Page 14 of 10 Days to Surrender

Spat.

Spat.

5

SASHA

The knock comes at three in the morning.

Sleep and I parted ways months ago, so I’m already awake, shirtless and drenched in sweat, doing push-ups on the warped cabin floorboards. My left shoulder screams like a gutted animal with every dip, but I keep count through gritted teeth.Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty?—

Knock-knock-knock.

I pause and look at the door.

“We have a situation.” Kosti’s tone makes my spine stiffen. In six months, I’ve never heard him sound this grim.

I go back to work.Fifty-three. Fifty-four.The scar around my neck pulls taut. “Speak.”

“One of my contacts in Marseille just reached out. Dragan’s men have been asking questions about a violin teacher.”

The air leaves my lungs. For fifteen years, I’ve maintained a careful network of watchers around Jasmine. Not close enoughto compromise her new life, but near enough to warn me if trouble ever came knocking.

Now, it has.

“How did they find her?”

“Does it matter?” Kosti’s voice carries an edge of impatience. “What matters is that they have.”

I’m already reaching for clothes. “How long ago?”

“My contact spotted three of Dragan’s men at a café yesterday. They were showing her picture around. Old picture, but still recognizable.”

“Fuck.” My hands shake as I pull on my boots. Not from fear—from rage. Pure, molten rage that burns away six months of careful healing and planning. “I need transport. Now.”

“Sasha, is that wise?”

“Is that—” I stop and do a double-take. “‘Wise’? Fuck ‘wise,’ Kosti. For six months, I’ve stuck around this godforsaken fucking pit in the woods, waiting for a chance todosomething. I won’t sit around anymore.”

“But to go in guns blazing?—”

“Do you see a choice? I don’t.” I slam drawers and start filling a duffel with everything I’ll need: knives, pistols, magazines. Static crackles across my vision.

He stays mired in the doorway. “You could choose to wait until you don’t have to crawl down the stairs, for starters.”

“I don’t need my legs to put a bullet in a Serbian’s skull, Kosti.” I zip the duffel closed. “I just need a trigger finger.”

Kosti sighs. “Is this really about Jasmine? Or is this about?—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Because if it is about?—”

“Don’t fucking say it, man.”

“—then do you really think Ariel would want you to risk?—”

Three strides take me to him. I fist his collar and lift him off his feet, slamming him hard enough against the wall for the hung mirror to wobble.

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