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She frowned. She moved quicker now, staying low to the ground, clutching her knife, and wearing the body armor. The C4 she’d left behind as a little present. Any which way she looked at it, there was only one way she could get off a ship filled with heavily armed gunmen.
And it was going to involve a bit of daring.
Now, though, she snuck up to a window at the top of the stairs and peered through the glass at a figure marching about inside, waving a finger at the air like a conductor’s baton, and screaming wildly as he did.
Cora frowned, peering into the space.
The small man looked like he was ninety pounds. If that. The big, puffy, marshmallow coat he wore did little to hide his diminutive frame. If anything, it looked like an overcompensation.
And now, Cora spotted a woman tied to a chair. The figure was motionless, head hanging. And for one horrible moment, Cora thought she’d come too late.
But then the woman inhaled shakily, and Cora felt a flicker of relief.
She could just about pick out the ranting coming from the man in the room. Three more gunmen with automatics stood around the room, facing the woman, but standing far enough back that they weren’t visible from the small camera placed on a tripod aimed at the captive.
“Hear me?” screamed the man in the coat. “I know we’re family, brother, but you can’t go back on a deal. Not at this stage!”
And now, Cora heard a response from a voice she thought she recognized. A whimpering, sad voice. The mayor’s voice. “P…please, Wardell, just let her go!”
But the man named Wardell was snickering now, wagging his finger again. He was shouting into a phone as he continued, taunting his brother and very much enjoying it.
But Cora frowned. The voice was wrong.
The voice who’d been threatening on the camera had been a softer, more controlled voice. The voice of a man accustomed to getting his way.
This shouting, yelling, unhinged gloating wasn’t the voice of a trained killer.
The other one had.
The man with the knife from the video.
The one who had caused goosebumps across her neck. Where was he?
As Cora glanced around the room, looking from one guard to the next, she couldn’t quite place it, but none of these men stood out.
Someone like her—that’s what Karpov had said. There was someone likeher.But what did that even mean?
“Slowly,” a voice whispered in her ear. “Drop the knife.”
She froze, goosebumps erupting across her skin. She swallowed, lowering the knife slowly. She felt the barrel of the gun in the base of her neck once, twice, but then it lifted. He wanted her to know it was there, but not for her to know where to strike in order to disarm.
She felt another chill.
“Up,” the voice said.
It was a quiet voice. A pained voice. A voice devoid of anything quite like emotion. Cora tried to stand slowly, her stomach twisting. “Through the door. Go. Now,” said the voice. “I saw what you did on the deck. Quick. Impressive. You a SEAL?”
She felt that same shiver return. He spoke the language. The same language she’d known when pegging the guard at the mayor’s house as a Russian.
Which meant he knew what to look for.
Whichdefinitelywas not good news.
“You?” she said quietly.
“You can call me Tom,” the voice said lazily.
She risked a glance back. A man of average height stood there. He was gray, with gray features, gray hair, and even a colorless expression. His hand gripping the gun didn’t tremble. The other hand, though, was plastic. A prosthetic.
