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.