She flashed a grin, then disappeared through the door, leaving him standing on the landing.
He smiled, something slow to match a warmth that syruped through his entire body. Then he walked inside and shut the door.
Clean sheets sat folded on the pullout sofa on top of a pillow that smelled like lavender fabric softener. She’d thought of everything before disappearing into her bedroom.
But from behind that door came humming. Soft, off-key, unselfconscious.
“Okay,” he said to the empty room. “I’m going to Bangkok.”
And maybe, inside, he heard a littlehoorah.
MOSCOW, MARCH 2010
The odor of diesel fuel slammed into Alan Martin’s lungs the second he stepped off the bus at Red Square. His chest seized—sharp, sudden, brutal.
Breathe.
Six months. Six months since the explosion that killed Timea, and still the smell could drop him.
Focus.
St. Basil’s candy-colored domes stabbed at the steel-gray sky overhead. Defiant. Beautiful against the grime and chill of Moscow. Dark, sticky snowbanks outlined Red Square, the brick tiles lined up in rows. The Kremlin’s tall red walls rose, a fortress inside the city. He shoved his hands into his coat, ducked his head.
No one would recognize him anyway.
Probably.
The temperature display above GUM department store glowed minus fifteen Celsius, but the cold burning his face? Nothing compared to the ice that had carved out permanent residence in his chest.
The metro entrance gaped ahead. Concrete maw swallowing streams of black-coated Muscovites into the underground. Cyrillic letters above the entrance spelled out ??????? ?????????. Revolution Square Station.
How fitting.
A woman in fox fur brushed past him, trailing expensive perfume. The scent mixed with the diesel fumes, and his stomach clenched. Hard.
Chanel No. 5.
Timea’s favorite. The one he’d bought her for their first anniversary. Back when he thought love could save them both.
Move.
Marble steps descended into Moscow’s metro belly. Warm, stale air wrapped around him as he joined the press of bodies. The crowd carried him through the turnstile on autopilot. Soviet grandeur stretched before him—bronze statues of soldiers and workers standing eternal guard between marble archways.
Their stern faces followed his progress.
They know.
No. That was paranoia talking. He was just out of the game.
His burner phone vibrated against his ribs. He pulled it out.
Third car. Red scarf.
His pulse kicked up. The package in his duffel was a brick, heavier with each step. He didn’t know what was inside—Damien had been crystal clear about that.Don’t ask, don’t look, just deliver.Simple courier work for simple money.
And because they gave him no other choice.
The platform hummed with morning commuters bundled in wool and fur. Their breaths created small clouds in the underground chill. A busker played the violin near the far wall—haunting notes echoing off century-old tiles. Beautiful. Melancholy.