Chapter 5
Louhi
I feel truly sated for the first time in months. I underestimated how incredible it’d be to have real food in my belly. The delicious ache between my legs doesn’t hurt either.
With only forty minutes until Viktor’s arrival, reality is a siren’s call we can’t ignore any longer.
The ocean bellows beyond the trees as we gather our knapsacks filled with the weapons Honey Eyes gathered for us. I shove a Glock with a fresh magazine into my pants, pulling the hideous jumper over the bulge.
I roll my head from side to side, closing my eyes as I force the adrenaline to wane. This is why I prefer to study my targets for days, weeks, or even months. The unknown leads to disorderly kills and sticky situations. It’s best to go undetected.
Getting to the private airfield midafternoon won’t be easy. When Sean slips his hand into mine, my eyelashes fluttering open again, I sense that he’s wordlessly assuring me that we will escape.
Sean follows closely as I step warily from the tree line, my feet sloshing within Honey Eyes’s too-large boots. The youthful squeals, peals of laughter, and ambient chatter rise over the thunderous sound of the breaking waves in the near distance indicate that the beach is crowded.
Without access to the internet or a police scanner, we have no way of knowing if the army base released a be on the lookout, or the full extent of the search for us. Although I have no doubt that there’s a hunt of some sort underway.
Glancing at Sean, I wonder for the hundredth time if his uniform will be a blessing or a curse, and I pray to the Finnish goddess Mielikki for some luck. If the mythological goddess of the hunt can’t help, no one can.
I feel every casual glance from the people we pass. Every spoken word that’s in our vicinity hits my brain like an arrow finding its target. My adrenaline climbs as we make our way toward a side street that leads to a quiet neighborhood, and I force myself to breathe.
I got out. I’m already free, I remind myself. I won’t be dragged back to Exile Island, no matter what. I’ll never again set foot on that tropical island of hell and torment. I’ll die before that happens.
The only man permitted to hurt me stands at my back.
In hushed voices, with only the trees for company, we developed our plan. In accordance with what we discussed, I immediately begin scouting the area for an inconspicuous car to hot-wire when we pass the quaint beach houses.
The farther we walk, the more the hair on my neck stands on end, my index finger itching to wrap around the trigger of the Glock still in my waistband. The void, black eyes of doorbell cameras track our every move like stationary ghosts that whisper to each other.
I grit my teeth, my jaw working as I attempt to ignore their presence. It’s not until the houses dip from the posh-as-fuck price bracket into modest and cozy that I spot a vehicle we could steal.
My heart thumps when I stop in front of an ancient, filthy sedan. Trying the door, it opens. Thank you, Mielikki.
Once we settle into the car, I open the glove compartment, and I’m practically giddy when I find a map. I quickly assess our location and direct Sean out of the quiet neighborhood. The black, all-seeing orbs fastened to the various porches watch our exit, and I explain, “We need to ditch this car.”
“Already?”
It’s such a shame we couldn’t still be using the bike we had last night, but switching up our ride was necessary. “We need to pick one up somewhere else, as soon as possible.”
A few minutes later, Sean’s pulling into a petrol station and parking with a view of the pumps. Immediately, I find the omniscient eye of the government positioned on the corner of the building.
Without weeks of reconnaissance, studying the situation extensively, it’s impossible to go entirely undetected, but I’m not willing to risk that one of the doorbell camera owners won’t call the authorities. We need a new car.
We pounce on the opportunity when a blue compact car pulls into the station, which the owner abandons to go inside without locking it. The poor sod even left the keys in the ignition.
“Do you think they’ll call the cops?” Sean asks, carefully pulling onto the street as to not draw attention to himself. He even used the blinker. Good boy.
I snort. “Definitely.”
Using the map, I direct Sean onto several back roads that will hopefully throw anyone off our trail. If we had more time, I’d toss the plates, but Viktor won’t wait around for us. He’s never been patient.
We’ve been on the motorway for several kilometers when I glance behind us at the same time Sean says, “Military vehicle three cars back.”
The blood in my veins bubbles as my body prepares for a fight. Looking at my map, I direct him calmly, “Take the next left, then an immediate right. Don’t take the turns too quickly.”
His knuckles are white where he grips the steering wheel, and I remind myself that he’s new to the life of a criminal.
Although he’s doing far better than I expected.
At least he hasn’t thrown up yet. Murder can be a nauseating business, even when you don’t regret it. A strong stomach is advantageous.
Sean follows my instructions. I have him make five more turns until there’s no longer any sign of the military vehicle in the rear-view, and I’m certain they aren’t following us.
As we near the airport, I notice a large plane descending in the sky. I grin as giddiness threatens to take a bite of me, but just before its jaws clamp down, I force myself to calm. We can’t afford to be sloppy. Not now.
Several blocks from the airport, Sean parks in an alleyway. “We should be on foot from here,” I utter quietly.
Sean’s chiseled jaw is tight, his copious muscles bunched with tension as he dips his chin in confirmation. When he reaches for the handle, I grasp his bicep, forcing his attention back to me.
Leaning over the console, I press my lips to his. The kiss lasts a few too-short seconds, but it’s enough.
“We will survive this. Together, or not at all.”
He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips for the first time since we left the beach.
Side by side, we begin our trek toward the airport, and I notice that Sean positions himself between me and the road. While his chivalry is wholly unnecessary, especially given the circumstances, the organ beneath my serpent tattoo hiccups.
The reverberating rumble of a jet engine vibrates beneath my feet and through me, putting a bounce in my gait as we approach true freedom.
When a family approaches us on the sidewalk, Sean tucks me to his side, and I nearly snigger at his obvious attempt to appear like a normal couple. But there’s nothing normal about us.
Clothing aside, I’m covered in cuts and bruises, my hair is a disheveled mess, and I’m beaming like a goddamn wanker. Sean’s gruff, impenetrable expression casts a shadow larger than his large frame, drawing attention to him.
Dressed in kitschy, matching Hawaiian shirts, the family is clearly here on vacation, seemingly oblivious to our status as fugitives.
When the older man nods at us, Sean dips his chin solemnly, looking like he’s being led to the gallows, not walking toward a plane that’s going to whisk us to safety.
Chewing on the inside of my cheek to keep myself from giggling, I slide my hand into Sean’s, fusing us together tangibly while the cords of love and trust twine themselves around our hearts.
Every car that zips by on the quiet street has me bracing myself and sprouting eyes in the back of my head.
As we draw closer to the airport, I spot two enormous planes idling on the tarmac.
I step in front of Sean, practically skipping toward the small airport as I drag him along behind me with a grin so wide that it nearly splits my face in half.
“How the fuck are we getting in?” Sean mutters, catching up to me in one long stride. Glancing around, I note the locked gates and copious amounts of razor wire sitting atop the chain link. If we want to keep our skin intact, climbing the fence is out of the question.
That kind of looping razor wire is a trap. It’s designed to collapse inward, ensnaring anyone who dares to clamber over it; the tiny blades grip everything from skin to clothing and refuse to let go.
We’d need a shovel—and a couple of days—to tunnel beneath the fence, so that’s not a viable option either.
Just then, a utility vehicle approaches the sliding gate.
Sean and I lock eyes, our hands disconnecting as we both take off at a dead sprint.
My combat boots swiftly chew up the distance as my toes ram against the end of the boots.
Sweat dots my skin, my chest burning with exertion, but there’s no bloody way we’re letting this opportunity pass. The rolling barricade has begun to close when we approach, and we slip into safety just before it shuts us out again.
I prance toward the largest of the planes, the one with a Latin prefix to the registration number on the tail. But as I practically dance beneath the sunshine, our getaway within reach, I make a critical error, committing a cardinal sin in my line of work.
One that can’t be undone.