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“This is fucking stupid.” Dom shivers.

“So is complaining every five minutes,” I snap in a mocking singsong voice. He scowls as I toss him another blanket.

He hasn’t stopped complaining since Canada. Somehow, I want to kill him less, I trust him a fraction more. But I fight a daily battle against slapping the shit out of him.

“Not all of us frequent inhospitable holds on cargo jets. You two act like this is normal.”

“Par for the course,” Ero mutters, pacing with his head bent to avoid the low ceiling.

“Not the worst flight we’ve been on. Remember the flight from Johannesburg to Perth?” I shiver.

“Oof. That was claustro-fucked.”

“Picture the two of us holed up in a crate for nine hours.” I’m leaning in, holding my hands up in a box shape. Dom’s face goes pale.

“Sleeping gas wore off after six,” Ero adds.

“And ‘Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall’ only kills about ten minutes.”

“I’d rather die.” Dom shudders.

“Wish you would. Just take off the blankets. Go to sleep. Let the hypothermia take you.”

“Tempting. It would save me from your rotten company.”

“You’ll get used to it,” I smirk, stretching my legs out wide before I curl back up. It is freezing in here. Only an hour to go.

And we’ll spend it working on a plan for a few days if we’re lucky.

Pressed up against the wall in a slipshod motel just a few days back, I would have never guessed we’d make it this far. The Mocro ambushed us, burst through the windows, stabbed our beds.

Ero’s intuition and knowledge saved us.

From that. We managed to kill two. The third escaped.

All three of us were left with more than a few injuries to nurse while we fled overland. Fortunately, we found an airstrip, bribed a pilot. Since then, we’ve bunny hopped all over the Arctic.

First, we stowed away on a flight to Greenland. We were there for only a few hours before someone alerted the police. As soon as the sirens flashed, someone else came after us, another crew of would-be assassins.

Another cargo plane. Dom payed off the whole crew.

Then it was Iceland, Norway, Sweden. Each location only bought us half a day before we had to run again, barely keeping ahead of the seemingly endless manhunt. That’s what a privately funded bounty will do.

Dollars to death warrants, the bond was posted by Ananke.

Meaning every dumb shit with a gun and access to the dark web thinks they’ll be the one to catch us. Guess I’d try too for nine million dollars.

By the time we reach Stockholm, we’re nearly out of funds. Well, Dom is.

I still have an emergency fund. One I’d rather he not know about. Still don’t entirely trust the wily old mobster. Even if he’s saved my life more than once.

“There’s another flight leaving in half an hour.”

“Where to?” Dom asks hesitantly.

“Does is matter?” Ero grumbles, rolling his shoulders.

“It does if we have any kind of plan. We can’t keep retreating.”