Page 90 of Savage Reckoning

Something in the water, rising above the surface. A submarine, or submersible of some description. Definitely. I saw the periscope. Then, nothing.

I’m pretty sure I wasn’t attacked from the submersible. There wasn’t time, I’d have seen if anyone got out or took a shot at me. And it came from behind. So that leaves… someone already on the island who must have been there waiting, expecting the submersible. And I got in the way. Wrong place, wrong time.

A traitor, on Caraksay itself.

I contemplate my options. My guess is that I’m currently on board that submersible, though fuck knows why. It would have been easier to just kill me, and they had the chance back there on the beach. It’s unlikely they came intending to take a prisoner, more likely they were picking up their man who’d done his job, whatever that was. Why snatch me, especially as these craft aren’t designed for carrying extra passengers?

My best guess is that I was recognised. Sokolov probably realises by now who killed his Vor in Minsk, and getting his hands on me is an added bonus. If I’m right, this won’t be ending well. No one else on the island knows what happened to me, and even if they did, there’s no way they can locate an underwater craft. If I’m getting out of this, I’ll be doing it on my own.

I was never a man to wait and see. Fuck that. I mean to make a nuisance of myself, and I can start by kicking the shit out of this tin can. I wriggle down until my feet connect with the end of the capsule and I launch a kick. My boot connects with metal, and the din reverberates around me, making my throbbing head pound even worse than before. Relentless, I do it again, and again. Sound carries under water, so if anyone is out there…

I bite back a curse when light floods my prison. Blinking, I’m dragged out, feet-first, to land in a heap on the floor, where a vicious kick is delivered to my ribs. I swear I hear the crack of bone. I roll into a protective ball while the blows continue to rain down.

There are voices, guttural and angry, speaking in what sounds like Russian. I make out a couple of words.

“Predatel. Ubiytsa…”

Traitor. Murderer. Yup, they recognised me for sure.

The onslaught ceases. I expect to be bundled back inside the storage capsule, but they decide to leave me where I am, curled up on the floor. It’s probably easier to lay into me again if I’m handy.

I remain still and quiet. No point in attracting more violence unless it can be helped, and the respite gives me a chance to take stock.

I venture to open my eyes and take in my surroundings. I was right, I am on board the submersible. The sounds I heard are quieter now but must be the engine and the air supply. There are three men on the tiny craft. I recognise all of them.

Yaromir Kislev and Alyosha Ivanov were guards at the warehouse in Minsk, lieutenants of Fedor Morozov. The third man I can’t put a name to, but I’ve seen him on Caraksay, tinkering with the helicopters. A mechanic? At least, that was his cover.

They seem inclined to leave me alone, so I take advantage of the relative calm. I listen to their conversation, but my smattering of Russian isn’t much help. They do mention Sokolov several times, though, confirming my suspicions regarding who’s behind all of this.

A loud clanging sound is accompanied by a jolt, then a siren sounding. Kislev is yelling into a radio, being answered by someone who seems to be issuing commands. The motion of the vessel alters. We’re rising, and the engine has stopped, suggesting we’re being lifted externally. The submersible sways dizzily. I almost throw up, then we’re dumped on something solid.

Kislev is still on the radio, while Ivanov stretches up to open a hatch above our heads. Daylight floods in. There’s another rapid exchange in incomprehensible Russian, then Ivanov and the man from the island grab me by the shoulders and haul me to my feet. A knife is produced, and my wrists are released. I’m shoved towards a ladder which has been lowered into the submersible.

“Up,” Ivanov commands, punching me in the back for good measure. “You be quick.”

I’ve no desire to remain where I am, so I grasp the ladder and make my way up the first couple of rungs, enough to be able to peer over the edge.

As I thought, I’m on a boat, at sea. I’m no expert, but it seems quite big though lacking the luxury of a yacht like The Lydia. This vessel is functional rather than fancy, commercial rather than military. My guess would be that Sokolov hired the vessel and its submersible for the purposes of getting to and from Caraksay undetected.

Four men are on the deck, stationed around the submersible, and all have guns trained on me. I don’t much like the odds, so I clamber out without protest and drop to the deck, my hands raised.

One of the guards gestures with his weapon, directing me towards a flight of stairs leading below deck. Once I’m down there, I’ll no doubt be tied up again and slung in some sort of cell or whatever they have on ships. I flirt briefly with the notion of making a break for it and diving overboard but decide not to bother. First, it’s unlikely I’d make it to the rail without being shot, and second, that sea looks rough. And cold. I’d have little chance of surviving more than a few minutes. Third, my ribs hurt like a bitch, and I’m struggling to breathe.

I’ll wait for a better opportunity.

I stumble down the stairs and find myself in a salon of some sort. One of the men follows, nudging with the muzzle of his gun to encourage me to move through the salon and into what seems to be a storage room at the end. He slams the door on me.

Mercifully, the storeroom has a tiny porthole, so there’s some light. I’m surrounded by boxes of supplies, food mainly. Tinned tomatoes, sardines, peaches. Cartons of long-life milk, orange juice, pasta. At least I won’t starve. I work out I’ve just enough room to drop to my haunches and try to make myself comfortable. The space feels positively generous after my previous accommodations, so I do just that.

There are voices outside, constantly, and the clatter of footsteps above my head. I make out about half a dozen different tones, which seems to me to be something of a skeleton crew, given the size of the boat. I guess it was just a pick-up mission, and they came back with more than they bargained for.

The light fades. Soon, I’m in darkness again. I try to make the best of it by grabbing a couple of hours of sleep, but I’m constantly disturbed by the shouts and crashing about of the crew. No one bothers to bring me anything to eat or drink, a bad sign as it suggests they don’t consider me worth looking after. I help myself to a carton of milk. It tastes disgusting, but it will have to do.

Eventually, it gets light again. I have enough room to stand and take one pace in any direction, so that’s what I do to keep moving and alert. Despite it being spring outside and unseasonably cold even for the UK, it’s hot as Hell in here. I shrug out of my jacket and think about kicking up a commotion again but see no point in provoking them into another battering. The pain from my fractured ribs is bad enough, I’m not inclined to invite further injury. I might still be able to make a run for it.

Night falls again. I’m living off processed milk and orange juice and starting to think I might just create a fuss if only to pass the time. I manage to contain myself, and soon after dawn on the second day, the door flies open.

“You. Out.” The armed guard beckons me forward.

---