Page 86 of Night Shift

Peeking out from the edge of the container, I spotted a door. It wasn’t that far away, so I ran for it. I weaved through the obstacles as best I could with my hands tied behind my back. In the struggle for survival, I ignored the pain from the zip ties cutting into my wrists.

I burst through an emergency exit, the sudden brightness of the outside world momentarily blinding me. The noises of the port’s daily hustle, the screeching of seagulls, and the cranes groaning under the weight of cargo became an unnerving backdrop to my frantic escape.

Behind me were my captors, and ahead was a pier leading to the murky waters of the bay. The ladder hanging off the edge of the pier offered a daunting escape route to walkways on the water’s surface. Desperation lent me courage. The shouts of my pursuers grew louder and closer, urging my tired legs to carry me faster.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I ran straight to the edge of the pier. In my haste, I hadn’t thought about how I would manage the ladder with my hands behind my back. The height was dizzying, the water below a menacing promise of both salvation and peril. I’d always been a good swimmer—and had participated in Aberdeen’s annual polar plunge—so I was mentally prepared for the shock of cold water. But this would be so different.

As I teetered on the edge of indecision, a shout from behind made me glance back. The men had drawn their weapons. Their deadly intent was clear in their stance. But even as my heart leaped to my throat, a flicker of hope ignited within me. The Wolf had given them a strict command not to harm me.

With a final, desperate breath, I pushed off from the railing. My body hurtled toward the icy embrace of the water. Air rushed past me, time seeming to slow as I dropped.

The impact was a shock I’d expected, so I didn’t freak out. I even kept my composure as the cold water enveloped me in its freezing grasp, muffling the sounds of the world above. But then I started to quickly sink, the weight of my clothes pulling me down into the murky depths. Panic squeezed at my throat. It was nearly impossible for me to swim with my wrists tied. But surrender wasn’t in my vocabulary—not today, not ever. With a burst of energy, I forced my bound hands to move, sweeping them from behind my back, under my bottom, and up to the back of my knees. It was a clumsy, desperate move of survival. Thank God I was flexible.

The zip ties bit into my skin, but the sting was a reminder that I was still alive to fight. I maneuvered my legs, one at a time, through the tight circle of my arms. Although my movements were hampered somewhat by the biting cold that sought to seize my muscles, I finally succeeded.

Finally, with my hands now in front of me, I kicked hard, swimming like a dolphin and using every ounce of strength to propel myself upwards. The water around me became brighter, a sign that the surface was near. My lungs screamed for air, but finally my head broke through the surface, and I gasped, the sweet, life-giving oxygen flooding my body.

The relief was instantaneous, the frigid water forgotten for a moment as I gulped down breath after desperate breath. I was alive, free from the immediate clutches of death, and although I was freezing and far from safe, I had given myself a chance. Now, with my hands in front of me, I could swim.

I swam and swam and swam until I was sure I had put some good distance between myself and my captors. I was alone, in the freezing bay, with no clear plan of what to do next.

Finally, I risked a look back. The men stood at the railing of the pier, their weapons still drawn, their faces contorted in anger. But they held their fire. I could only assume that their leader’s order to keep me alive was restraining their trigger fingers.

As I drifted with the current, the cold seeping into my bones, I watched the men scatter from the dock. This respite would be brief. They would not give up their pursuit easily.

The icy water seemed to pull at me, each wave like a cold hand dragging me under the surface. The salt stung my eyes while the stiff wind buffeted me, blurring the line between the water and the sky.

Just when the darkness began to close in at the edges of my vision, a distant hum pierced through the fog of my desperation. A boat, its outline hazy through the spray and mist, was moving toward me. Voices, rough and urgent, cut through the roar of the engine and the slap of the waves.

“Hold on! We’re coming!” one of the men called out, the words barely reaching me over the tumult of the water.

I tried to shout, to signal them, but my strength was waning, each kick and stroke becoming weaker as the cold numbed my body.

The boat was close now, its hull a dark shadow against the water. Strong hands reached out and pulled me from the bay. I was hoisted up and dropped onto the rough floor of the boat.

“Gotcha, girl. You’re safe now,” a man said, his grizzled face peering down at me. His beard was matted with sea spray, his eyes kind but wary. After scrutinizing me, he jerked a knife out of his pocket and squatted beside me. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing in the bay with your hands bound?” With a swift yank, he sliced through the zip ties, freeing me.

Unable to respond, I lay there, shivering and gasping. The relief of being out of the water was quickly being replaced with uncontrollable shaking from the bone-deep cold that had taken hold. “We need to get her warm, and fast,” someone said. The tugboat’s men moved around me with purpose and soon they had me wrapped in one of their long oilskin coats to stave off the hypothermia that threatened. The older man who’d cut the zip ties rubbed his hand down his beard, eyeing me contemplatively. After a moment, he gave a nod of understanding. I was sure he’d put two and two together.

Slowly I began to thaw and relax a bit. I listened to the boat’s engine humming with the promise of safety, but then all of a sudden, a salvo of gunfire shattered the fragile hope I had. Bullets sliced through the air, thudding into the hull with terrifying precision.

“Get down!” one of the men on the boat bellowed. But it was too late; the barrage of gunshots from the Russian thugs was unyielding. The men around me, my saviors mere moments ago, had become targets in the blink of an eye.

I huddled low alongside them. Screams of pain and shouts of desperation filled the air.

We were sitting ducks, and these men, who had only sought to rescue a stranger, were now paying the price for their kindness with their lives. The low sides of the tugboat didn’t provide much shelter from the gunfire. One by one, the men went down, their bodies slumping onto the deck, their sacrifice a testament to the cruelty of my pursuers.

Soon, only one remained—a young man whose wide eyes mirrored my own terror. Blood from a superficial wound on his arm trickled down his skin, but he was alive. His gaze met mine, a silent understanding passing between us.

The gunfire abruptly ceased, and we lay still, listening to the waves lapping against the boat and the Volkovi Nochi shouting distantly. With labored movements, the young crewman crawled over to me and pulled me toward an open storage cabinet in the center of the tugboat.

“We have to hide,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “They’re going to come looking for you.”

“You’re right, but I can’t go with you. They’ll find me and kill anyone with me.”

“No, I can’t let you stay here alone to face them,” he said.

“It’s the fucking Russian mafia,” I said. “Do me a favor and live. Call St. John’s hospital and ask for Dr. Atticus Thorin. Tell him everything.” I shoved him away when I heard the speedboat pulling up behind us. I crawled to the front of the tugboat, wishing I could jump back in the water. But it would just be a matter of time before the Russians apprehended me again. Slowly I stood up, raising my hands in the air. Looking back, I saw the guy nod, mouthing “Dr. Thorin” before closing himself in the cabinet.

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