“Whoa!”

  Jen’s less-than-thoughtful cry for help as she flails her arms for balance. Dietrick grabs her. Mateo too. Their collective strength is enough to derail the catastrophe and pull her onto the boat. They ease her onto the deck, her ego more injured than her knee.

  “Are you okay?” Dietrick asks.

  Jen exhales. Stops herself from reaching down to check her knee. Any sign of injury, and Captain Hartmann might confine her to the sickbay. Or worse, order up a Coastguard evacuation. “I’ll live, thanks.”

  Mateo smirks. “It’s what we do.”

  “Just watch Katrien,” Dietrick says.

  Jen grips the gunwale for balance and watches Katrien as she ropes down a canvas bag full of trash.

  “Catch!” Katrien tosses her end to Dietrick, who coils it in his arms. “Last off!”

  No one left behind.

  The call twists Jen’s gut, but she forces herself to focus. Watch. Learn from Katrien, who is storming down the ladder. Dietrick remains in position, but he’s casual. More like insurance. Useful only in rare circumstances.

  Katrien splits the distance. Gives herself a hard push. With a hop and a leap, she’s back aboard the boat. She steadies herself, expecting the pilot to reverse the throttle. The boat surges away from Seventeen. When it’s safe, the pilot reduces power, allowing them to enter the cabin and find a seat.

  “You should have been a ballerina,” Jen says as she fastens her five-point harness.

  “Don’t worry, greenhorn. You’ll be just as graceful soon enough,” Katrien replies. “Are you hurt?”

  Jen flexes her knee. Labels it a two-aspirin problem and shrugs. “I’ve been through worse.”

  “Like riding that horse of yours, Sarah,” Katrien says. “Dust yourself off and get back on tomorrow.”

  Before Jen can reply, the pilot pins the throttle; the thrust pins Jen to her seat. It snatches her breath, like Turbine 17 as the pilot circles the foundation. Its blades are turning, and as she looks up, they fah-whump above her head. Electricity is flowing again, but with a recent addition: Deadlock.

  Verdantis Wind Park has been compromised.

  The interceptor points toward the Stormvogel. Punches into a trough and sends a jet of water into the sky. It turns golden in the setting sun. The pilot arcs and brings the boat parallel to the Stormvogel. The davit crane and its rigging are waiting. Dietrick and Mateo set it. Two points on the stern. One on the bow. They strap back in, and the crane operator hoists the boat out of the sea.

  The boat rocks into the davit cradle. The machine winds and recedes into the socket. The tame part, Jen thinks. A contrast to how she labeled it this morning. But her day on the sea showed her the meaning of a wild ride to work.

  “Get off my boat, you deadbeats.”

  Jen laughs at the pilot, who signals for her and Katrien to go first. A crew member hangs a ladder on the gunwale, just behind Jen’s chair and the cabin.

  Katrien descends and waits for a trough before touching down. She rushes to the muster station, grips the safety rail, and waits for Jen, who isn’t far behind. “You just made it through your first day, greenhorn. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. You know the crazy part?” Jen asks. “I’m looking forward to tomorrow.”

  “Not everyone says that after their first day.” Katrien looks up and gives Dietrick a nod. “C’mon, let’s go get dry.”

  Jen follows Katrien into the Stormvogel. Pieter is waiting, a curious look on his face. Dr. Truitt stands by his side, his concern obvious.

  “Anyone broken?” Truitt asks, eyes on Jen.

  “Only you and your sense of subtlety,” Katrien replies.

  Jen laughs as Truitt’s face goes crimson. Hers would too if she weren’t so cold. She felt his attraction this morning. It’s mutual, but under these conditions, he doesn’t stand a chance. She won’t leave him hanging, though. “I appreciate the gesture. Very southern.” She winks. “I’m okay, thanks.”

  “And …?” Pieter asks, subtly making sure Jen is ready for day two in the park.

  “And I don’t know why you’re so worried,” Katrien replies. “Besides, I think there’s a rule about blocking the hallways.”

  Pieter laughs. “Alright. Just needed to check in. We’ll get out of your way.”

  Jen doesn’t get the chance to thank him as he and Truitt start down the hall. This crew spends weeks together; they’re tight, and she appreciates their willingness to look out for her. Another reason to do her job well and get out without them knowing the purpose of her mission. She follows Katrien toward the locker rooms, professionalism at the fore of her mind.

  Fifty-Nine

  Amsterdam, Netherlands

  What a surprise, Anastasia thinks. She and Ugo have more in common than she first thought; neither of them shares a tolerance for heroin. He is experiencing the peak of his high. Heroin is like the kiss of an angel. Blissful and divine. But it has a tendency to leave those who experience that ecstasy in total oblivion.

  While Ugo enjoys his taste of heaven, Anastasia finishes her search of the shanty. She already has Ugo’s cellphone and computer in her backpack. His golden Desert Eagle, along with two spare magazines, is on her person. She also found a razor-sharp Ginsu knife, which has been useful.

  Ever the tenderhearted nurse, Anastasia considers Ugo’s shallow breathing an urgent priority. If his heart stops, she won’t be able to question him. She opens the drawer where he keeps his stash and finds a plastic bag full of cocaine. She returns to the table and prepares his next round of medication.

  Anastasia considers asking Leo, even Google, the recommended dose for intravenous cocaine, but decides against it. Too many variables are in play: Ugo’s age; the heroin in his system; the purity of the cocaine. Better to make a guesstimate, she thinks.

  She dumps a sizable mound of cocaine onto the spoon. Adds some water and lets it crackle on the propane stove. The plastic walls of the syringe are almost blistering as she draws in the liquid. She drops to the ground, inserts the syringe into one of Ugo’s veins, and slams down the plunger. It’s violent, just like Ugo’s reaction.

  Ugo jackknifes into a sitting position. He jerks his arm like it’s on fire, only to realize his hands are bound. He draws a gigantic breath. His chest widens, like his eyes, and he screams. The sound he makes shocks him more than the cocaine in his system. It’s a harsh, dry rasp. He tries to swallow, as if something is blocking his throat, but he’s able to breathe.

  “Let me help you.” Anastasia taunts him with the same accent he uses. “For your nerves.”

  Anastasia reaches for a mirror and holds it in front of his face. It gives him a full view of the tracheotomy she performed while he was unconscious. The hole in his throat is enormous. So is the tube between his vocal cords, which pins them in place and prevents him from calling his guards. Tendrils of blood drip from the incision, darkening the sweat stains on the collar of his shirt.

  “You …” he rasps.

  “No, you.” Anastasia winks and smiles. “You’ve been a bad boy, Ugo.”

  Anastasia tsks at him and reaches for a stack of passports she found while searching his shanty. She opens a booklet and reads the name of an Australian man. “Funny, this guy looks a lot like Remi Kawu. I’d know … I killed him this morning after he snitched on you.”

  The news sends Ugo into a fit. He jerks against his restraints. Sucks the spit off his teeth and launches it into Anastasia’s face.

  “Would you give me a moment to clean myself off?” Anastasia reaches for Ugo’s tracheotomy tube and covers the opening with a piece of tape. While she carefully dabs her face, Ugo struggles to breathe. His chest heaves, fighting against the piece of tape, but he can’t win. His eyes become glassy as beads of sweat collect on his brow. On the verge of passing out, his head drops onto the floor.

  “Finished!” Anastasia removes the tape, giving Ugo the chance to breathe. “Crisis averted.”

  Anastasia props Ugo against the wall as he fights to remain conscious. She taps his forehead with the passport booklet. “Why does Remi want to go to Australia?”

  “The beaches.”

  “Oh, what a coincidence! I went to the Great Barrier Reef a couple of years ago. Want to hear the story?”

  Anastasia replaces the tape, cutting off Ugo’s oxygen. While he struggles to breathe, she launches into a diatribe about the reef’s world-renowned biodiversity. Corals and fish and sharks. The horrifying sunburn she endured. While she talks, she reads through the passport booklets, ignoring Ugo’s growing proximity to death. When she looks up again, his eyes are rolling back in his head. Her cue to remove the tape.

  Anastasia taps the passports but doesn’t repeat the question.

  Ugo’s chest heaves as he stares, but he understands the message. “Al-Shabaab.”

  “Remi was a terrorist?”

  Ugo nods. “Others, too.”

  Life is a wild wonder. Anastasia thought she was killing street trash to finish a vendetta. Instead, she’s saving the free world from terrorists. “These are incredibly well done. How would I get one of my own?”

  Ugo exhales and stares at the ceiling. Anastasia smirks. It’s one thing to burn terrorists—they’re dead men walking. It’s another issue to burn a gifted forger. They’re far too rare to toss in the garbage.

  Silence is a choice, an answer, and it forces Anastasia to reach for the tape. “I’ll just go ask someone else.”

  “No!”

  “What is his name, Ugo?”

  Ugo shakes his head and grinds his teeth, but he relents. “Nikolaos Vardis.”

  Anastasia grabs her phone and searches for the name. It’s a clean hit, but more importantly, there’s a picture linked to his social media. She flashes the phone at Ugo. “Him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you communicate?” Anastasia asks.

  “Void.”

  Of course, she thinks. She tries not to roll her eyes.

  “Important,” Ugo says. “Ink.”

  “Are you talking about the type of ink he uses?”

  Ugo shakes his head. “No … he steals it.”

  Anastasia grins. Nikolaos Vardis must work for a local, high-end printer. Possibly one responsible for creating passport booklets, or the components used in manufacturing them.

  She pulls out her cellphone and texts the information to her team. By the time she gets out of this hellhole, they’ll have found Vardis’s employer or the shop he uses to create his forgeries. There’s a knock on the door as she finishes the text.

  “Boss, I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s an issue.”

  Anastasia looks back at Ugo as a smirk spreads across his face. He cannot scream, but he’s resourceful, and he uses his head—by banging it against the wall. Ugo stops when he hears the guard call for help; and when Anastasia drives her Ginsu knife into his heart.

  Sixty

  The plywood door breaks on the third kick. The wood may have been weak, but the Master Lock securing the latch wasn’t. Four guards, machetes in hand, rush into the shanty. Their faces slacken when they see their boss in the corner, blood gushing from a wound in his chest.

  Their shouts are frantic as they search for the auburn-haired druggie, who is missing. Her trail is easy to find, though. It begins with a giant slash across one of the tarp walls and leads into a neighboring shanty.

  Before they can follow it, a sharp bang distracts them. A guard rushes to Ugo’s dresser and opens the cabinet door. A burning towel is covering the propane stove. White gas sprays from an opening in the canister. It catches fire and becomes a roaring blue flame. A millisecond later, the entire tank explodes.

  A heavy object pins Anastasia to the ground as her eyes flutter open. Between the weight, smoke, and dust filling the air, it’s almost impossible to breathe. She blinks the grime out of her eyes. Slides her head downward against the floor of the cooler. Two sheets of plywood and a metal beam lie across her back.

  Could be worse, she thinks.

  Both of her arms are against her sides. She’s unable to move them, but she can wiggle her fingers. The Ginsu knife is still in her right hand. The blade, mercifully, is not in her hip. She can’t move her feet, but it’s not from any lack of effort; they’re taking the brunt of the weight.

  “You did this!”

  The shout is too close for comfort. Anastasia cranes her neck and finds a figure emerging from the smoke.

  “Get up!” The man grips the sheet of plywood and rips it off Anastasia. “We’re going to punish you for this, girl.”

  Anastasia responds with the Ginsu knife. She slashes the back of his left ankle, severing his Achilles tendon. He screams as he drops, but she doesn’t release her grip on his ankle. She uses it as a handhold. Climbs his fallen body like a mountain. She pulls up. Stabs the Ginsu knife into his pelvis and creates another handhold.

  She drags herself up and mounts her victim. He plants a bloody palm against her chin, shoving her face away. His hand slips, her vision snaps back into place—as his fist slams into her gut.

  Stars burst behind Anastasia’s eyes, but she tightens her abdominals. At State School 4, the instructors were generous with abuse. A fist to the solar plexus was a favorite, especially after breakfast.

  “That was your last chance,” Anastasia says. “But you blew it.”

  She drives the Ginsu between his third and fourth ribs. Feels a rush of blood as his heart deflates. He twitches once and goes slack.

  Anastasia kneels beside him, draws in careful breaths, and looks around. The propane explosion did more than destroy Ugo’s ground-level shack; it took out the load-bearing supports for the racking system above it.

  A sharp crack yanks her attention to the floor.

  An anchor bolt pops from the concrete floor with the sound of a gunshot. Then another, and another. The structural integrity of the rack is failing. The wall of steel hesitates, swaying as if deciding which way to fall, then arcs away from her—toward the center of the cooler.

  The vertical city comes crashing down.

  Anastasia drops to the ground, shields her head, and prays to her guardian angel for protection.

  Klement is observing Anastasia’s secondary exit point when a giant explosion rocks the cooler. The radio scanner buzzes with activity thirty seconds later. Emergency services are coming; the first responding officer will be on site within three minutes.

  He raises his radio. “Renat, we’re about to have a lot of company.”

  “We need to get our cruisers out of the area. Hold your position and wait for Anastasia,” Renat replies.

  “On it,” Klement says. “When was her last update?”

  “Before the explosion,” Renat replies. “Give her ten minutes. Once that window closes, bail out. Saint Petersburg already has something on Vardis. We’ll need you.”

  “Understood.”

  Klement lowers the radio, marks the time, and wonders if Anastasia will escape the cooler alive.

  A metal beam spears past Anastasia’s head, missing her by inches before burying itself in the cooler’s wall. Shards of paint and rust dust her hair and shoulders. For a heartbeat she’s frozen, feeling the absence of pain where her skull should have been split open.

  Then she breathes.

  She lifts her gaze, slow and deliberate, and assesses.

  The warehouse roof is still intact high above, but the floor is a disaster zone. Twisted orange beams and crossbars lie crisscrossed around her like a fallen jungle gym. The shanties have folded into themselves, wood and tarps and corrugated panels mashed into the steel wreckage. It’s chaos—but she’s in a pocket of safety, unpinned, able to move.

  Anastasia vaults through the ruins of the upper-level shacks toward the open cooler door. That’s when the real chaos begins. People are running and stumbling through the wreckage, some screaming, some eerily silent. Others lie under hundreds of pounds of steel, hands reaching out from gaps in the debris as they claw at the metal that’s crushing them.

  A crowd arrives, led by the men Anastasia passed as she entered the cooler. Survivors are screaming for help, but Ugo’s men ignore them; they’re looking to put out fires. Prevent authorities from entering the building. They’re also searching for their boss.

  Anastasia recognizes the man who groped her. He is leading another man toward Ugo’s shanty. She decides to meet him halfway. Make him pay for the privilege. She maneuvers through the bars and confronts them in a clearing. They immediately recognize the druggie who was last seen with their boss.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” the first one asks. He places both of his hands on Anastasia’s shoulders, stopping her—and putting his hands on her for the second time. “Tell us what happened.”

  “Is Ugo alive?” the second man asks.

  Anastasia shoots a glance back toward Ugo’s shanty. “Yes! He’s trapped under a piece of metal!”

  It draws their attention away from her hand as she reaches behind her back and grips her knife.

  “Show us, since you were the last one to see him.”

  “You’ll see him soon,” Anastasia says, voice flat. “In hell.”

  Anastasia pulls the blade from behind her back. She keeps it low. Touches the razor-sharp edge to the inside of his leg, severing his femoral artery.

  With a herculean burst of strength, she arcs the knife upward, slashing the tendons of his triceps. A clink echoes through the tang and enters her fingers as the knife glances against his bones. He screams in pain as he drops. He reaches. Tries to push his hands into the gash on his leg to stop the bleeding, but his arms fold. The product of missing tendons in his arms.

  The second guard doesn’t exactly freeze. He’s just slow. First, his mind registers the flash of steel. Then the spray of blood. Then, the way his friend folds, helpless, onto the floor. The shock of overwhelming force.