Freya Arsov sits on top of a world of diamonds and sports cars. Her father is a billionaire, head of a world-renown company, her mother, an esteemed lawyer. She attends the most prestigious boarding school in England. She has four amazing best frien...
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ANAKIN HAD JUST STEPPED BACK DOWN ONTO English soil, onto a private tarmac that sat some leagues out of London, the semi-legal plane whirring at his back, when his phone vibrated in his pocket.
His first thought was that it was Kirova, somehow tracking down the number of the burner he carried, ready to play games with Anakin's head.
But then again, he'd spent nearly an entire month in Moscow, off Kirova's radar. He'd even touched down in Yekaterinburg, contacted some of Kirova's old associates who had since gone underground— in other words— who had migrated into some remote parts of Siberia in fear of the man.
All of them had been tight-lipped, barely giving Anakin a morsel of information. They balked at every street lamp and every person who would pass by and even at the bloody pelmeni in their plates. Anakin didn't know why they'd even bothered to come. They should've stayed in the damn frozen tundra and saved him the time.
He left Russia after word had come to him that Kirova was back in England. And because his trip had turned out to be a great big failure.
Anakin wasn't too pleased to be back either. England had very little for him. Then again, so did Russia.
Did he really belong anywhere? Maybe he was not meant to have a home, not meant to have friends or family.
Perhaps all there was left for him was Kirova's head on a platter.
I don't give a fuck who you are. Freya Arsov had meant it. And why should she care? The look in her eye as she'd debated stabbing him with one of Du Morts' kitchen knives had haunted him. He'd think about how much his upbringing under Kirova's cold eye had differed from her five weeks spent suffering in Kirova's cold facility. He'd try to figure out which of them had gotten the shorter end of the proverbial stick.
Then, he'd reason that they'd both suffered for no reason because of a man who was purely evil.
A small part of him wondered if Du Morts would have him shot if he were to step foot in London. Another part of him reasoned that Matthew wouldn't do such a thing.
Perhaps the vibration of his burner in his pocket was Matthew? Grayson? Perhaps they'd forgiven him.
Since when had he become a hopeful creature?
"Bol'shoy spasibo, Valentin," Anakin thanked the Ukrainian pilot, who had overseen both his trips to and from Russia, with a short wave. Whether or not Valentin would inform Kirova about his treacherous ward's travel activities, Anakin wasn't sure. Then again, it did not matter to him.
He hoped Kirova knew he was coming. He hoped the man was a little bit scared.
He walked the rest of the way from the plane, a duffel thrown over his shoulder. Inside, he had only a few possessions. Clothes, a computer, some fake ID's and passports, switchblades. Most importantly, he had a pistol strapped to his waist beneath the bulk of his coat. And in that gun, there was a bullet with Kirova's name on it.
