The man is tall, maybe six feet, with dark hair and a build that suggests he spends serious time in the gym. He's staring at something on his phone, but there's something about the way he's standing, the way he keeps glancing up at the street, that feels wrong.
"You recognize him?" I ask.
Sasha's jaw clenches. "I think so."
20
ALEKSANDR
The man across the street shifts his weight, and something in the movement triggers a cascade of images in my mind.
We're sitting in a dimly lit bar, shot glasses lined up between us. His laugh is deep and genuine as he slaps the table, nearly knocking over the vodka bottle. "You're full of shit," he says. "That story gets bigger every time you tell it."
I'm grinning, relaxed in a way I haven't felt in the memories that have surfaced so far. "Just because you weren't there doesn't mean it didn't happen."
"I was there, you bastard. And it was three guys, not five."
We're both laughing now, the kind of laughter that comes from years of friendship, from shared history and inside jokes.
The memory fragments, and I'm back in the diner booth with Maya watching me with concern in those midnight blue eyes.
"Sasha?" Her hand finds mine across the table. "You okay?"
"I know him." The words come out rough. "Or I did. I just can't remember how."
Another flash hits before I can stop it.
A boardroom. Long table, expensive chairs, and men in suits who defer to me with every word. But he's there too, sitting to my right, his presence solid and reassuring. When I speak, he nods. When someone questions my decision, his expression hardens in a way that makes them reconsider. He's not just present. He's my second, my right hand, the person I trust to have my back.
"We need to leave." I stand abruptly, throwing cash on the table. "Now."
Maya doesn't argue, grabs her coat, and follows me out. I keep my body between her and the man across the street, using the angle of the building to shield us as we move toward the truck.
"Don't look at him," I murmur, my hand finding the small of her back. Even through her coat, the contact grounds me. "Just walk normally."
"Normal," she mutters. "Right. Because this is totally normal."
Despite everything, I almost smile. Her sarcasm in the face of danger is oddly attractive.
We're almost to the truck when another memory slams into me.
Fists flying, blood on my knuckles. We're back to back in an alley, surrounded by men who made the mistake of thinking numbers would be enough. He takes down two while I handle three, our movements synchronized like we've done this a hundred times before. And maybe we have.
"On your left," he shouts, and I duck just as a pipe swings through the space where my head was.
"Thanks."
"Buy me a drink later, and we'll call it even."
I stumble slightly, catching myself on the truck's door. Maya's there immediately, her hand on my arm, steadying me.
"Another memory?" she asks quietly.
"Several." I help her into the passenger seat, my eyes still tracking the man across the street. He hasn't moved, hasn't looked our way, but every instinct I have screams that he's aware of us. "He's important. Someone I trusted."
"Then maybe we should talk to him." She doesn't argue when I take the keys and climb into the driver's seat. I've never driven her truck before, but I didn't bother asking now and she didn't tell me no.
"Not yet." I start the engine. "Not until I know if he's the one who put bullets in me."