hug, his coat rough against mine. As his chin rested on my shoulder, his voice was a ghost of a whisper in my ear. "Look at the driver, Marie. Look and see who brought us here."

"Santi—" I started, but he was already pulling away.

"Stay safe, Marie," he said, his eyes hard once more. He turned to the couple. "Come on. We're on a tight schedule."

I took a step back. I watched as Santi ushered Viktor and Ludmilla toward the stairs of the plane. Ludmilla looked back once, her face a mask of grief and gratitude, before Viktor pulled her inside. They moved quickly, shadows against the hangar lights. I stood on the cold asphalt, my hands buried in my pockets, and waited. I didn't move until the landing gear retracted and the lights of the aircraft were nothing more than a fading star in the black sky.

Only then did I walk toward the front of the ambulance. The engine was still idling, a low growl in the dark. I leaned down, peering through the driver’s side window. The man behind the wheel didn't turn his head at first, but his eyes shifted to meet mine in the side mirror.

"Long night," he said, his voice unmistakable.

He turned his head, his face finally illuminated by the dashboard glow. It was Boris.

"Hello, Marie," he said, a grim shadow of a smile touching his lips. "I figured you might need a lift."

“Boris!” I whispered before I blacked out from excruciating pain.

Frozen debts

The biting Moscow wind felt like it was trying to peel the skin from my face as I leaned against a concrete pillar, the glow of my phone screen the only warmth in sight. I pulled up my encrypted messaging app and found Sera’s name.

I hesitated. Getting in touch with Sera was like playing with a short fuse. She was loyal, but she was also married to Elena, and Elena’s patience for me had worn dangerously thin when Sera mentioned my name the other day. Contacting her now was a guaranteed way to start a domestic firestorm in their household, but I didn't have the luxury of being polite. I knew that in this city of mirrors, Sera had likely seen everything and heard everything that had transpired at the airfield.

I need a lead on the hangar attendant at Sheremetyevo, Hangar 4, I typed. The old man. He was fired two hours ago because of me. I know that you saw everything and most likely heard everything.

I stared at the "Read" receipt. Five seconds. Ten. Then, the typing bubbles appeared, hesitant and flickering.

Marie, for the love of God, the reply came back. Elena is literally sitting across from me right now. You’re going to get me killed.

Then it’ll be a crowded funeral, I shot back. I need his name and address. Now.

Another long pause followed. I could almost feel the tension radiating from the digital connection. Then: I know the man you’re talking about. His name is Viktor Volkov. He’s been a fixture at that hangar since the Soviet era.

A file landed in the chat—a scanned ID card and a residential address located in a crumbling district on the far northern edge of the city.

Thank you, Sera. I owe you. Tell Elena I’ll buy her a bottle of something expensive to make up for the frustration.

Just stay alive so you can actually deliver it, she replied, and the chat cleared itself into a void of white space.

I pocketed the phone. Bob and Polina were tucked away in the secured suite at the Metropol, likely surrounded by security details and high-end room service. They were safe for now, insulated by gold leaf and bulletproof glass. I, however, had a ghost to chase.

I flagged a taxi, a battered Lada that smelled of diesel, stale tobacco, and old upholstery. The driver, a man with a face like a crumpled road map, didn't even look at me as I climbed in.

"Where to?" he grunted, his voice a low gravelly rumble.

I gave him the address on the outskirts of the city. He paused, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of my coat and the way I carried myself. "That’s a long way from the center of the city, lady. You sure you have the right district? There's nothing out there but salt, concrete and crime."

"I’m sure," I said, meeting his gaze in the reflection. "Just drive. I’ll make it worth the fuel."

He shrugged, shifting the car into gear with a violent lurch. "Your funeral. It’s a bad night to be a stranger in the North."

As we pulled away from the glittering, neon-soaked lights of central Moscow, the scenery shifted into the grey, monolithic apartment blocks of the outer rings—the "sleeping districts" where the architecture was as brutal as the climate.

The trip took nearly forty minutes, the city’s pulse fading into a low, industrial hum. This was the part of Moscow the tourists never saw—the place where the people who kept the city running went to disappear when the world was done with them. Viktor Volkov had lost everything today for a woman he didn't even know, and I wasn't going to let him sleep in the cold.

The Lada screeched to a halt in front of a building that looked more like a tombstone than a home. I stepped out, the frost instantly biting through my leggings. The driver rolled down his window, the cold air rushing into the cab.

"You need a weapon?" he asked, his hand drifting toward the glove box. "Or should I stay?"

"I'm fine," I said, pulling my coat tighter. "You can leave."

He shook his head, his expression darkening as he looked at the shadowed entrance of the apartment block. "I'm uncomfortable leaving you here without a weapon," he said, his voice dropping. "And certainly uncomfortable leaving you by yourself. This isn't a place for someone like you."

I leaned into the open window, my face inches from his, letting the coldness in my eyes match the air outside. "It’s safer for you to leave," I said, my voice barely a whisper but sharp enough to draw blood. "I leave dead bodies in my wake."

The driver didn't say a word. His eyes widened, and before I could even straighten up, he slammed the car into gear and floored it. The sudden jerk of the Lada knocked me off balance, and I stumbled back onto the icy asphalt. He made it about twenty yards before the brake lights flared. Realizing he still had my belongings, he threw the car into a frantic reverse, skidding back toward me.

He leaned across the seat, shoved my bag out through the passenger window onto the snow, and then sped off for real this time, his tires screaming against the frozen road. I stood alone in the silence, watching his taillights vanish into the dark.

I hoisted my bag and crunched through the frozen slush toward the front door of the Volkov residence. The smell of boiled cabbage and damp concrete emanated through the paper thin walls. Once I got to the door, I noticed the number peeling, and then I knocked with a firm, rhythmic persistence.

The door creaked open just a crack, then swung wide. A woman stood there, her face etched with years of hard winters. The moment her eyes landed on my face, the color drained from her skin. She didn't need anything to recognize the woman who had cost her husband forty years of stability.

"You!" she hissed, her voice rising into a sharp scream. "How dare you come here? You destroyed us! He is an old man, and because of you, we have nothing! No pension, no job, nothing!"

She began to yell, her words a chaotic blame and fear, her hands waving wildly as if to ward off a curse. I didn't flinch. I waited for her to draw breath, then gently but firmly placed my hand on the door and pushed past her.

"I’m not here to argue," I said softly, stepping into the dim warmth of the small apartment. "I’m here to fix it."

Ludmilla Voltek stared at me, the fire in her eyes dying down into a flicker of desperate hope and deep suspicion. The apartment was cramped, the walls thin enough to hear the neighbors' muffled television. Viktor was sitting at a small wooden table in the corner, his head in his hands.

"How?" Ludmilla asked, her voice dropping to a quiet, trembling whisper. "How are you going to fix this? The airport doesn’t take people back once they have been fired."

I didn't look at her. I kept my eyes on Viktor as he slowly looked up, his face aged a decade in a matter of hours.

"Ask him who I am," I said, my voice steady but quiet. "Ask your husband exactly whose name on the manifest he erased."

Ludmilla turned slowly toward her husband, her brow furrowing as she saw the sheer terror and reverence warring on his face. "Viktor?" she prompted, her voice barely audible. "Whose name did you take off that blasted manifest for this woman?"

Viktor didn't look at his wife. He kept his gaze fixed on me, his voice cracking when he finally spoke. "Her Imperial Highness Marie Alexandrovna Romanov’s name."

Ludmilla froze. She looked back at me, her eyes darting between my modern coat and my weary face. "Marie Alexandrovna? Who is that?"

I stepped forward, closing the space between us until I was standing in the center of their small, cluttered world.

"I am Marie Alexandrovna," I said, the weight of the name hanging heavy in the air. "I have a brother named Artem Alexandrovich. I believe that he and I are the last and most direct descendants of Tsar Alexander II."

Ludmilla paled, stumbling back against the kitchen counter. She looked at me as if I were a ghost risen from the very foundations of the city. She was stunned, her mouth working but no sound coming out.

"I told you I was going to fix your situation, and I meant it," I continued, kneeling to unzip my bag. I pulled out a thick envelope and a pair of folders. "I have passports and paperwork in here—new identities, clean histories, and everything else that will get you across any border you choose. And I have money. More than Viktor would have made in three lifetimes at that hangar."

I set the stack on the wooden table in front of Viktor. "It's time for you to leave Moscow behind. Start over somewhere the wind doesn't bite quite so hard."

Viktor looked briefly at Ludmilla, a silent communication passing between them, before he turned back to me. His hands were still trembling as they hovered over the paperwork. "When?" he asked. "When do we go?"

"We leave in two hours," I said, my voice tightening with the reality of the clock. "Grab all the clothes and other necessities you can carry."

Ludmilla’s eyes darted around the small room, landing on a cluster of framed photographs on the sideboard. "What about our photos or any items from our loved ones?"

"No," I said, cutting her off. "Nothing that can identify you. That includes photos, letters, your old identifications and prescription medication. You are becoming new people tonight."

As the Volkovs scrambled to pack their lives into a few worn suitcases, I pulled out my phone and pulled up Santiago’s contact information to text him.

Meet me at the coordinates I’m sending now. You need to do exactly what I did earlier today—get on a flight without a manifest. I have two packages for you to pick up and escort out of the country. Do not fail me. You cannot fail me or the packages. Take them wherever you can. In forty-five minutes, I will have two pilots ready at every major and minor airport ready to take you wherever you decide to take these packages. Tell them before they get on a plane, they can no longer contact me as it won’t be safe for them or I. Let me know when they have landed and went through customs.

The reply from Santiago was almost immediate, and it wasn't what I wanted to see. Marie, I can't do this tonight. I’m at dinner. I was planning on proposing to my girlfriend. Can it be another night?

I didn't hesitate, my thumbs flying across the screen with a cold, clinical detachment. Two lives are at stake here, Santiago. That trumps asking your girlfriend to marry you. You are the only one I can trust with this.

There was a long silence. I could see the typing indicator appear and disappear.

I’ll get to the coordinates as soon as I can, he finally replied.

You have an hour and forty-five minutes to get there, I shot back. Do not be late.