There's a completely innocuous excuse for me to find out - the Christmas party the Khavs throw every year. Petr wouldn't turn me down, if I showed up on his doorstep. It's not the way we do things in spec-ops. Our team is our family. I can go, realize I'm not interested in her but have been obsessing over the unknown or a memory or regret or other emotions associated with her bother, and then leave.
"How do you do this to me, Katya?" I growl. "Halfway across the world, and I can't fucking think straight."
I will fix that. Somehow. I'm going to go crazy if I don't just end this. I definitely can't spend months, years, wondering what could be between us.
With a sigh, I send Petr a quick email, snatch the duck and trot through the compound to tell Colonel Howard that I need a few days off after all.
***
Forty hours, six flights, an eight-hour snow delay and a three-hour wait for my luggage later, I'm finally walking out of the Logan International Airport in Boston. By now, I'm tired enough to be thinking two completely opposite trains of thought: first, that this is the stupidest thing I've ever done and I need to go back to Iraq. And second, I'm not getting on another fucking plane again. Ever.
The chilly night air is flecked with white snow. I'd forgotten what snow and winter were like. After being away so long, it's almost pleasant. The night is quiet, aside from the crunch of tires on snow from the cars picking up passengers outside of baggage claim. I'm in my fatigues, which offer some protection from the gusts of wind. The pickup area is well lit with taxis and hotel shuttles waiting, their exhaust curling into the air behind them.
As soon as I touched down in Boston, I messaged the team. Petr wouldn't hear of me catching a cab and volunteered to make the hour long drive to get me. It's nearly two in the morning, and I'm feeling the travel.
Ten minutes pass before Petr's black, top of the line Range Rover slides up to the curb. He pops the hatch, and I lift my bags into the trunk before getting into the passenger's seat. Petr grins, his strong features awake and alert.
"Sawyer Mathis!" He sounds much more cheerful than I could ever muster, let alone after the two days of traveling. "How you doing?"
"Hungry," I respond.
"You're in luck. I brought food." He stretches to reach the backseat and retrieves a plate wrapped in tinfoil. "I grabbed shit on the way out. Not sure what's there."