Page 17 of 10 Days to Surrender

No. No, that’s impossible. We’ve been careful. Changed our names. Paid cash. Never stayed anywhere more than?—

One of the men turns. Moonlight slicks across the tattoo crawling up his neck.

A double-headed eagle.

Dragan’s mark.

I grab the stone wall of the fish market to keep from falling. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out the waves. They found us. They fucking found us.

Move. Move, you idiot.

But my feet are concrete. My lungs are origami. Half a block away, in the bungalow, Jasmine is sleeping with her bedroom window cracked open, utterly exposed behind a door that we never bother to lock.

I text Jas with fumbling fingers.

ARI:GET OUT NOW

She doesn’t answer.

The man with the eagle tattoo says something in Serbian. His companions laugh, low and mean. They’re looking at our door. At the easy latch. At the dark windows.

My hand flies to my belly. “Okay,” I whisper. “New plan.”

The dumpster yields a splintered oar. I heft it like a baseball bat. It’s heavier than my old Louisville Slugger from my high school softball days, but weekly prenatal yoga must finally be paying off, because it goes smoothly when I give it a test swing.

“Stay with me, guys,” I murmur, creeping along the wall. The men haven’t spotted me yet. They’re too busy arguing over a crumpled photo. Even from here, I recognize Jas’s smile.

Rage burns through the fear. These pricks took my father. My career. My whole damn life.

They don’t get to take her, too.

But even as I approach, I think the name I swore I wouldn’t let myself think anymore:I wish Sasha was here.

He’d know what to do. He’d bash these bastards’ skulls together and make lasagna of their brains. He’d stand between me and danger, between Jas and danger. He’d keep us safe. He swore he’d always keep us safe.

But he’s not here, is he? He isn’t here and he isn’t coming. It’s just us. Just me.

I take a deep breath and heft the oar high.

Ready.

Set.

G—

Then hands reach out to drag me backward into the dark.

7

SASHA

This French village stinks of fish markets and diesel. A far cry from the Adirondacks’ pine-scented purgatory.

I’ll take it.

Fuck, I’ll take anything that’s not sap and summer grass. If I stayed in that shack for another day, I might’ve gone insane. This is better. This is good.

This is what I was born to do.

---