Page 162 of Betrayal and Vows

"What choice?" I laugh, but it comes out broken, hysterical. "Die in Georgia or die in Moscow?"

"Fight back," he says simply. "Stop running and fight."

I stare at him, seeing the resolve hardening in his features. He's already decided. In his mind, we're already on that plane.

"They'll torture us," I whisper. "They'll make it slow. Painful. You know what Mikhail is capable of."

"I know what I'm capable of too." His voice drops to that deadly quiet tone that means he's thinking about killing. "I've spent thirty years preparing for this moment, Lena. I know Vadim's organization inside and out. I know his weaknesses."

"And he knows yours." I gesture between us. "He knows exactly how to hurt you now."

Anton steps closer, his hands framing my face. "Then we make sure he doesn't get the chance."

I want to lean into his touch, let him convince me this insane plan could work. But I can't stop seeing images of what will happen to us.

What Mikhail will do to me while Anton watches.

What Vadim will do to him while I scream.

"There has to be another way," I plead. "We could disappear. Change our names again. Go anywhere.”

But we both know there is no other choice. When winter hits, we’ll freeze to death.

Death. Death. Death.

Every road leads to death.

The only hope is Anton can kill those who want us dead.

We both know the likelihood of that happening is very slim.

We’re choosing death on our terms.

That’s the only real option.

“Okay,” I say.

The tiny plane shudders and drops through another pocket of turbulence, my stomach lurching along with it.

I grip Anton's hand so tightly I'm probably cutting off his circulation, but he doesn't complain.

The engines whine and protest against the wind, and every few minutes the whole aircraft seems to pause mid-air before catching itself again.

"This thing is going to fall apart," I whisper, my knuckles white against the armrest.

"It won't," Anton says, but his voice is tight. Even he looks uncomfortable, and this is a man who's jumped out of moving cars.

The pilot is a grizzled man who looks like he's been flying since air travel was invented. He glances back at us with yellowed teeth. "Twenty minutes," he calls over the engine noise. "Weather's shit, but we'll make it."

I close my eyes and try not to think about crashing into the Russian countryside. Try not to think about what we're flying toward. Death. Almost certain death. But at least we'll face it together.

When we finally touch down on what can generously be called an airstrip—really just a cleared field with some lights—my legs are shaking so badly I can barely stand.

A black sedan waits at the edge of the field with the engine running. The driver is a woman I don't recognize, but Anton seems to know her. She nods at him curtly.

"Get in," she says. "Quickly."

We drive through the darkness in silence.