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Another message popped up in Blackwood’s encrypted app, this time from Blackwood HQ.Ten minutes.If Ilya and theBalestraheld their current courses and speeds, his ETA was ten minutes.Which meant we had ten minutes to neutralise Stepanov and his crew and take control of the boat.Ten minutes to come up with a plan to rescue Hallie.Ten minutes until we faced a man whose body count was higher than both of ours combined.
“Stepanov and Loslov first?”Ana asked as she set a timer for nine minutes on her phone.I did the same.
“Ideally.Better to cut the head off the snake.The chef will be in the galley, and Loslov is probably still eating.Why waste a good steak?The captain’s on the bridge, and Stepanov could be in either place.”
“So our unknowns are the guy acting as waiter and the guard.”
“The waiter will be near the galley, but the guard could be anywhere.”I took a deep breath and let calm settle over me.“When Ilya arrives, I’ll face him alone.You have too much to lose now.A daughter, a boyfriend…”
“You also have a boyfriend.”
“Do I?”
Ana just rolled her eyes.“We should face him together.”
“Somebody needs to drive the boat, and you have more experience at that.”
“A boat like this will have an autopilot.”Ana touched my arm.“We started this as a team, and we’ll end it as a team.Ilya won’t be expecting both of us.”
“He won’t even be expecting one of us.”
Ana cracked a smile.“True.Seven and Nine, back from the dead.”
Another minute, and we’d formed a plan of attack, and then it was time to move.I paused at the bedroom door, not so much listening asfeeling.Instincts had saved my skin more than once over the years.Was there anyone out there?
No.
Seven minutes to go, and we crept back to the main staircase.Was Stepanov back in the saloon?Or had he lost his appetite and decided to stay on the bridge?
The plan called for me to clear the remainder of this deck first.Saloon, dining area, and galley.We wore tiny earpieces to communicate, and once I’d dealt with Loslov, the chef, and anyone else I found, Ana would make her move.
At the beginning of my career, a massive adrenaline kick would send my heart racing at the start of this kind of job.Sweat used to trickle down my back as I desperately hid my nerves from the other six.These days, fear was a servant, not a master.Adrenaline provided not so much a kick as a mild jolt, and I harnessed it to heighten my senses.
This evening, the kick came from the fucking waiter.
Oh, the first part of the task went smoothly, almost surprisingly so.I should have realised that was a bad omen.Stepanov barely looked up as I put two bullets into his head.The small calibre meant they didn’t exit, just rattled around in there, turning his brain into Swiss cheese.Loslov turned with his mouth open, his face frozen in a question he’d never ask.They were both dead before Stepanov’s glass of red hit the plush grey carpet.A Château Lafite Rothschild.Fancy.I recognised the label because General Zacharov used to spend his ill-gotten gains on the stuff.
Then the waiter entered from stage left like the karate kid.His foot caught my shoulder as I ducked out of the way, and I guess that at least resolved our earlier concern about whether the staff were innocent bystanders.
“Scorched earth,” I told Ana as I regained my balance and blocked another kick.
“Copy.”
Fortunately, the guy had more style than substance, and when I threw a chair at him, it knocked him down long enough for me to aim for his centre mass.Two rounds slowed him considerably, just in time for the chef to pop out of the galley and go full Steven Seagal.A knife flew past my ear, but you know the old saying about bringing a knife to a gunfight?So, so true.A double-tap pushed him back, but adrenaline let him fight on even as blood bubbled out of his chest.He was a big guy, too.Over six feet tall and fond of his own cooking.Above, I heard Ana’s 10mm join the party, and either the captain or the guard was history.Probably the captain.Which meant we still had an unknown somewhere on the boat, plus these two assholes to finish.
The waiter had found a pistol, so he got priority.Two to the head, and the gun fell from his fingers.That left me with one round in my Ruger and an irate chef waving a meat cleaver.With little choice, I went for a headshot and missed—fuck—and perhaps spending my days crocheting wasn’t so bad after all?At least yarn didn’t try to kill you.I vaulted backward over another wet bar, a twin of the one upstairs—how much did these assholes drink?—and the cleaver splintered the wood half an inch from my hand.
A hurled cocktail shaker was met with a grunt of, “Suka,” which was accurate if not very polite.I needed a moment to change my magazine, but I wasn’t going to get it, so I grabbed the switchblade from my belt instead.The next time the cleaver embedded itself in what had once been a nice piece of polished walnut, I thrust upward and slashed through the chef’s carotid artery.Blood sprayed everywhere, including on me, and I cursed under my breath because now I’d have to clean up before Ilya arrived.At least I’d worn black today.It was such a practical colour.Although Paulo told me it wasn’t a colour at all, it was a shade, because he liked to nitpick over these things.
But first things first.I switched out my magazine for a fresh one and retrieved the waiter’s gun too.A 9mm Makarov, well-maintained by the look of it.I tested it by firing a round into the chef’s head.Not bad, and at least he stopped groaning.
“Sitrep?”I asked Ana.
She didn’t answer, but I heard two barely audible taps.Our code for “okay, but can’t talk.”Since she’d eliminated one target, that had to mean she was closing in on the second.Was he coming to investigate the noise?How long did we have left?Just under five minutes, but the saloon looked like the scene of a massacre, probably because it was, and where was the first place on the boat Ilya would go?That’s right: the fucking saloon.Even if I dragged the bodies out of the way, there wasn’t much I could do about the arterial spray.Although Stepanov did have some bizarre pieces of modern art.Maybe Ilya—who had zero appreciation of culture—might mistake the scarlet spatter for personal expression?
Okay, that was wishful thinking.I hauled Stepanov and Loslov into the galley, then heard a gunshot as I dumped the waiter on top of them.
“Target eliminated, going to the bridge.”