The weight of the cloudless night sky

The silence in the small, private cabin was heavy and it was nearly suffocating. Boris, Santi, and I sat on the narrow leather seats, the persistent hum of the jet engines the only thing filling the void between us. Everything had shifted. The air around Boris felt bruised; he was a man who moved with a certain gravity, and in that moment, the weight of his presence seemed to be pulling the very floor out from under us.

He was hurting, and I knew exactly why. It wasn’t merely the rejection; it was the wreckage of a broken promise. Only days ago, in the feverish heat of a very passionate fuck, he had asked me to marry him. Caught in the intensity of the moment, I had told him I would marry him. But as the adrenaline faded and I realized exactly who and what I wanted, that promise had become an unintended weapon. I had hurt him by telling him that I wasn’t ready to be tied down and the guilt sat like lead in my chest.

In the cold reality of a flight to Havana, those whispered words had been reduced to mere friction—meaningless to me now, but a vital lifeline to him.

Santi sat across from us, his gaze fixed on the invisible legalities of my empty vow. As a lawyer, he was already dissecting the validity of a verbal contract made mid-fuck, likely calculating how to navigate the fallout if it ever came to a dispute. But he knew Boris better than that. Boris wasn’t interested in a legalities but he was a man looking for an exit strategy. He wanted to leave the Russian shadows behind and cease being an agent of a government that offered him no loyalty in return.

"This room is getting too small," Boris said as he stood up. He was a large man who wasn’t built for the cramped confines of a fuselage. "I need to stretch."

He stood, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. He turned to me, offering a long, searching gaze that I found impossible to meet.

"Get some rest, Boris," I said softly.

"Rest," he repeated, his smile hollow and devoid of warmth. "Yes. The Cuban government will not be happy with us when we land as they are with the Federation. I should sleep while I am still a free man."

He stepped out, his massive frame disappearing into the main cabin. The moment the latch engaged, the atmosphere in the room transformed instantly. The grief evaporated, replaced by a sharp, electric hunger that had been simmering just beneath the surface.

I stood up and slid the deadbolt into place. When I turned back, Santi was watching me, his dark eyes hooded and expectant. Without a word, I reached for the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head. By the time I reached his seat, I had stripped completely, my skin humming in the cool air.

Santi stood, his movements efficient and urgent as he shed his own clothes. He sank back into the chair with his legs slightly spread, watching me with a gaze that stripped away whatever was left of my composure. I straddled him, the heat of his dick a welcome distraction as I slid down, taking him all at once. A low, guttural moan caught in my throat as we connected.

"You've been waiting for him to leave," Santi whispered, his voice thick as I bottomed out on him.

"Don't talk about him," I breathed, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders as I began to move. "Just fuck me. Right now."

"I'm here," he countered, his large hands finding my tits and squeezing one with a possessive, heavy grip while he suckled the nipple of the other, pulling hard. He pulled back for a moment, his eyes searching mine. "Is this what you want? No promises, no contracts?"

"Exactly this," I managed to say, my breath hitching as I ground my hips against him. "No strings, Santi. Just this."

"Then take it," he growled against my skin.

I rode him with a slow, deliberate rhythm that quickly turned frantic, the air in the utilitarian space growing thick with the scent of sex and sweat. He alternated his attention between my tits, his mouth and hands working in tandem, teeth grazing my nipples while he kept a bruising grip on my waist. Every time I felt myself peaking, he would whisper my name, urging me to take every inch of him. He came inside me repeatedly, the heat of it filling me and grounding me in the present.

Eventually, our adrenaline faded. I pulled away, my skin cooling rapidly in the dry, recycled air of the cabin. Santi leaned back against the leather, his chest still heaving from the exertion.

"You aren't on birth control," he reminded me, his voice returning to that pragmatic edge. "And given the recent abortion, this is incredibly risky."

"I’m aware," I said, reaching for my lace panties and dressing with practiced composure. "I have several types of emergency contraceptive pills in my bag. I’ll take them as soon as I’m back at my seat. I’ve already scheduled an appointment with a clinic in Cuba shortly after we land to get back on the pill."

Santi looked visibly relieved, the tension in his jaw finally dissipating. "I didn't want to make things even more complicated with Boris right now."

"It became complicated the moment I told you both that I refused to be tied down though I love the both you," I said, zipping my skirt and meeting his gaze with unflinching clarity. "I intend to enjoy my sexual freedom with whomever I choose, whenever I choose. That hasn't changed."

Santi offered a slow, silent nod of acknowledgment. I finished dressing, adjusted my hair, and left him alone in the dim light of that small room.

Returning to the main cabin, I requested a cup of ice from a flight attendant. At my seat, I laid out the snacks and bottled juices I’d purchased at the duty-free shop. When the attendant returned, I thanked them, poured the juice over the ice, and began to eat.

I was still somewhat full from the food court, but I understood the necessity of the snack. If I didn’t have something in my stomach before taking the emergency contraceptives, the resulting nausea would be debilitating, and I couldn't risk vomiting up the medication. I had to be certain. After finishing several snacks and two juices, I retrieved the pills from my bag and swallowed them, washing them down and settling in to wait for the descent into Havana. I knew that it would be a few more hours.

 

The glass cage of loyalty

The wheels touched down in Chile with a jarring thud that felt like a gavel striking a desk. When the plane stopped and was ready, we disembarked on the tarmac. I was grateful for fresh air.

We shuffled toward the Customs checkpoint. The air in the terminal felt thick, charged with a static that made the hair on my arms stand up. I could feel the tremors of nerves radiating off my brother, Bob. Beside him, Boris and Polina were walking with a stiff, military precision that screamed "guilty" to anyone looking closely enough.

"Relax your shoulders, Boris," I told him. "You look like you’re carrying a live shell."

"I feel like I’m being funneled and I hate the feeling," he stated.

I reached into my pocket in my vest to make sure that my passport was still there. Thankfully, it was. I slipped my hand into my bag to check on my Russian Federation passport. I sighed with relief. It was tucked into the hidden seam of my bag. My Russian Federation passport is  my final insurance policy. I prayed to every deity I could name in those ten minutes of getting through customs and off to where we needed to go that neiter Bob nor I would have to pull them out. Drawing that kind of attention was a last resort.

We approached the next Customs booth. I watched from the corner of my eye as Bob handed over his documents with a practiced, bored expression. Boris and Polina followed suit, their movements professional yet they were trying to minimize their presence.

The agent barely looked up at me. A few rhythmic stamps, a drone-like "Bienvenido," and I was through. In a matter of a few minutes, we were all through.

The relief was a physical wave, but we didn't congregate at the gate. Without discussing it much, each of us sought the anonymity of the terminal's far corners in the food court. I needed the distance. I found a small, quiet restaurant tucked away from the main food court. I ordered a massive Completo Italiano—a hot dog piled impossibly high with mashed avocado, chopped tomatoes, and a thick ribbon of mayonnaise—alongside a bowl of Cazuela, the rich beef and pumpkin stew warming me from the inside out. I ate in a solitary, methodical rhythm, my eyes fixed on the terminal windows.

Afterward, I moved through the duty-free shops picking up a heavy stash of snacks to sustain me through the final leg. I filled a bag with Súper 8 chocolate wafers, several packs of Ramitas—those salty, addictive evergreen-needle-shaped flour snacks—and a couple of bottles of Papaya nectar.

It wasn't until ten minutes before boarding started that we finally converged at the gate. We were all stuffed, the food coma hitting us simultaneously, creating a heavy, silent blanket over the group. We didn't speak as we waited, nor did we speak when the gate agent called us.

As we boarded the plane, we provided our tickets, shuffled down the jet bridge, and stepped out of the public eye for the last time for eight and a half or so hours. The jet bridge brought us out to the tarmac and closer to the plane

The Gulfstream sat on the tarmac, a sleek silver needle glinting against the sun. As we climbed the stairs, the transition was staggering. The bustling terminal vanished, replaced by a cavernous, plush void. Aside from the three pilots in the cockpit and a crew of six flight attendants standing at attention, the cabin was ours alone.

"We might as well spread out," Boris stated as he realized that we were the only passengers.

Polina and Bob immediately claimed a pair of seats near the galley, disappearing into their own whispered world. I felt a weight on the back of my neck and turned to find Boris watching me. He had that heavy, possessive gaze—the one he’d worn ever since that feverish night in Moscow when he declared he was going to marry me while we fucked.

He’d said it in the heat of a moment, his massive frame pushing me to my absolute limits. I loved him, but as I looked at him now, I wondered: was it devotion, or just the addictive high of how well we fit together? He wasn't the most skilled lover nor the worst lover that I’ve had, but he was undeniably the only man that had the largest dick I’ve seen and experienced.

"I need a minute to think and time to myself, Boris," I said, sidestepping his hand as he reached for me. "The flight is long and I don’t know if you meant what you asked the other day when we were fucking."

I caught the eye of a flight attendant near the mid-cabin partition. "Is there somewhere I can have absolute privacy?" I whispered. "Obviously, not the lavatory. Somewhere else that’s quiet."

He nodded discreetly, leading me toward the rear of the aircraft, past the main seating area to a secluded lounge near the auxiliary crew stairs. It was a soundproofed pocket of luxury with a velvet banquette and a small mahogany counter.

"This is as private as I can give you, Miss Smith. The door locks from the inside, but you’ll have to be in a passenger seat for takeoff in a few minutes."

"Thank you," I said, following him back to the main cabin.

I dropped into a seat, buckled in, and let the roar of the engines drown out my thoughts. I fell asleep before the nose lifted.

When I woke, the plane was level, cruising through a sea of stars. I unbuckled and made my way back to the private lounge the attendant had shown me. I sat in the dim amber light, the vibration of the engines thrumming through my bones. I needed to know the truth of my own heart. Did I love Boris for the man who saved my life, or was I just intoxicated by the sheer, overwhelming physical reality of him and his dick?

Twenty minutes later, a rhythmic knock sounded on the door.

I knew that rhythm. It was Santi. I slid the lock back and let him in. The air in the tiny room instantly turned electric.

"You’re hiding," Santi said softly. "Boris is pacing the aisle like a caged tiger. What’s going on?"

"I’m overthinking," I admitted, leaning back against the counter. "Boris wants to marry me. He asked mid fuck while I was in the hidden hospital in the basement of the Kremlin. I don’t know if he thinks because I’m his ticket out of hell, it translates to a lifetime. Does he even know me, Santi? Or am I just the woman who stayed and got him out of Russia and servitude?"

Santi stepped closer, his shadow swallowing me. "He’s seen you as a friend for years, but the dedication you showed, it changed him. He realized he loved you because you were the only one who didn't run when the world caught fire. He's serious."

I looked up at him, my heart hammering. "And what if I want someone else? What if I want more than just one version of love?"

Santi’s eyes darkened, a predatory edge surfacing. "Who do you want?"

"I want you," I breathed. "I’ve wanted you for a long time."

The silence lasted a heartbeat too long before Santi lunged. His mouth crashed against mine in a kiss that tasted of years of suppressed longing. We stripped with a frantic, silent efficiency. He turned me around, pressing my chest against the cool mahogany of the counter and bending me over. When he pushed into me from behind, a sharp, ragged moan escaped my throat.

He fucked me with a desperate, punishing rhythm, his hands bruising my hips as he claimed what he had clearly wanted for a lifetime.

"I’ve always loved you," he growled into my ear, his breath searing my skin. "Every time I watched others touch you, it felt like a blade in my gut. You have to choose, baby. You can't keep us both on a leash."

"What if I can't?" I gasped, my head falling back against his shoulder. "What if the choice is both or nothing?"

Santi gripped my hips even harder, his thrusts reaching a fever pitch. "I can live with that," he groaned, his voice breaking. "If it means I get to keep this, I can live with anything."

He came in me a second later, a shuddering release that left us both trembling. He pulled out slowly and dressed in a heavy silence, then leaned down to kiss the back of my neck.

"Stay right here. Don't move."

Four minutes passed and I started feeling cold so I got dressed. The door opened again. Santi returned, but he wasn't alone. Boris followed him in, his massive frame nearly taking up the entire doorway, his eyes burning with a dark, complicated understanding.

Santi closed the door and turned the lock.

The sound of the bolt sliding into place felt final, an echo of the plane's engines. Boris didn't move toward me at first. He stood with his back to the door, his chest rising and falling with a heavy, controlled effort. The scent of Santi was still thick in the air, a musk that Boris surely recognized.

"Santi told me what you said," Boris began. He didn't sound angry; he sounded exhausted. "About the versions of love. About the choice."

He finally looked at me, and I saw the vulnerability behind the dominance. This was the man who had asked me to be his wife while we fucked in the dark of a Kremlin basement, and yet here he was, sharing the smallest room on a private jet with the only other man who looked at me the way he did.

Santi moved to the side, leaning against the mahogany counter where he had just fucked me minutes before. He watched us both, a silent participant in a negotiation that had no rules.

"I am not a patient man," Boris said, finally taking a step toward me. His presence was overwhelming, a wall of heat and history. "But I know what I owe you. And I know what I feel for you. If you need him to be part of your version of us, then he stays."

He reached out, his large hand cupping my jaw, forcing me to look him in the eye.

"But make no mistake," he whispered, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. “I want you to be mine but if that means Santiago has to be part of us, so be it.”

I looked from Boris to Santi. Outside the tiny, soundproofed lounge, the world was miles below us, a dark expanse of ocean and uncertainty. In here, the gravity was different. It was heavy, intoxicating, and dangerous. I looked from Boris to Santi. Outside the tiny, soundproofed lounge, the world was miles below us, a dark expanse of ocean and uncertainty. In here, the gravity was different. It was heavy, intoxicating, and dangerous.

"There's eight hours left on this flight," Boris murmured, his hand sliding down to the back of my neck, pulling me closer until I could feel the heat of his body. "And we are the only ones who know what happens in this room."

"Boris," I whispered. "I don't know what I truly want when it comes to you. I don't know if I want to marry you, or even if I know how to just be with you as a partner  in a world that isn't falling apart but I do know that I need you in my life. I have always been grateful for you—for everything you've done, for staying when you could have run and saving me when you didn’t have to. I don't want to lose you, no matter what version of this we choose."

I pulled back just enough to look up at him, making sure he saw the sincerity in my eyes. He pulled me in close and sighed.

“For fifteen long years, woman, I have always been with you,” he said. “As long as you have been helping me, I have been protecting you. I don’t want to remember my life before meeting you and I don’t want to think about my life without you moving forward.”

“You can’t get rid of me at this point,” I said. “But, Boris, understand that I can’t be tied down right now. Maybe not ever.  I need to be me. Part of that means I get to be with who I want sexually.”

Boris just nodded. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the low hum of the jet. Boris’s hand remained on the back of my neck, his grip steady but no longer demanding. He looked past me toward Santi, then back to me, the internal war he was fighting playing out in the tightening of his jaw. He didn't like the terms, but he liked the alternative—life without me—even less. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine, a silent acknowledgment of the new, complicated territory we were entering.

The three of us stood in the amber light, the future as vast and terrifying as the sky outside, bound by a loyalty that was starting to look very much like a cage.

The emerald shield

The low hum of the engines had become a physical weight, pressing me into the cramped seat of the row. I was drifting in that gray space between sleep and exhaustion when a heavy hand landed on my shoulder.

I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. The captain, Ivan, stood over me. His face was a map of deep lines and silver stubble, illuminated only by the dim amber glow of the cabin’s floor lights.

"Wake up," he said, his voice low. "We touch down in forty-five minutes."

I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear the fog of a shallow sleep. "Forty-five minutes? Thanks, Ivan."

He didn’t turn back to the cockpit immediately. He leaned in closer, his shadow stretching across the empty seats, lowering his voice. "Listen…..before we hit the tarmac, you and Bob need to bury those Russian Federation passports. Deep in your bags, or better yet, under the lining. Understood?"

I nodded slowly, the gravity of the transition settling in. "What’s the next leg of this great escape?"

"The next two flights—first to Chile, then to Cuba—you’re on the manifests," Ivan said.

"That’s a bit of a risk," I said. "A necessary risk, though."

"It’s a necessity," he said. "Naturally, you and Bob are flying as siblings. I know that Boris and Polina aren't siblings though they have been acting as if they are, but they are to continue to play the game that they are."

"I’ll tell them," I said.

Ivan gave a short, stiff nod and headed back to the cockpit without another word. I spent the next twenty minutes in the quiet, rhythmic shadows of the plane, methodically gathering my things and checking my gear. I felt for the hidden seam in my rucksack, sliding the dark red passport inside until it vanished.

In its place, I checked the weight of the emerald-green folder in my jacket. As distant relatives of Tsar Alexander II, Bob and I carried a status most would never see. Our passports weren't the standard red; they were green—diplomatic. It was the only reason we could even attempt to move through official gates without being hauled into an interrogation room.

When the internal clock in my head told me time was running out, I moved to the others. I shook my brother first, then Boris and Polina. They woke like soldiers—eyes open and alert in an instant, though the weariness followed a second later.

As they sat up, I explained the situation and the timeline. "We have twenty minutes before we land," I told them. "We’re going on the manifests for the flights to Chile and Cuba. The other thing is this… we’ll be flying as two sets of siblings. Naturally, Bob and I fit the bill, but you guys need to continue to play the game of siblings."

Boris’s jaw tightened. "The manifests? That leaves a footprint a mile wide. We might as well send a postcard to Moscow."

They weren’t happy to be on the manifests, and to be honest, neither was I. But there was no room for debate.

"It wasn't a suggestion, Boris," I said firmly. "Moscow doesn’t care where we are for the next fifteen years unless we’re in Russia during that time. Besides, Bob and I have the green passports. Our diplomatic status should be the shield for the four of us."

Polina looked out the dark porthole. "I don't like being on paper," she murmured. "Paper is how they find you later."

"I don't like it either," I admitted, "but we don't have a choice. Gather your things. We’re almost due to land. Bob, hide your Russian Federation passport."

Bob nodded, patting the pocket where he was going to put his passport. They spent the remaining time we had in the air gathering their belongings, the cabin filled with the metallic clicks of bags closing and the rustle of heavy jackets. Once they sat down, the head flight attendant told Ivan that we were all in our seats.

The landing was a jarring reminder of the world outside. Soon after landing and getting to the gate, Ivan came back from the cockpit, checking his watch.

"You have twenty-five minutes until the next flight," he said. "Disembark, shower, and get dressed in whatever clothes you have and then get on the next airplane."

"Where's the gate?" Bob asked, hoisting his pack.

"Fifteen yards from the lounge exit," Ivan replied. "There’s both a men’s and a women’s bathroom right there that contain showers."

The transition from the stale air of the plane to the terminal was a shock, but we didn't slow down. We knew we didn't have much time, but thankfully the facilities were exactly where he said they'd be.

"Ten minutes for the shower, five to dress," I said as we reached the doors. "Don't linger."

"See you on the other side," Bob muttered.

We split up at the entrance to the restrooms, Bob and Boris heading into the men’s side while Polina and I hurried into the women’s. Inside, the setup was surprisingly well-equipped. There were shower shoes provided for free at the counter, and stacks of brand-new towels still wrapped in their original clear packaging.

I claimed one of the shower stalls in the women's section. They were large and surprisingly clean, fully stocked with bottles of shampoo and conditioner. On a small ledge sat personal bars of soap—the small, rectangular ones you usually find in hotel rooms. I worked quickly, the hot water washing away the grime of the long flight. Once I was done, I didn't want to waste the soap; I slipped the bar I’d used into a plastic baggie and tucked it into my bag.

I dried off, dressed in fresh clothes, and moved to the mirrors to quickly brush my hair and teeth. I only had to wait for Polina for a minute or two before she emerged, looking just as refreshed and hurried as I felt.

"Ready?" I asked, checking my watch.

"Let's go," she replied, slinging her rucksack over her shoulder.

When we stepped back out into the terminal, the men were already waiting for us a few yards away, their bags slung over their shoulders and their faces set in determined lines.

"Everyone good?" I asked as we met them.

"Ready," Boris said with a short nod.

We immediately began the rush to the gate, but we had to stop at the counter first. We stood there, hearts racing as the desk agent looked up from her screen.

"Next in line, please," she said, her tone professional. The agent asked for our names in order to print the physical tickets, her eyes darting between her screen and our faces. "Names for the flight to Chile?"

"Deppgrl Smith," I said.

"Robert or Bob Smith,” my brother chuckled. “My sister booked the flight and I don’t know which one she put.”

She typed quickly, the rhythmic clicking of the keys sounding like a countdown. "And you two?"

“Polina Pretovna,” Polina said.

“Boris Petrov,” Boris said.

As soon as the paper was in our hands, we headed for the jet bridge.

"Let’s go," I said.

As we stepped onto the plane, I realized that not only were we the last ones to board, we were also in first class. A flight attendant greeted us with a polite smile, directing us toward the wide, plush seats.

"First class?" Bob muttered under his breath, a look of brief surprise crossing his face. "Ivan didn't mention this."

"Just find your seat, sit down and keep your head low," I told him.

I found my seat quickly. Polina and I were settled next to each other, with Bob and Boris a few rows in front of us. Almost as soon as we were airborne for the short flight to Chile, Bob, Boris, and Polina fell into a deep sleep, leaving me as the only one awake.

I stared out at the clouds, my mind already jumping ahead. I knew that when we eventually flew to Cuba, we would have to make a stop in Lima, Peru. For some asinine reason, flights leaving Chile that were heading to Cuba always made a stop elsewhere before officially landing in Cuba. I just hoped that I’d be able to find a moment to rest on either of the next two flights.

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.