Day Four – Part 2

"Ethan," Lane called out. He shook his head, airing out his longer hair. The younger blonde man turned to Lane. "Let's go."

It was 10 p.m., more than 24 hours till they made the trade for the information. Not just information—for a change in all their lives, once the info was put in play. Each of them had their own plans. Lane knew what he'd do next. Ethan did too. Kostya, though, wasn't sure anymore.

"Kostya!" The Russian turned to Lane. "Keep watch. We're running through tomorrow's plan."

The dark haired man nodded, and the two blonde Brits left. He breathed a little easier when they were gone. Immediately his thoughts turned to Jill.

That wasn't good. He was above this. He'd been working for years to find a job like this, an opportunity that would change everything. It could still work too, he told himself. He was confident the trade would go as planned. It was afterwards that he was worried about.

Something Lane had said bothered him. He'd said that Jill would try to escape. Kostya didn't know what the hell was going in his mind or heart, but he knew the situation could be dangerous. Yet he didn't want to doubt her. As always, though, the soldier in him demanded he do something.

He took his gun from the back of his pants. He took out the clip and removed all the bullets, also the one in the chamber. The bullets he hid in a drawer, but he left the gun on the counter.

Kostya went down to the basement. It was quiet, and tension filled the air. He frowned. Something was going on between Jill and Nick. What, he didn't know. Impulsively, he wanted to hit Nick. Or, more importantly, he just wanted to be with Jill.

Her eyes seemed to light up when she saw him. He went to her side, and cut the ropes again.

"Come," he said simply. She followed him up to the kitchen, where he motioned for her to sit. She sat, but was stiff. Nervous.

"What's wrong?" he asked. He started rummaging through the cabinets, trying to find something decent to eat.

"What do you mean?" Jill asked back. Kostya nodded to the basement stairs. She sighed. "It's nothing." Kostya didn't buy that, but he let it go.

"Are you hungry?" He turned away to find a pan. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her staring at the gun. Part of him tensed at that. But he continued to prepare something.

"It's late," she said. "I don't usually eat now."

Kostya flashed her a grin. "Yes, but you should eat more." She granted him a consenting grin. "I'll make basturma—how do you say this?" He paused a moment, thinking about it. What was it called? It was starting to annoy him—

"Well, what is it?" Jill asked. She wore laughter on her face, but tried to hide it from him. Kostya found it charming, even if it was at his expense.

"It's . . ." He started to gesture with his hands. "Meat, cut in blocks. You cook it on . . . ." The word evaded him again, and he drew out his hands in a line.

"Skewers?" Jill filled in. Kostya's lit up.

"Yes!"

"Kabobs. Or kebabs—same thing."

Kostya cocked his head to the side. "Ka-bobs?" Jill nodded. He chuckled. "My vocabulary is not so good in cooking."

Jill laughed, and he couldn't deny that he craved the sound. He turned away from her again, and opened the fridge. The raw meat sat ready in a container on the bottom shelf.

He readied the sauce for the meat, all the while feeling her eyes on him.

"How long have you known Lane?" Jill asked. He hadn't expected that question, and his hands paused mid-air as he reached for some wine vinegar.

"Six years. I met him when I was in the military," he said. He poured the wine vinegar, maybe a bit too liberally, but it would do.

"I thought Lane was British," Jill said. Kostya smiled.

"He is. So is Ethan," he said.

"Weren't you on different sides then?"

Kostya laughed, shaking his head. The simplicity of her thinking on this surprised him, and yet he found it endearing.

"It's not a matter of sides, or country," he explained. He stopped his efforts with the sauce, and turned to face her. She watched him attentively. "I don't believe in following one country."

"Didn't the Russian army find that . . . dangerous?"

Kostya laughed again, a bit uncomfortably though. "I suppose so." He turned back to the meal, getting out an onion and chopping it. "I do what I want. I don't rely on a government or even comrades."

"Isn't Lane a comrade?"

Kostya chewed on his lip. She was digging, for what reason he wasn't quite sure yet. "I don't rely on him."

Jill nodded, a sad demeanor coming over her. Maybe it was sympathy. "Then who do you rely on?"

A cold shield came over him as he turned back to her. "Me." The simple word resonated in the house, though he hadn't said it loudly. It thudded like a final sentencing.

"You know," he said simply. "You are the same way." Jill's brow crinkled in confusion. "Your father. What family you have, you don't count, remember?"

She didn't answer, but her eyes conveniently found the floor.

"It is lonely, yes?" he said, pressing her further. She only nodded back. Kostya smiled, and went to the sink, washing off the sauce and onion. He went for the meat again. As he grabbed it, he heard her move behind him.

He didn't bother whirling around or surprising her. But he frowned as he faced her. She stood there, the gun from the counter in her hands.

Kostya didn't say anything, but set the meat aside. He waited for her to make the next move.

"Please," she said. She started to back away from him, and she motioned to the back hallway with the gun. "I don't want to hurt you." Kostya scoffed at that. He moved towards her, even as she gripped the gun harder. The trigger was so close to being pulled. . .

The click of it made Jill jump. Knowing she would have shot him landed an emotional bullet in Kostya, but he told himself to ignore it. He moved in on her, brushing the gun aside. It clattered on the linoleum floor.

Kostya drove her back to the wall, grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head. She was breathing hard. Her eyes were large and in some ways mirrored the surprise that he felt.

He leaned in on her, pressing against her and moving his face just inches from hers.

"I'm disappointed, Jill," he said in her ear.

"Kostya, please—"

"What?" he cut her off, almost hissing at her. "Do you want to kill me?" He pulled back a bit to glare into her eyes. She started to shake her head.

"No, please, Kostya—"

Suddenly he pulled out his knife from a pocket and slammed it in the wall by her head. Jill screamed and tried to duck, but he still held her wrists up. Something about the terror fueled Kostya. He embraced it, for now.

Below in the basement, Kostya heard the CSI shouting. He smirked. Nick Stokes was trying to protect her from down there.

Kostya held onto her wrists and pulled her along behind him. He went downstairs. If Nick wanted to intervene, he could see for himself what was going on. As soon as they stepped off the last stair, Kostya flung Jill across the room. She stumbled, a cry escaping her throat. Kostya followed her with determined steps. He picked her up and slammed her against the wall. Again he pinned her wrists above her head.

"Leave her alone!" Nick yelled out. Kostya ignored his protests.

Jill stared, wide-eyed. Her eyes were moist, and she was failing to keep back sobs of her fear.

"Please," she whispered. A tear suddenly fell, and Kostya almost stepped back as if he'd been hit. He felt . . . his mind raced, his heart pounded inside of him, and something stung at his eyes. He blinked quickly and tightened his grip on her.

Suddenly he leaned in, closing in so there was no distance between them. He could hear Nick shouting behind him, but again he banished it. He kissed her, his lips hot and wandering over hers. He felt the vibrations of her cries against him. It didn't stop him. He continued, dropping one hand to rest on her hip. He pulled her closer and deepened the kiss.

Somewhere in it all, she started kissing him back. There was desperation, for both of them. Pain, terror, absolution, passion. What it meant, Kostya didn't know, but he wasn't concentrating on that. It dawned on him that maybe he should.

Suddenly he pulled back, releasing Jill completely. He couldn't look her in the eye, and neither could she look back at him. He kept trying, but his eyes couldn't hold the gaze. He reached for her hands, this time less violently, and led her to the pole. He quickly tied her to it with new rope, and ran up the stairs.

The silence he left in the basement was one of astonishment. Horror. Pain. Nick's chest hurt from the pounding of his heart, the rapid pace of his pulse. Rage. That's what he felt as he watched, could do nothing but watch, as Kostya devoured Jill.

And now, she positioned herself so she could lie down. Her back was to him, and her knees she tucked into her chest. It was as if she was trying to compress her existence as much as possible. She didn't cry anymore. In fact, she was amazingly still. No sobbing, no sniffling, nothing.

Nick swallowed.

"Jill?"

She didn't answer.

"Jill, please. Talk to me," he tried again. But she didn't move or make a sound. Guilt kicked Nick in the stomach.

What had happened? Did Kostya try . . . Nick gulped again. He hoped that hadn't happened. All Nick heard was Jill scream. Just remembering made a chill run through him. The worse-case scenario ran through his mind. And somewhere it also triggered memories from his childhood, memories he certainly didn't want to remember or have someone else experience.

Nick shoved his past away. "Jill," he called softly. She didn't move, but he heard the smallest whisper:

"What."

Her voice—so small, hurting—it made the guilt hit home again.

"What happened?"

She didn't say anything for several moments, and Nick feared the nightmare.

"Did he—"

She sighed, and Nick shut up to listen. "He left the gun out. I went for it. And it was empty."

Nick shut his eyes, imagining it. Kostya had placed a trap for her. And Jill fell for it. If he'd been in the situation, he would have too.

Her brief explanation didn't elaborate on Kostya's reaction, but Nick supposed he saw most of that for himself. Jill didn't say anything more, though—to him, that was a red flag.

"Is that all? Are you okay?" he asked.

"Fine," she said. There was a certain finality in the word, shutting him down. Nick stared at her, her fragile form. He didn't know what it was, but she wasn't telling him something. It reminded him of how he'd acted when . . .

His heart ached for her, and he could only think of one thing: What have I done?

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a/n: I hope everyone likes this! I enjoy writing it, but am losing steam/motivation based on the reception. But thanks for those reviews that've been submitted! I'll have a new chapter relatively soon (2 days-ish).