It wasn't pretty, but—that time—they made the jump.
Frank and Cal picked themselves up from the rear deck of the Kosatka. The deck was larger than Cal's old living room, with more furniture, too. Cal flexed his bad knee and looked around. Champagne wishes and Aspercreme.
Frank was already on his feet but retrieving his pistol from the deck a few feet away.
"Dude, you dropped the gun?" Cal's eyes were wide, and he stifled a nervous laugh.
"Oh, hush!" Frank secured the pistol and gave it a press check, nodding that it looked good. "Is that your phone?"
"Shit!" Cal cursed and then scooped it up from the deck where it had landed in the shadow of a row of seats. There was a crack in the screen, but it still worked. He'd still be able to call home. Shit. MJ.
Guilt punched his chest and his fingers pulled up her last text message before he tapped out a reply with shaky fingers.
MJ. You reminded me to watch my back but today I'm watching someone else's. It's the right thing to do. Don't worry. Uncle Frank still has mine. I love you.
He sent the message and prayed it wouldn't be the last time his daughter ever heard from him. But if it was, he would at least be proud of his words.
Frank was beside him now.
"Text Lilith, too," he said. "She said she's watching, but I don't see how."
Because she's a badass, that's how.
We're onboard, he sent. Frank says you see us?? She probably had some military satellite watching them from orbit or one of those Predator drones flying overhead, those unmanned aircraft the size of a small airplane. He might be a civilian, but he knew those things carried crazy camera capabilities and sometimes even a pair of Hellfire missiles.
Just in case.
Two young men in shorts and white polos burst onto the deck through a door in the forward bulkhead. They stared at Frank and Cal, stared at the pistol in Frank's hand, and then stared at each other. Frank pointed the pistol at the deck near their feet: an insinuation of violence, but not a direct threat. The men raised their hands in surrender and, after a quick interrogation from Frank, they were in the water and swimming away into the marina. Cal smiled at the sight of Hoodie and Goggles some ways away across the water, struggling to mount a small pier from the water.
"I hope you're as good at shooting that thing as you are at getting people to run from it," Cal said, indicating the SIG Sauer.
"Scaring people is easy," Frank shrugged. "Shooting them is the tricky part. Especially when they're shooting back."
"Have you?" Cal asked. "Ever shot someone?"
Frank stared. "Don't make me answer that. You're not going to like it either way."
Cal rubbed his temples. "Good god. I don't even know what that means. Never mind. No turning back now, right?"
"They said the captain was on the bridge. I think."
"You think?"
"It's not the Cold War any longer, Cal. My Russian's a little rusty."
"Did you ask about Eeva?"
"There's a woman up with the captain."
Cal pumped his fist. Frank's Russian was good enough. This was it.
"You ready?" Frank asked.
Cal wasn't, but he nodded anyway. They silently climbed an outdoor stairwell, Frank's silver SIG Sauer leading the way. The stairs led to another exposed deck, this one with more seats and a long table for outdoor dining. A sundeck blocked out the sun above them and, in front of them, there was a glass wall with sliding doors that led into the interior of the yacht. The glass wall was like a panoramic mirror reflecting the marina, city, and green hills behind them as they approached. Cal held his breath, watching his mirror image match his every step and knowing that anyone on the interior would be watching him and Frank sneak up with absolute clarity. This is dumb, this is dumb, this is dumb.
But no shots rang out, and no voices raised in alarm.
Cal shadowed Frank's movements, staying just a step behind, as Frank put his back against the mirrored wall and tried the sliding door.
It opened silently, just an inch before Frank paused and cocked his head to listen. A beige curtain hung on the other side of the glass wall, obscuring their view into the room and obscuring them in return—thank God for that.
It was silent on the other side.
Frank met Cal's eyes, shrugged, and slid the door open just enough to maybe squeeze through. He gave Cal a nod and then disappeared into the mirror, pistol first, leaving Cal alone on the deck.
Shit-shit-shit. Come on, Cal—you got this!
Cal huffed a few quick breaths like he was preparing for a dive, but his body didn't move forward. He froze at the gap in the glass wall, and his mirror doppelgänger did the same, mocking his cowardice. This was Alice going through the looking glass, and Frank was the white rabbit, and whatever lay on the other side, there was no going back. His life was about to—
"You coming or what?"
Frank said through a slit in the curtain, holding it open.
Cal's phone buzzed.
Dad are you alright? Call me.
But Cal was already through the curtain. He'd text her back when this was through and that was a promise. He almost believed it.
Inside, the air conditioning was ice-cold. Dim lighting revealed a luxurious master bedroom complete with a king-sized bed, a lounging sofa, and a small table piled with the remnants of a breakfast fit for several people. Clusters of liquor bottles grew on every horizontal surface, like mushrooms; some bottles empty and others not. Vodka seemed a popular choice and Cal shook his head at the cliche. Someone lived here. Someone who liked to eat and liked to drink. A lot. It was no mystery who: Valeri Solonik—alive and well after his brush with a Ukrainian drone, living in comfort—and secrecy—aboard his brother's luxury yacht.
The bed was against the far bulkhead, sloppily made, and there was a small door on one side, likely leading to a lavatory, and a hallway on the other side leading deeper into the yacht. A sliding door was partially opened, wood this time, half of it hidden in the bulkhead behind the king-sized bed. Frank cleared the lavatory door first, saw that it was empty, and then he crept to the hallway and listened, Cal close behind.
The yacht vibrated with the hum of its diesel engines on low, still warming up, but soon they heard male voices from down the hall. Cal and Frank eyed each other, straining to hear, but the voices were calm like casual conversation and Cal didn't understand the language. Then a woman's voice sounded with soft laughter. It was Eeva.
They'd arrived in time to stop Eeva from doing whatever she'd planned. He didn't care about the lives of the Russian gangsters, but he'd watched enough movies and seen enough true-crime documentaries to know that people didn't just walk away from murder—even if the victims were criminals, and perhaps especially if the victims were criminals. There may not be honor among thieves, but there was plenty of revenge. With Frank's pistol, they could at least get Eeva and get off the yacht before it sailed into the anonymity of international waters. They could then get the hell out of Nice and, hopefully, far away from these Russians until the United States could take care of them officially. It wasn't a plan, but it was a hope.
"Get ready," Frank moved his lips to say, but made no sound.
Cal nodded. This time there would be no hesitation.
Frank confirmed with a nod of his own and then turned down the hall, his pistol tucked close. Immediately to their left was a circular stairwell leading down to the lower decks; they passed it and entered into the back of a larger room filled with sunlight.
Near them at the back of the room was a white sofa. And Eeva lounging there in a day dress with her brown hair falling in waves around her bare shoulders. As magnetic and mysterious as always, no matter the color of her hair. Just an hour ago she was a traitor. Now, he got it. It didn't make up for all the half-truths and lies of omission, but he got it. And there she was—about to throw her life away attacking gangsters with nothing but the turquoise, Navajo purse by her side on the sofa.
What's in the purse, Eeva?
But Cal already knew.
The Russian brothers were a few paces away at the head of the bridge sitting in a pair of tall pilots' chairs in front of a wide counter filled with screens, dials, and switches. Behind them a wide window curved across the front of the room, giving a panoramic view of the Port and the concrete breakwater in the distance to the south; a massive line of stones that guarded the port against the open sea. A small lighthouse could be seen at the very tip of the breakwater, Cal guessed a quarter of a mile away. They were high above the waterline and the other boats in the distance looked like toys.
Frank took one step into the room and Cal stepped beside him.
Eeva immediately jumped to her feet.
The Russians turned at the noise, and both slid off their pilots' chairs to their feet.
"The Americans," Marat Solonik said to his brother. Valeri nodded and sent his chins folding together.
Marat looked even taller and thinner in person and Cal instantly thought about Dr. Manny Springfield. Cal had hit more than one bully in the mouth. This wouldn't be any different if it came down to that. And this was a fancy bully—dressed like something out of a Ralph Lauren magazine. Whereas, the brother, Valeri, wasn't so well put together: massive, tree-trunk legs sticking out from big athletic shorts. A four-X polo shirt covered the rest of him, and his scalp was bald and liver-spotted.
Both men frowned at the intrusion but did not seem particularly bothered.
Marat then turned to Eeva and shook his head in disappointment. "And your friends. At first, I hoped your affections were genuine, but the truth wasn't hard to see. And, my dear, I think I like you better as a blonde."
Eeva's lips were pressed tight in anger. When Cal caught her eyes, she only glared at him.
"Yes, the Americans," Frank said with his pistol pointed in the general direction of the Russian brothers. "And on behalf of the United States, we're ending your little operation here in Nice. Today."
"Is that so?" Marat said calmly.
"It is. You're done soaking up the sun while Colonel Kentucky Fried, here, gets you access to Russian weaponry. That's right, Valeri, we know you aren't dead, and we know about the Russian tech you've been peddling to terrorists. It stops now!"
Valeri Solonik barked at his brother, something in Russian, and Marat said something back, more calmly. They were arguing or planning something, and Cal could only hope that Frank's Russian was good enough to follow along.
Marat turned back to Frank. "So, what now? You're going to shoot us?"
The skinny Russian shook his head.
"No, you aren't official. You aren't French police. You are old men like us. Where is your Delta Force? Interpol?"
Cal stood straighter. Fuck these guys—but they had a point. If only Frank would get on with it, whatever he was going to do, and they and Eeva could get the hell out of there.
Frank nodded. "You're right that this is unofficial, but it doesn't change the fact that you're on our radar now. And soon, the righteous hammer of American Justice will fall onto your fucking skulls, and it will keep falling until it's smashed you into pieces so small they'll fit into one of those little nesting dolls they sell to tourists back in Moscow. I have one back home, next to my picture of bin Laden's corpse—autographed by Seal Team Six."
Now the Russians looked unsure.
"So, here's what's going to happen today," Frank continued. "Myself, my friend, and this woman are going to walk off this boat and you're going to come with us straight to the French police—or—we'll leave . . . and you pilot this floating pigpen back to the Black Sea and hope the Ukrainians don't tag it with a naval drone. Valeri, do you think you can get lucky twice?"
These words were background noise to Cal. Somewhere in his mind they registered as important, but his attention was focused on Eeva. He smiled, seeing her, so suddenly he forgot to hide it. But when she met his gaze, her eyes were like fire behind ice. This wasn't over. Eeva was not waiting for a moment to escape; she was waiting for an opportunity. Was this it? Eeva answered that question by reaching a hand into her purse.