Page 18 of 10 Days to Surrender

It was embarrassingly easy to pick off one of Dragan’s men in Marseille and make him talk. I’ve had six months to plan what I’d do when I got a Serbian rat in my hands. He sang like a fucking canary.

When he’d given us everything he knew, we dumped his body in the Seine and followed the trail he drew out in his own blood. From Marseille to Montpellier, through Toulouse, into Bordeaux country. A handful of hostel owners along the way added to the story—some from bribes, some from brutality. It all led us here.

Moliets-et-Maa. A mistake on the map. Not even flyover country; it’s really just nothing at all, a place for people who want to be nowhere.

It makes sense that Jasmine would come here.

Why, though? Did something spook her? Why’d she run? How’d she slip away?

I suppose those answers don’t matter. Sheishere; that’s what matters.

And so are men who want to kill her.

Kosti and I waited on the outskirts of town for night to fall. He smoked cigarette after cigarette while we sat. I just brooded. When the dead of dark was finally upon us, I stepped out of the car and started to walk.

Now, I’m crouched in the darkness at the foot of a three-story apartment building. At the far end of the block, Kosti is circling from the other direction. I don’t intend for him to do much—any drop of Serbian blood that I don’t get to spill myself is wasted, in my opinion. But it doesn’t hurt to have him there to ward them in my direction instead.

They’re so close. Ripe for the plucking. I want to gut them all now. But I have to wait until the time is right.

Patience,I tell myself.Your body is not what it was six months ago. Give yourself the margin of error.

It’s hard to preachpatiencewhen every cell in that body is wired with adrenaline. I’ve sat on my fucking haunches for six months while the world kept spinning without me.

While Jasmine lay unguarded.

While Ariel?—

Patience, Sashenka. That won’t help you now. Focus on what’s in front of you.

As I watch, the Serbians drop their cigarettes and grind them out beneath their heels. One man’s shirt raises and I see the glint of a gun. They turn as one to start the trek up the stairs, clustered close together like invading roaches.

Patience…

Patience…

Then—movement. A scuffle at the far end of the block. A muffled cry. Alley cats squabbling, probably.

The Serbians snap toward the noise.

They never see me coming.

One second, I’m shadow; the next, I’m storm. I’m on the tallest one before he can turn back. My blade slips between his ribs like butter. He chokes, warm blood spilling over my knuckles.

The second man spins and cries out, swinging a crowbar at my head. I duck, sweep his legs, and bury my knife in his throat before he hits the ground.

Blood sprays the stucco.

But I’m already moving, pivoting left to face the last man standing. He fumbles to unholster his gun.

Idiot.

I kick his wrist. Bone cracks. He screams and the gun goes flying. I catch the pistol mid-air, spin it around, and jam the barrel under his chin. “Gde je Dragan?”

His eyes go wide at the Serbian coming from my tongue. He probably thinks he’s seeing a fucking boogeyman. All things considered, he’s not so far off.

“F-f-fu?—”

No more patience.

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