Here it is, the last chapter. Thanks so much to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. Your feedback has been food for the soul. -HJB

The A319 Airbus parked at Gate 9, Terminal D, had the Union Jack emblazoned on its tail and British Airways on its fuselage. Regular boarding began at 1:35, and after getting his pass checked, Alex shuffled through the loading bridge with a hundred other tourists, university students, and businessmen. Some of them were just passing through, but most would be returning home, like Alex. He wondered if they were glad to be leaving or if they felt as miserable as he did.

He found his seat, A23, and slumped into it heavily. Passengers continued to squeeze down the narrow aisles, juggling bags or trying to settle their excited children or loading their carry-on luggage into the overhead compartments, effectively blocking the aisles. Kids squealed, spouses griped, baggage banged about—typical pre-flight chaos.

Finding the plane a little too warm for his liking, Alex pulled his backpack into his lap and took off his jacket. He could stow it in his pack until he got to London. He wondered if it would be cold and rainy when he arrived. Probably, he thought morosely. Anything to make his transition from the sunny Mediterranean to the gloomy north Atlantic as painful as possible.

He was stuffing his jacket into his pack when he felt something sharp scrape against his knuckles. Frowning, Alex reached in and pulled it out.

It was a CD case. The black and white image of a serious-looking man sitting at a piano was familiar to Alex, as was the title: Sergei Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor, Op. 18, Performed by the Vienna Philharmonic.

Alex's eyes began to mist over, his mouth contorting as he fought to keep himself from losing it. Yassen must have slipped the CD into his backpack while he was down at the beach. A farewell gift? Or a cruel reminder? Alex could already hear the solo flute in the second movement, adagio sostenuto, the piano accompanying its slow, yearning melody, the strings humming in the background. He stared at the man on the cover, Sergei Rachmaninoff, and wondered if he would ever know how much his music meant to a fifteen-year-old boy from Chelsea . . .

Alex suddenly lunged from his seat. He had to get off this plane.

He shoved the CD back into his pack, zipped it, and began to elbow his way through the crowd, going against the flow of traffic like a salmon fighting its way upstream. A fat man in a football jersey blocked the aisle ahead, and Alex quickly chose his detour. Pulling his pack onto his back, he climbed over the back of a seat and landed in the next row. He heard stewardesses yelling at him. Somebody grabbed his sleeve, but he tore himself away. The whole plane devolved into pandemonium. Alex found himself grinning. Now he felt like he was going in the right direction.

He jumped into the aisle and raced past a surprised stewardess. As he thundered down the loading bridge and back into the terminal, he tried to think of his next course of action. The airport had a taxi service. He could take a taxi home—back to the house, he corrected—and finally say what he needed to say to Yassen, to apologize or argue or beg for mercy, it didn't matter. Yassen would probably be angry with Alex for throwing away his ticket like this, but Alex wasn't really thinking about consequences right now. He just needed to see Yassen again, to set things right, to leave Mallorca on better terms.

He ran through the airport at top speed, not even feeling the dull ache in his thigh. His sneakers squealed and chirped on the polished floor. He burst out of the front entrance and stopped, searching for a taxi. There were two—one was already pulling away and the other was waiting for a couple to load their luggage into the back. Alex threw himself at the taxi, ignoring the startled looks the couple gave him.

"Please, I have an emergency," he said to the driver. "I have to get to Calle Lluis Ripoll. Can I ride with you?"

"We are going to Hotel Born," said the woman, stepping in tactfully. She had a thick German accent. "Is that nearby?"

"Close enough." Alex slid into the passenger seat and pulled the ten-Euro note from his pocket. He showed it to the driver. "I will give you all of this if you can get me there in five minutes."

Seconds later, the taxi screeched away from the entrance and sped down Salida Vial Aeropuerto, heading toward Palma with its three anxious passengers.

Alex was opening the door before the taxi had come to a complete stop. He thrust the ten Euros into the driver's hand and ran up the front walk. A quick glance into the carport revealed that Yassen wasn't at home; the BMW was missing. No problem. Alex still had his house key. He could wait here until Yassen got back, perhaps giving him time to rehearse what he was going to say. It would be time well spent, at least. His head felt a mess right now.

He unlocked the front door, stepped inside, and immediately froze.

White sheets were draped over the furniture in the living room. There was no air moving at all, the windows shut and the curtains drawn. It was utterly silent, lifeless.

Bewildered, Alex trotted into the kitchen. The fruit bowl was gone. The refrigerator was quiet. Alex walked over and opened it up. Empty. The shelves were cleaned out. What was going on?

Alex felt himself beginning to panic. He ran from the kitchen and down the hall to Yassen's room. He threw open the door, and that was when his last remaining shred of hope sank to the pit of his stomach like a rock.

The bedclothes were gone, leaving just the bare mattress sitting on the frame. The stereo in the corner was gone, and all the CDs with it. Alex tore through the room like a whirlwind, trying to find some trace of the man that had lived here. No clothes hung in the closet. The dresser drawers were empty. The towels in the bathroom were gone. Personal effects were gone. Whoever had lived here was gone.

And then, at the peak of his hysteria, it dawned on Alex—a vague, blurry memory of what Yassen had told him several nights ago:

"If you leave, you must not return. There are people who would be interested to know I am alive, such as your MI6 friends, so when you go, there is no coming back. That is how it must be . . ."

Numb with grief, Alex wandered out into the living room and sat down on the bottom stair, cradling his head in his arms. So that was why Yassen hadn't come with him to the airport. He was busy covering his tracks, packing up and leaving town just in case word got out that the infamous Yassen Gregorovich was still alive. There would be no coming back to Palma de Mallorca for anyone tonight. No ending, no resolution, no closure. Just this empty house, this awful pain.

Alex lifted his head and wiped his eyes. Now he really was stuck here. He had ditched his ride home, he had no money, and he had probably missed Yassen by mere minutes. Alex's gut clenched at the thought that the taxi might have passed Yassen's BMW on the highway. It was a twist just cruel enough to be true. So close and yet so . . .

Alex's eyes widened as the realization hit him: Yassen had to leave Mallorca quickly. The quickest way to get off the island was by air. Yassen was a pilot. He could be at the airport now, getting ready to take off! Alex sprang to his feet and grabbed his backpack. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe he still had time. He needed to get to the airport and he needed to get there fast. He couldn't drive a car and he had no time to run to the beach and hail a taxi. That left only one option.

Alex bolted to the kitchen and threw open the junk drawer, pawing through pens and batteries and paper clips and rubber bands. He found the key to the Kawasaki hiding under a travel brochure. He clenched it in his fist and ran out to the carport. Sure enough, the motorcycle was draped in an auto cover, waiting for its next owner. Alex wrenched off the cover, strapped on his backpack, and climbed on.

He took a deep breath and tried to find his composure. His time was short, but he couldn't afford to be careless now. He had no helmet, no license, and aside from dirt bikes and mopeds, he had never driven anything this powerful before. He had ridden with Yassen enough to know how to start it up—after that, he was on pure luck.

Alex inserted the key, grasped the clutch, engaged the ignition, and hit the start button. The bike came to life with a guttering growl. Alex smiled as powerful machine hummed between his legs. He gave the throttle an experimental twist, causing the bike to rumble. He knocked back the kickstand and rolled out of the carport, his heart pounding furiously. He knew the way to the airport. He just had to point the motorcycle in that direction and go.

Taking another nervous breath, Alex released the clutch and started moving. He turned out of the driveway cautiously, cruising slowly, trying to get a feel for the machine. Then he gave it come gas and sped down the street, the cool wind rushing through his hair and the warm sun kissing his face. He grinned, enjoying the rush of adrenaline as he pulled out onto the highway and opened the throttle. The last time he checked, he was doing 100 kilometers per hour, a streak of black and red and gray. He would be at the airport in a matter of minutes.

He just hoped he wasn't too late.

There are different areas of an airport designated for specific types of aircraft—aprons, as aviators termed them. These areas were used for maneuvering, refueling, parking, servicing, loading and unloading of cargo and passengers, all of the customary pre- and post-flight operations. Most of the aprons were dedicated to large commercial craft: Air Berlin, Spanair, Air Europa, and other airlines. Then there were the aprons set aside for small or private craft and medium-sized cargo planes. If Yassen was flying himself out of Mallorca, which Alex firmly believed, then he would be using the small craft apron.

Alex had already worked out where he needed to be. He just had to find it. Luckily for him, the Palma airport was relatively small and the tourist season wouldn't start for another five months. That meant less air traffic and fewer cars getting in his way.

Following the exit signs, Alex took the ramp that crossed over the Ma-19 and brought him directly to the airport. He looked around, trying to catch sight of the hangars and airplanes that would identify the small craft apron. He didn't have to look far; there it was, right in front of him. He could see the parking area, the fuel sheds, the small administration building sitting beside a few empty lots. No doubt the airport was planning for future expansion.

Alex followed the road and turned off when he saw an exit, shifting gears and slowing down. He turned right onto a roundabout and then took a road that led past the parking lot. Heat shimmered off of the cars in waves, though it couldn't have been more than 18° Celsius. Between the light reflecting from the windshields and the bone-white pavement glowing below, Alex desperately wished for a pair of sunglasses.

He caught a glimpse of the hangar area and immediately broke away, cutting across a paved lot and speeding around the side of the admin building. He saw men in coveralls driving tractors across the apron, men guiding a Cessna onto the taxiway, a Piper here and a Jetstream there. What type of craft was he looking for? How would he recognize it? How would he know it was Yassen's?

And then saw it. A dark blue Bell 206 helicopter, waiting in line for takeoff. Its pilot was just climbing into the cockpit, and if it hadn't been for the unmistakable color of his hair, Alex would never have recognized him.

Yassen Gregorovich.

Alex let out the throttle and gunned it, screaming across the tarmac and causing a tractor to abruptly change directions. The driver swore at him and shook his fist. Alex ignored him, his vision tunneling down until only the helicopter remained. Yassen was reaching out to shut the door just as Alex came to a screeching halt in front of the aircraft.

"Wait!" he shouted, putting down the kickstand and jumping off the bike. "Wait!"

Yassen sprang from the helicopter, his facial expression neutral but his movements quick and short, revealing his alarm. He was wearing a black button-down shirt, a pair of khaki cargo pants, and black tactical boots. He narrowed his eyes at the boy jogging toward him.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "You are supposed—"

He was cut off by Alex throwing his arms around his waist and pressing against him tightly.

"I couldn't leave," he said, his face buried in Yassen's collar. "I'm sorry. I couldn't."

For a minute Yassen simply stood there, Alex clinging to him, in the middle of an asphalt ocean. Then his serious expression gradually began to soften, fading to a look of helpless resignation. He slowly wrapped his arms around Alex, cupping the back of the boy's head and sifting his fingers through windswept blond hair.

"It was not supposed to happen this way," he murmured. "You were supposed to go home, go back to your life. You were supposed to forget about me."

"Never," Alex muttered, tightening his grip in Yassen's shirt. "I love you."

A moment passed. Then Yassen laid his cheek against Alex's head and closed his eyes. He whispered something that was lost in the wind, and Alex smiled. After a few moments they slowly drew back to face each other, yet never really let go. Yassen ran his thumb over Alex's sunburned cheek and sighed heavily.

"You have missed your flight," he said. "I suppose you expect me to give you a ride home."

"Da, pozhaluysta."

Yassen let out a breathless laugh. It was the first time Alex had ever heard it, and he was suddenly determined that it wouldn't be the last.

"All right," said Yassen, jerking his head toward the helicopter. "Get in. I am curious to see if you pick up on flying as quickly as Russian."

Grinning widely, Alex pulled himself into the co-pilot's seat and strapped himself in. Beside him, Yassen adjusted the headphones over his ears and began making his final pre-flight communications with the control tower.

A few minutes later, the helicopter rose over the island of Mallorca and began heading due north, flying low over the glittering, jewel-blue Mediterranean Sea. But its occupants weren't going home.

They were already there.