Tormentor Mine

Chapter 1-2

“Don’t leave, Papa.” Pasha’s chin quivers as he struggles not to cry. Tamila told him a few weeks ago that big boys don’t cry, and he’s been trying his hardest to be a big boy. “Please, Papa. Can’t you stay a little longer?”

“I’ll be back in a couple of weeks,” I promise, crouching to be at his eye level. “I have to go to work, you see.”

“You always have to go to work.” His chin quivers harder, and his big brown eyes overflow with tears. “Why can’t I come with you to work?”

Images of the terrorist I tortured last week invade my mind, and it’s all I can do to keep my voice even as I say, “I’m sorry, Pashen’ka. My work is no place for children.” Or for adults, for that matter, but I don’t say that. Tamila knows some of what I do as part of a special unit of Spetsnaz, the Russian Special Forces, but even she is ignorant of the dark realities of my world.

“But I would be good.” He’s full-on crying now. “I promise, Papa. I would be good.”

“I know you would be.” I pull him against me and hug him tight, feeling his small body shaking with sobs. “You’re my good boy, and you have to be good for Mama while I’m gone, okay? You have to take care of her, like the big boy you are.”

Those appear to be the magic words, because he sniffles and pulls away. “I will.” His nose is running and his cheeks are wet, but his little chin is firm as he meets my gaze. “I will take care of Mama, I promise.”

“He’s so smart,” Tamila says, kneeling next to me to pull Pasha into her embrace. “It’s like he’s five, not almost three.”

“I know.” My chest swells with pride. “He’s amazing.”

She smiles and meets my gaze again, her big brown eyes so much like Pasha’s. “Be safe, and come back to us soon, okay?”

“I will.” I lean in and kiss her forehead, then ruffle Pasha’s silky hair. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

* * * *

I’m in Grozny, Chechnya, chasing down a lead on a new radical insurgency group, when I get the news. It’s Ivan Polonsky, my superior in Moscow, who calls me.

“Peter.” His voice is unusually grave as I pick up the phone. “There’s been an incident in Daryevo.”

My insides turn to ice. “What kind of incident?”

“There was an operation we weren’t notified about. NATO was involved. There were… casualties.”

The ice inside me expands, shredding me with its jagged edges, and it’s all I can do to force the words through my closing throat. “Tamila and Pasha?”

“I’m sorry, Peter. Some villagers were killed in the crossfire, and”—he swallows audibly—“the preliminary reports are that Tamila was among them.”

My fingers nearly crush the phone. “What about Pasha?”

“We don’t know yet. There were several explosions, and—”

“I’m on my way.”

“Peter, wait—”

I hang up and rush out the door.