I use the cranes as a sort of guide. Their bases are no doubt connected to land, and land is very much where I want to be.
I sprint across the deck, past the large containers, and once I spot the stairway that leads off the ship, I start running even faster.
I’m halfway there when the ground in front of me sparks as a bullet strikes it.
I stop at once, spin back around.
I can’t see anybody at first—bright lights are shining in my eyes—but then I spot the shooter up at the top of the ship. He’s aiming right at me.
Fuck it.
I start running toward the stairway.
The ground sparks again as another bullet strikes it. This time it’s even closer, and slivers of metal pepper my leg.
I glance back up at the shooter. All right, so maybe playing chicken isn’t the best idea.
I start running again. Not toward the stairway or toward the shooter, but deeper into the maze of shipping containers.
There aren’t that many yet on deck—I’ve seen other ships that were stacked high and tight—so there’s enough room to maneuver through several. At least now the shooter can’t see me. That’s a plus. But it also means I can’t see the shooter. Or any of the others who are hunting me. But as long as I kill time, I should be okay. Assuming what these people say about my father is true, he has the means to save me. I just need time.
I sprint between two shipping containers, the space so narrow I can barely extend my arms, and I’m almost to the end when a man appears, a gun held at his side.
Without much thought, I turn and start running in the opposite direction.
The man doesn’t shoot me in the back. Instead, there’s the crackle of radio static and he says something quickly in Russian—notifying the others, it sounds like—and then the heavy thumping of his boots as he gives chase.
I exit the narrow shipping container alleyway seconds later, breathing heavy now, my bare feet sore, a cramp starting in my side.
Two other men are headed my way.
I turn and keep running, down the length of the deck, the stairway—my only form of escape—somewhere behind me.
I expect the deck to spark with another bullet any second, but nothing comes. The shooter must have abandoned his spot. Either that or he’s lining up his shot to take me out for good.
I can hear the others giving chase behind me, but I don’t bother looking back. Looking back will slow me down, even if it’s for a second, and right now I need all the seconds I can get.
The harbor is spread out before me, the city beyond it. Down there people are going about their daily lives, even if it is now the middle of the night. Nobody has any idea I’m up here. Nobody could care less if a bullet takes out the back of my head.
The deck seems like it will never end, and then, quite suddenly, I’ve reached the front of the ship.
Well, not quite the front of the ship—there’s a sort of metal wall keeping me from advancing any farther. How I’m supposed to get around the metal wall, I have no idea, but it doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve got nowhere else to go.
Taking a deep breath, I turn around.
Three men approach. They’re not running anymore, now that they see there’s no reason. They keep their guns held down at their sides, walking almost casually, like they’ve got all the time in the world.
I look left, toward the harbor. Then look right, toward the water.
If I sprint fast enough and make it to the edge, will I even want to jump over the side? It’s probably more than one hundred feet straight down, if not more. I could survive that, right? As long as I keep my feet straight and my arms down, make myself as small as possible as I break the surface.
I lick my lips, calculating the distance, but by that point the men have reached me.
They don’t say anything. Two of them grab me by the arms and direct me back up the deck, the third one following closely behind.
I don’t bother fighting them. I know it won’t change much. These three men are much too strong for me. Plus, they have weapons, which at the moment are a bit more dangerous than my sarcasm.
Veronika and who I assume must be Dolph—no, wait, Grigory—meet us halfway up the deck.
Veronika holds her left hand against her stomach right where her shirt is fresh with blood. She doesn’t say anything, just uses her free hand to slap me across the face.
It stings, but I do my best not to show it. Looking back at her, I say, “Sorry about stabbing you. In my defense, I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”
She slaps me again.
Grigory says, “Enough. We are leaving.”
I say to him, “Oh yeah, sorry about hitting you with the chair. In my defense, I didn’t think I would ever see you again either.”
Grigory doesn’t look amused. He starts to open his mouth, but before he can speak, half of his face disappears.
Seven minutes to go.
Nineteen
For a solid second, I don’t react. I stand there and watch as the pieces of Grigory’s face slide off and his body slumps to the deck. At first none of it makes sense—like, holy shit, that’s one hardcore sneeze—but then I hear the thudding of helicopters.
I look up and see two of them circling the container ship. Out of one hangs a man with a sniper rifle. Ropes are flung down from the helicopters, and men in black begin to descend to the deck.
“Shoot them!” Veronika screams.
The hands holding my arms fall away. The three men open fire. Veronika opens fire too, shooting at the nearest helicopter. Then she grabs my arm and begins dragging me up the deck.
I pull away.
Veronika snarls something in Russian,
