The roar of the helicopter's rotors was a physical assault, a rhythmic thumping that vibrated through the floorboards and deep into Andrea's bones. Below them, the sprawling Volkov estate had shrunk into a dark, stone speck amidst an endless sea of white. Now, there was only the jagged, terrifying majesty of the Ural Mountains—peaks like broken teeth biting into a leaden sky.
Andrea sat strapped into a bucket seat made of reinforced leather, her fingers digging into the armrests. Across from her, barely three feet away in the cramped, pressurized cabin, sat Viktor.
He was dressed in a heavy, tactical black parka that made his shoulders look impossibly broad. He wasn't looking at the scenery; he was reading a digital tablet, the blue light of the screen reflecting in his equally icy eyes. He looked perfectly at home in the vibrating metal bird, while Andrea felt like she was being delivered to her own execution.
