I hit the water feet first,hard.
The impact drove the air from my lungs in a white explosion of bubbles. Cold shocked every nerve. The current grabbed me instantly, violent and indifferent, dragging me under. I fought to the surface, gasping, coughing, the duffel bag still miraculously slung across my chest. The weight of it pulled me down again. I kicked, clawed, refused to let go.
The river tumbled me like a rag doll—rocks scraping my legs, my arms, my face. I swallowed water, choked, spat. The current spun me, slammed me against a boulder, then sucked me deeper. Darkness pressed in from every side.
I don’t know how long it lasted…
Seconds. Minutes. An eternity.
Eventually the violence eased. The river slowed, widened. My body bumped against something soft—mud, reeds, an old tree. I clawed at the bank, fingers sinking into wet earth, and dragged myself out inch by inch. The duffel bag came with me, sodden and heavy, but intact.
I collapsed on my back, chest heaving, staring up at the sky.
Stars above me… cold, sharp, indifferent.
My body was a map of pain—cuts, bruises, the graze on my arm still bleeding sluggishly.
But I was alive.Breathing.
The bag of money lay beside me, zipper still closed.
I laughed once—hoarse, broken sound.
“Maybe today wasn’t the day I die after all,” I said to the empty night.
The river rushed on behind me, indifferent as ever.
I lay there a long time, letting the cold seep into my bones, listening to the silence of the night.
They’d lost me.
But I knew they’d never stop looking.
And I knew I’d never stop running.
And I wouldn’t change it for the world…
EARLIER THAT MORNING…
The world returns in fragments.
First: pain. A dull, throbbing hammer inside my skull, radiating out from my left temple. Then taste—copper and salt, blood on my tongue. My mouth feels swollen, lip split. My breathing is shallow, each inhale scraping against bruised ribs.
I’m moving. Not walking. Beingdragged.
“What the…” I mutter, a piercing pain as I move my jaw.
Rough hands under my arms, boots scraping asphalt. Gravel bites into my calves through torn trousers. My head lolls forward and I force my eyes open, vision swimming, double then triple then settling into painful clarity.
Two men. Black tactical vests, balaclavas, no insignia.
Professional. Not cops. But not my people either.
I twist, trying to plant my feet, get leverage. One of them laughs and drives a fist into my kidney. Air explodes from my lungs and I sag again.
Across from me, Ivan is slumped in the passenger seat of our wrecked Porsche. Door caved in, glass spiderwebbed. Blood streaks the airbag, dark against white nylon. His head is lolled to the side, eyes closed. Unconscious. Or worse.
“Ivan—” My voice is gravel and rust. Barely audible.
