Page 33 of Lash

He nods. "I agree. He needs to die. And you know I've got your back, no matter what."

Scarlett smiles at me. "Solomon's loyalty is mine. I'm with you, too, Lash."

Tatiana takes my hand again. "I am not a soldier like you four, but I am with you, Lash, no matter what."

Lorenzo claps me on the back. "So then. We need a plan."

vengeance deferred

Tatiana

It's a simple plan, but Lash claims simple plans tend to be the best.

Scarlett leaves the rest of us where we are and goes to do some recon, as Solomon calls it. She returns a few minutes later.

"They've got every entrance and exit covered, unsurprisingly, and obviously we have to assume it'll be the same at the train stations and airports—in Croatia, at least." She shrugs. "There're three or four at each exit. I think we go right up to the front door. Let them see us, recognize us, and then make our move."

The men agree, and we march right up to the four policemen at the main entrance of the bus station.

"Identification," one of them says in a bored voice.

His companion elbows him. "I think it's them," he says.

The first officer glances at his phone, and then at our faces. His hand moves for his radio clipped to his shoulder, but Solomon is faster. Lorenzo, Lash, and Scarlett all act at the same time, drawing their weapons while Solomon pins the first officer's hand and wrestles it away from his radio.

"We will not kill you if you cooperate," Lash says. "Now. Come."

This is all happening right out in the open, brazen as you please. A train roars past with a rapid clack of wheels over wooden ties, and down by the water, a ferry blasts its horn. Bus engines idle with a diesel rattle, spewing clouds of blue exhaust. It is early in the morning, so there are only a handful of people waiting for buses to arrive. Others pass in and out of the shops and cafes occupying the long, low line of buildings that make up the train, bus, and ferry stations.

The men and Scarlett have their weapons drawn but held close to their bodies so it's not immediately apparent to a casual observer what is going on.

"I don't know what you hope to accomplish," says the first officer to Lash, "But you are a fool if you think you will get away with this."

Lash only grins. "I don't want to get away with it." He gestures at the door of a fast-food restaurant. "In there. Go."

We file into the restaurant, which has just opened for the day. A middle-aged woman is behind the counter, wearing one of those silly paper hats, leaning on the counter looking bored.

She murmurs a half-hearted greeting in Croatian, but her eyes flicker to the officers, and the weapons held in plain sight.

"Sit." Lash points at a booth. "Sit, sit." He glances at Lorenzo. "Get us food. We are all hungry. No sense in wasting an opportunity.”

“I’ll do it," I say,

I go to the counter and order a meal for each of us, which feels like an odd thing to do while holding police officers hostage.

"Now," I hear Lash say. "Where did your orders come from?"

The first officer, who seems in charge, answers. "The captain."

"Call him," Lash says. "Directly. Only say what I tell you to say."

"I don't know what you hope to accomplish—" the officer starts.

"You don't need to know," Lash cuts in. "Call your captain right now or I'll shoot out your knees. I told you, I have no intention of hurting or killing you, but I will if I must. Look at me and ask yourself if I am bluffing."

The officer seems to arrive at the correct conclusion, produces his phone, finds the correct entry, and places the call.

It rings twice. "Sergeant," answers a throaty, bullfrog voice. "What it is? Why are you calling my personal number?"