"A beautiful day the Lord has granted us," I said to him, that provincial accent heavier than ever. I worried my beads, forcing his attention there rather than my face. "Do you have room for one more?"
He regarded me for a long minute in which I debated whether I could strangle him without arousing the notice of the other dockworkers and then stow away aboard the tanker. The short answer was yes, Icoulddo that, but no, it wasn't a wise move. And I needed to conserve energy like a motherfucker.
"Room," he repeated, pulling the beanie from his head and wiping his hands on the wool. "Headed for America, you know. I have space for one more on deck five, but only deck five. Nothing less."
In other words, he wanted at least five thousand American dollars.
I held out the coin purse. "You're a true servant of our heavenly Father, my child." If I hadn't been holding back a roar of pain, I would've laughed at myself. I figured I'd laugh later, when a steady stream of morphine was coursing through my veins and my humerus bone wasn't trying to tear through my skin. I'd laugh about this whole fucking thing.
Thankfully, the quartermaster wasn't listening to a word I said. He was concerned only with thumbing through the money. He mouthed the numbers as he counted, his head bobbing as he neared five thousand. His eyes lit up when he hit six, and then popped right out of his greedy skull when he closed in on seven.
Every payoff was associated with a moment, a beat where the deal could progress as planned or everything could go pear-shaped. This was that moment. The quartermaster was gripping the cash and sizing me up, debating whether he could shake me down or hold me hostage for more. If I knew his type, I knew he was also thinking about dragging a blade across my throat and throwing me overboard once we left port.
And there was nothing I could do about it. Couldn't reason my way around it. Couldn't walk away. I had to wait it out.
He gestured to the medallions hanging from the rosary beads. "Saint Nicholas," he said, pinching one of the charms between his grubby fingers. "Watches over the seafarers, yeah?"
"The seafarers, yes, of course," I replied. I shook the beads at him. "I've been calling upon Saint Nicholas for safe passage."
He unzipped his coat and peeled back several layers of thermal shirts to reveal his bare chest. He pointed to an old tattoo. "Saint Nicholas." He tipped his head to the gangplank. "Be well, Sister."
I offered him a grateful smile and started up the ramp.
Now I only needed to survive the rest of this journey. I was one step closer but still an ocean away from the other side of this mission. If I made it home, I was taking a long-ass vacation. I was due for some sun, sand, and a sexy man by my side.
"If," I murmured to myself, laughing as much as my broken body would allow. "I'm getting home if I have to steer this motherfucker myself."
1
Wes
A week later…maybe?
I was havingthe weirdest fucking dreams. Nightmares? I wasn't sure.
I'd never given much thought to Peter Pan but my head was filled with nighttime flight and "second star to the right and straight on till morning."
The others were stress dreams. Live action to-do lists screaming at me to get shit done. Time sliding away from me, fast-forwarding as I watched everything go to hell. Bursts of light and whole-body jolts like the bottom was falling out.
And then there were the shadows. The whispers around every corner. Goddamn, I couldn't get away from those shadows. They were worse than the stress dreams. Worse by a lot. They reminded me I'd missed something. I'd missed something and people were dead because of it.
There was flying and stress and shadows but there was quiet too. An uncomfortable quiet, like the silence before a detonation. That quiet made me wonder whether I was dead too. Or close to it.
I was a spy and I'd long accepted the fact I could—and likely would—die on the job. My work necessitated a life lived as if I had nothing to lose. I wasn't afraid but I wasn't ready either. I didn't want this to be the end, not here in a dark, wet corner of a gas tanker somewhere between home and away. Not before—before everything else I needed to do.
"Not here," I mumbled to myself. My mouth was sandpaper. "Not dying here."
I summoned the strength to reach for the wound on my side. I had it packed with a length of fabric from my vestment, the best I could do to slow the bleeding. I yanked the layers away from my skin, hoping to find the dressing dry. Bleeding to death was not the way to go. Too slow, too painful. Give me fast and quick—and blissfully unaware.
But a pair of warm hands stopped me, saying, "Whoa there. Easy, easy." Then, louder, "He's waking up. Seems agitated. Can you give him something to calm him down? The last thing we need is torn sutures or an open incision."
"Not fucking agitated," I muttered, forcing my eyes open. "Goddamn, how fucking bright is it in here?"
I squinted at the woman holding my hand against my chest. Her dark braid snaked over her shoulder and brushed my arm. She wore a slim black t-shirt, long-sleeved and unadorned. There was nothing remarkable about her but Iknewher. I was certain of it. But I didn't know how or from where.
Then the realization hit me. I wasn't dead and I wasn't on that tanker anymore. I glanced down at the crisp hospital gown covering my chest, the tubes taped to my hand, the blanket covering my legs. The whiteboard on the wall ahead of me announced the names of my care providers. The date too. December thirtieth.
"Where—" I tried turning my head to the side butfuuuuuckthat hurt.
