Recall Zero

“No. Listen to me, Karina. If they believe you possess a recording, then you have a bargaining chip. Without it you are as good as dead. This way, they will want you alive. And if the tip comes from Richmond, they will believe you have fled the city. In the meantime, I will work on an extraction and get you the hell out of here.”

“The heat is too much for you to send one of your own to retrieve me,” Karina said. “I won’t have anyone compromised or killed because of me.”

“But you can’t do this alone, sestra.” Veronika was silent for a moment before adding, “I think I might know someone who can help.”

“FIS?” Karina asked.

“No. An American.”

“Veronika—”

“He is former CIA.”

That clinched it. Her sister had truly lost her mind, and Karina told her so.

“Do you trust me?” Veronika asked.

“A minute ago I would have said yes…”

“Trust me now, Karina. And trust this man. I will tell you where to go and when to be there.”

Karina sighed. What choice did she have? V was right. She could not elude the Secret Service, the Russians, and anyone else they sent by herself. She needed help. And she did trust her sister, even if this plan sounded ludicrous.

“All right. How will I know this man?”

“If he is still good at his job, you won’t,” Veronika said. “But he will know you.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Sara inspected herself in the bathroom mirror as she adjusted her ponytail. She hated her hair. It was too long; she hadn’t had it cut in months. Her ends were split badly. About six weeks earlier she’d let Camilla dye it red with a box from the drugstore, and though she’d liked it at the time her bright blonde roots were showing through the first inch from her scalp. It wasn’t a good look.

She hated the dark blue polo she had to wear to work. It was a size too big for her slight frame, with the words “Swift Thrift” screen-printed on the left breast. The letters were faded, the edges chipped from repeat washings.

She hated going to the thrift shop, with its constant odor of mothballs and stale sweat, pretending to be nice to rude people. She hated that nine bucks an hour was the best she could do at sixteen without a high school diploma.

But she had made a decision. She was independent.Mostly.

The bathroom door swung open suddenly, forced from the other side. Tommy slid to a halt when he saw her standing in front of the mirror.

“What the hell, Tommy!” Sara shouted. “I’m in here!”

“Why didn’t you lock the door?” he shot back.

“It was closed, wasn’t it?”

“Well, hurry up! I have to take a piss!”

“Just get out!” She shoved the door closed and left the older boy cursing on the other side of it. Life in the co-op was anything but glamorous, but she’d gotten used to it in the year that she’d been living there. Or had it been more now? Thirteen months or so, she reasoned.

She brushed some mascara on her eyelashes and inspected herself once more. Good enough, she thought. She didn’t like to wear a lot of makeup, despite Camilla’s best efforts. And besides, she was still growing into her looks.

She exited the bathroom, which opened onto the kitchen, just in time to see Tommy leaning away from the sink and zipping up his fly.

“Oh my god.” She winced. “Tell me you did not just pee in the sink.”

“You were taking too long.”

“God, you’re disgusting.” She crossed to the old beige refrigerator and took out a bottle of water—no way she was drinking tap water now, that was for sure—and as she closed it again, the whiteboard caught her eye.

She winced again.

On the refrigerator door was a magnetic dry-erase board with six names in black marker, each of the tenants of the co-op. Written beneath each name was a number. The six of them were responsible for a share of the rent and equal part of the bills each month. If they couldn’t pay their share, they had a three-month grace period to wipe out their debt, or else they would have to leave. And the number under Sara’s name was the largest.

The co-op was far from the worst place to live in Jacksonville. The old house needed some repairs, but it wasn’t a disaster. There were four bedrooms, three of them occupied by two people each and the fourth used as storage and workspace.

Their landlord, Mr. Nedelmeyer, was a German guy in his early forties who had a bunch of properties like this one in the Jacksonville metro area. He was pretty laid back, all things considered; in fact, he insisted that they simply call him “Needle,” which to Sara sounded like something you’d call a drug dealer. But Needle was an easy man to deal with. He didn’t care if they had friends over, or threw the occasional party. He didn’t even care about the drugs. He had only three major rules: If you get arrested, you’re out. If you can’t pay after three months, you’re out. If you assault another tenant, you’re out.

At the moment, staring at the whiteboard on the fridge, Sara was worried about the second rule. But then she heard a voice right in her ear that made her worry about the third rule.

“What’s the matter, little girl? Worried about that big scary number under your name?” Tommy laughed like he’d told a great joke. He was nineteen, lanky and bony, with tattoos up both arms. He and his girlfriend Jo shared one of the co-op’s bedrooms. Neither of them worked; Tommy’s parents wired him money every month, more than enough to cover their co-op expenses. The rest they spent on coke.

Tommy thought he was some kind of badass. But he was just a suburban kid on vacation.

Sara turned slowly. The older boy was nearly a whole foot taller, and standing only a few inches away he towered over her. “I think,” she said slowly, “you should take a couple of steps back and get out of my face.”

“Or what?” He grinned maliciously. “You gonna hit me?”

“Of course not. That would be against the rules.” She smiled innocently. “But you know, the other night I took a little video. You and Jo, doing a line off the coffee table.”

A flash of fear crossed Tommy’s face, but he stood his ground. “So? Needle doesn’t care about that.”

“No, you’re right. He doesn’t.” Sara lowered her voice to a whisper. “But Thomas Howell, Esquire, down at Binder & Associates? He might care about that.” She cocked her head to one side. “That’s your dad, isn’t it?”

“How do you…?” Tommy shook his head. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Maybe not. That’s up to you.” She walked past him, bumping her shoulder roughly against his as she did. “Stop pissing in the sink. That’s gross.” And she headed upstairs.

Sara had left Virginia more than a year earlier as a frightened and naïve fifteen-year-old girl. It was hardly more than a year later, but she’d changed. On the bus between Alexandria and Jacksonville, she’d made two rules for herself. The first was that she was not going to ask anyone for anything, least of all her dad. And she stuck by it. Maya helped her out a bit from time to time, and Sara was grateful—but she never asked for it.

The second rule was that she was not going to take shit from anyone, period. She’d been through too much. She had seen things that she could never talk about. Things that still kept her awake at night. Things that a guy like Tommy could never imagine. She was beyond pettiness, past teenage angst. Past her own past.

Upstairs she pushed open the door to the bedroom that she and Camilla shared. It was set up like a dorm room, two twin beds sitting against opposite walls with a lane between them and a shared nightstand. They had a small vanity and a closet that they split. The roommate in question was still in bed, lying awake on her back and scrolling through social media on her phone.

“Hey,” she said with a yawn as Sara entered. Camilla was eighteen, and thankfully pleasant. She was the first friend Sara had made in Florida; it was her online ad for a roommate at the co-op that had brought Sara there in the first place. They’d gotten along well. In fact, Camilla was teaching her to drive. She’d taught her how to put on mascara and how to pick out clothes that flattered her narrow frame. Sara had picked up a lot of new terms and mannerisms from her. Kind of like a big sister.

Like the kind of big sister that doesn’t abandon you with a man you can’t stand.

“Hey yourself. Get out of bed, it’s almost ten.” Sara grabbed her purse from the nightstand and made sure she had everything she’d need.