8Yulia
The familiar smell of car exhaust and lilacs fills my nostrils as the car weaves through the busy Kiev streets. The man Obenko sent to pick me up at the airport is someone I’ve never seen before, and he doesn’t talk much, leaving me free to take in the sights of the city where I lived and trained for five years.
“We’re not going to the Institute?” I ask the driver when the car makes an unfamiliar turn.
“No,” the man replies. “I’m taking you to a safe house.”
“Is Obenko there?”
The driver nods. “He’s waiting for you.”
“Great.” I take a steadying breath. I should be relieved to be here, but instead, I feel tense and anxious. And it’s not just because I screwed up and compromised the organization. Obenko doesn’t deal kindly with failure, but the fact that he extracted me from Col
