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Bozhe, another nail-curling evening of his sweat dripping on her face and his chest hairs in her mouth. Dominika lay in her bed after Yevgeny had left, listening to her heart beating. His latest gossip from Line KR had nearly made her vomit with the shock. In two weeks TRITON would be delivering a list of assets’ names—her name certainly included—to Zarubina. Benford could not protect her. The wolves were drawing close. Dominika strangely felt no fear, simply a rising determination to survive, for the sole purpose of destroying Their corrupt world.
She had two weeks to live. That realization, and Putin’s silky invitation to the seaside mansion on the Gulf of Finland, finally had been the trigger to feverish thought that morphed into a plan—impossible, suicidal—she knew she would carry out: Ruin the piyavki, the leeches that attached themselves thick on the belly of the country. She would do it, if it was her last act.
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