Page 50 of Break Me Apart
“I know,” I repeat, and this time I let him see that I’ve thought about it. That I’ve already factored them into every scenario.
“You’re choosing him,” he says finally. “You’ve never chosen anyone over this.”
“I’m not choosing him over you.” The words come before I can calculate them.
Something in his expression shifts. “That’s not what I meant,” he says.
“I know. I’m just making it clear.”
“How long?” he asks after a moment.
“I don’t know yet.”
That earns me a sceptical look. “You never make moves without a plan.”
“I will have one soon.”
“You’ve thought about what happens after,” he says eventually, not as a question but as an assessment.
“I have.”
“Beyond the emotional part?”
“Yes.” He nods once at that, faintly approving.
“There are men who leave and turn it into theatre, and there are men who leave and position themselves properly. You’re not the first type.” He reaches forthe pad on his desk as if he’s about to note something operational. Instead, he writes down what looks like a phone number without explanation. He tears the edge cleanly and slides it across the desk toward me.
I look at it but don’t touch it yet. “What is it?”
“A contact. Private military. Infrastructure contracts mostly. Oil, logistics, corporate protection. They approached me a few years ago. At the time, I wasn’t looking beyond this. They left a number in case that changed.”
Silence stretches between us. I understand what he’s doing, even if he won’t say it.
“If you leave,” he continues, “don’t anchor yourself somewhere that creates a narrative.” I lift my eyes to him. “For example, relocating to the UK would look... deliberate,” he explains calmly. “It raises questions. Men who’ve done it tend to position themselves somewhere neutral first. Germany. The Netherlands. Somewhere that doesn’t belong to either side. Somewhere neutral.” He says it like a strategy, not like he’s discussing my relationship. “They pay really well,” he adds. “And they don’t ask sentimental questions.”
“And if I never use it?”
“Then you don’t,” he replies evenly. “But if you do decide to go, it’s an option.” I fold the paper once and slide it into the inside pocket of my jacket. He doesn’t look at me when I do. “Five days,” he says instead. “Don’t make me regret pushing your leave through.”
“I won’t.”
The corridor outside his office is unchanged. It’s the same fluorescent lights, the same muted voices through closed doors. Nothing looks different, but I’m carrying a number now, and I have a direction.
When I leave, I can’t live in the UK. A Russian special operations sergeant resigning and relocating directly to Britain doesn’t read as retirement. It reads as defection, even if it isn’t. And once that story exists, it can’t be undone.
If I ever want to come back here without explanation — to see Niko, to see Vladimir — I can’t close that door.
Neutral territory makes more sense. Somewhere neither flag owns. Amsterdam fits that logic, which is why, when Niko suggested it, I agreed. It’s a common travel destination. Civilian and close enough to reach, and far enough not to belong.
The barracks are mostly empty when I return. I retrieve the phone from its hiding place, stashed in one of the empty single rooms. I sit on the edge of the bed and power it on.
Caiden answers on the second ring. I keep the conversation brief. Leave next month. Five days. Amsterdam. He doesn’t hesitate; he tells me to send the dates when I have them, and he’ll make it work.
I tell him I spoke to Niko, and he goes quiet at that. Surprised, maybe? He listens in the way he usually does, as if he is weighing every word. We agree to talk about itin person, and when I hang up, it feels contained, controlled, exactly how it needs to be. But it sits differently in my head after.
It’s not theoretical anymore. It’s not something I can store away and come back to later.
It’s there now, fixed, waiting for me tofollow through.
