Page 197 of Dirty Damage

I inch closer. The floodlights keep beaming; the guards keep roving.

It’s going to be close.

Not yet.

Not yet…

Now.

I lunge toward the cart during the slim window of opportunity. I duck through the flaps and scurry all the way to the back. In the darkness, though, I trip and fall.

The upside: nothing moves.

The downside: my ass and elbow explode with pain.

Honestly, they really should pay action stars more. I’m blinking back tears and massaging my elbow, trying my best not to whimper.

Suddenly, the cart jerks forward. I gasp, but thankfully, my gasp is drowned out by the groaning wheels and rattling metal boxes stacked around me.

I can feel the upward tilt of the cart as it’s pushed onto the yacht. Hopefully, no one opens the tarp to check on the goods inside.

I keep my fingers and toes crossed until the cart becomes stationary once more. Footsteps recede and silence takes over.

I count to one hundred. When nothing and no one comes to interrupt me, I slowly creep back out.

I’m somewhere in the underbelly of the ship. It’s dark, cool, and quiet.

But only for a second.

As soon as I emerge, the sound of approaching footsteps sends my heart plummeting into my stomach. I take the first door I see and slip inside a bathroom with tiny little port holes.

Through them, the ocean is a flat plane of black and blue. Not a single whitecap to break it up. The night is still.

This will do for now.

First, I lock the door. Then I slip down under the porthole and hug my knees to my chest.

I don’t dare turn a light on in case someone waltzes by and notices.

I just wait.

Breathe.

Wait.

Breathe.

Andpray.

I spend the next hour quaking in my boots—metaphorically speaking, of course. My boots are back in Mara’s apartment, along with the rest of my life.

At one point, I hear voices just outside the bathroom door. I sidle a little closer and hold my breath, hoping to catch a snippet of conversation that might help me understand where we’re going.

The crew members are speaking Russian. It might as well be Klingon, for all I understand.

But the moment I’m about to crawl back into my little corner of the bathroom, I hear a word—a name—that sends shivers down my spine.

“Boris…”

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