Page 39 of Lash

Lash lets out a growling sigh. "I know, too. I know firsthand. I investigated the disappearance of a German national in Brazil—he was former MAD on holiday in Rio, and he vanished. He was one of ours, so my superior tasked me with finding him."

"And did you?" Lorenzo asks.

Lash nods. "What was left of him, yes. He witnessed Mercado's men abducting a woman. He stopped them. Mercado had him dismembered while alive."

Lorenzo nods. “Sounds about right."

Solomon clears his throat. "So. How do we get to Brazil? Hop a flight and see what happens?"

“Under normal circumstances, this is where we would call Inez and she would use her resources to procure transportation," Lash says. "But that is obviously not an option. We are on our own. Stjepan's small airplane is of no use to us in this situation, as it cannot make it across the ocean. I do not like the idea of simply entering an airport. Pugli's influence is a problem."

Something snaps past my ear, a hot sharp buzz like an angry bee dive-bombing me. I duck at the same time that I hear aCRACK.

Lash's arm smacks into my shoulders and drives me to the ground, knocking the breath out of me. His body covers mine, hot and hard and heavy.

I taste grit. I can see nothing but a narrow slice of sidewalk. I feel him move, and then I hear his gun going off, a deafening bark that leaves my ear ringing.

I hear a pained grunt on my left, hear Solomon shouting, and then Lash's arm scoops me airborne and we're moving.

Lorenzo is covered in blood, his T-shirt is soaked, and his left arm is bathed red, but he's jogging behind us on his own power, a fist pressed to his chest.

Scarlett and Sol bring up the rear, side by side, jogging a few feet, stopping, pivoting, and firing, and then jogging again.

Lash jumps, and we land heavily—his shoulder slams into my gut and knocks the breath out of me all over again, and I hear gunfire, and screams, and feet pounding.

We've leaped onto a ferry. Lash effortlessly sprints up a steep set of stairs that's more ladder than anything, as if my weight on his shoulder is nothing.

"Get moving," I hear him snap in Croatian. "All possible speed, now."

"But the passengers—" A deep male voice says.

"Will have to wait. Pilot the boat or I'll throw you overboard."

"Put me down," I gasp, wiggling.

He sets me down on my feet, and I bend at the knees and suck oxygen while the ferry pilot pulls away from the pier. The engines roar and the boat rocks as the pilot brings the rear end out.

A few moments later, I feel the boat assume forward momentum.

Something smashes into the glass, shattering it—-someone screams. Not me.

A door slams open, and I see Solomon carry Lorenzo into the cockpit. He’s pale and grimacing, fist digging into his shoulder—it looks like the bullet missed anything vital, but he is losing a lot of blood very quickly.

His eyes met mine and he grimaces, probably supposed to be a reassuring smile. "I'll be fine. It went through. Had worse."

And then he passes out.

a conversation with a ghost

The blue-green waters of the Adriatic Sea ripple and glint, the brilliant Mediterranean sun shines hot and searing, and the wind blows restlessly. We are in the cockpit with the pilot, making sure he doesn’t change course or do anything stupid, like radio the authorities. We reassure him we mean him, the crew, and the passengers no harm—we only need passage away from Croatia.

"This is Ancona line," he says. "It is eleven hour sailing."

"We don't care where you take us," I tell him. "As long as you keep your mouth shut about us. You do not know what happened in Split. You never saw us. Understand? You don't tell anyone on the radio, you don't talk to your crew about us, you don't tell anyone when you get to port, not now, not in fifty years. Yes?"

The captain, an older man, a salty old sailor with weathered skin and white hair and the thousand-yard stare of a man who has seen the infinite horrors of this life, stares hard at us, scrutinizing all five of us as we stand in his cockpit.

He nods after several long moments. "I know nothing. I make mistake, leave too soon. No more job, but I live, hey?"