23. Clara
Chapter 23
Clara
M aybe I should have woken up Deniz.
I can’t focus, not the way I should in this situation. I’m not in the right mindset to do this alone, and yet here I am. The noise of my steps is hidden by the low groaning of a shipyard at night. The sharp smell of saltwater, dead fish, and steel clings to everything, including my skin. I edge along another container, listening for anything out of the ordinary.
Lev has to be here. I parked Deniz’s car in a construction lot down the road from the gate, and the walk here exhausted me even further. But I can’t stop. Lev is too critical of a potential source to let slip through my fingers.
Something creaks to my left and I whip around, my pistol held in front of me, finger on the trigger. But it’s just a chain hanging from a gantry. I breathe through my nose, counting the seconds, slowing my heartbeat. The adrenaline is both my friend and enemy, keeping me awake but also making me incredibly reactive.
I’m starting to truly become afraid I’ve made a mistake. Successful missions are built on planning and preparation, including a good night’s sleep and about seven backup plans for when things inevitably fail. This is reckless, an impulsive decision driven by the desperate desire to get closer to Konstantin. We’ve had so few successes, and Lev could leave the country at any time. To my sleep-addled mind, there was no better option.
But there was. Even if I couldn’t get Charlie here in time, I should have brought someone. Lee, Deniz, a hired hand. Anyone . Who knows how many people are stationed here with Lev? I could be walking into a nest of Konstantin’s men. I could be walking into an ambush.
Nevertheless, I press forward, the thought of ripping Lev’s fingernails from his hands too sweet a lure. The Long Beach port is directly adjacent to the Port of Los Angeles, but they are separated by gates and walls, so I only have to search the smaller side of the San Pedro Bay. But even the small side is vast, with towering containers and equipment creating a maze of paths to search.
The midnight moon is high in the sky, thankfully casting plenty of light. I track my steps, visualizing the map of the port I pulled up on my phone on my way down. The land juts out into the ocean like a claw, serving cruise ships and tourists visiting The Queen Mary, as well as commercial shipping operations. I doubt Lev would hide out in a high-traffic vacation area, so I focus on the trade side.
I slip around a boom crane, hiding behind the towering machine. When I peek over the edge, I catch sight of something ghostly dipping around a corner.
I shake my head, pressing my eyes closed tightly for a terrifying heartbeat. No ghosts. Just tricks of the light, fueled by my exhaustion.
I peer out again, seeing nothing but red and blue painted steel, and continue my hunt. I keep a catalog of container numbers and right turns, visualizing how far into the port I’ve made it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see it again. Like a specter, a flicker of light on the wind. I push myself against the side of the container, making my body as invisible as possible as I stare at where the pale figure disappeared.
I’m losing my mind. So much so, that it might actually get me killed.
Against my own better judgment and that of every Costa ancestor watching over me, I slink toward the corner where I saw the figure disappear, my weapon readied in front of me. Like I’m going to shoot a fucking ghost.
Konstantin and his crew have evaded us for far too long, hiding in their Russian stronghold, avoiding the hell they know we will rain down upon them. The few times members of his team have been seen outside Vladivostok, they’ve slipped from our grasp, scurrying back to safety before we can snare them like the rats they are. Delaying this pursuit would have risked that outcome again. Or at least, that’s what I convince myself as I press further into the shadows of the towering containers.
When I whip around the corner, I’m still alone, despite the sensation that something dangerous lurks nearby. My breathing is hard and heavy, too loud even with the sounds of the creaking port echoing around me. I keep my steps light as I pass six more stacks of cargo.
At the end of an alley, I finally spot the car, relieved I’m no longer chasing an apparition. The sedan is tucked between two stacks of containers, a tarp thrown over it, likely to avoid any drone or satellite images taking note of how long it’s been here. There’s no noise or movement, so I cautiously walk up and slip my hand under the cover, feeling the hood.
Still warm.
There has to be a safehouse here. I make my way around the corner, keeping an eye out for an office or something. Looking for any kind of light.
A noise, a whisper of footsteps, has me whipping around. I step backward a few paces to put my back to steel, trying to protect my six. Past the next row of containers, I can see an open space, the road carved out for cars and heavy machinery to travel through the port. I move closer to the edge, trying to avoid becoming a sitting duck in all that open space.
“You know, you’re incredibly predictable.”
Lev’s voice is like a gunshot in the silence. I swing around to find him about thirty yards away, a handgun pointed toward me. From the corner of my eye, I note two other men, one shorter with long hair, another bald with tan skin. Both aiming weapons my way. I breathe a sigh of relief. Three, I can deal with. Any more would be dicey.
At top form, you can deal with three , I remind myself as my grip on my gun slips a fraction.
“You’re one to talk, Andreeva. A port? Really?” I gesture casually with my weapon, causing the long-haired man to stiffen. Less experienced, then, if he’s this tense when it's three against one. That’ll make him more trigger happy, but also easier to anticipate his next move.
“We use the resources at hand, Clara. You can appreciate this.” His accent is strong, the words a little stilted, like he hasn’t practiced English in a long time. I could switch to Russian, but I’m not as familiar with the dialects from the northeast where his family is from.
“If you wanted to talk, you could have called. Following me around a flower market seems a little dramatic,” I say with a smile. I hate that I sound like a cliché movie character, but rumors, legends, and stereotypes often have a basis in truth. And criminal enterprises are characteristically theatrical.
“Oh, I think you know we have no interest in talking,” Lev responds, cocking his gun. The other two do the same, and I calculate my odds. Lev’s going to be the best shot, clearly. But I also need him alive, and I don’t have the same concerns with the spares. Konstantin has clearly ordered a hit, his ego tricking him into believing that my death is more valuable to him than the knowledge he could torture from me. He built his empire from the ground up, and is under the impression he needs no one else to take over the world. It’s why he didn’t bother trying to kidnap my mother. His intentions are to destroy.
“That’s a bummer, since you seem like such a wonderful conversationalist.” I lilt the end of the sentence like I’m going to continue vamping, before shifting quickly and firing my gun at the bald man.
He drops immediately, and I don’t have time to confirm a kill shot. Lev and the long-haired one are already firing, but I anticipated it, and they’re both far enough away that I had time to duck behind the closest container. Their footsteps are quiet, but not silent. I listen as they creep toward me, one on either side. Maybe eight, ten yards away? Basing this on sound isn’t a perfect science.
I’ve got nine rounds left in my handgun and twelve more in the SIG at my ankle. I have no idea what Lev and his men are packing, but from the sound of the shots they got off, he’s much less concerned about noise containment than I am.
I know I need to take out the other spare. It’s a huge risk, losing my cover to aim a shot, but I have little choice. I prepare myself to peek around the corner and locate my target. My head barely clears my hiding space as another shot rings out, clanging with force against the side of the steel. He’s to my ten, probably behind the cargo boxes two rows up.
I need to handle them. For all I know, they could be calling in backup, and I don’t have enough energy, rounds, or support to handle more of Konstantin’s team right now. I take a deep breath and put my finger on the trigger.
I fire as many bullets as I can, as quickly as I can, as soon as I step out. I hear a grunt, and then a cry of pain, but I can’t verify my shot because I know Lev is about to come around the corner.
A searing pain splits my left leg, so sudden and consuming it takes my breath away, forcing me to drop my gun. By some miracle, I make it behind the container and muffle a cry into my arm, biting down into the cloth and through to my skin to avoid screaming. I’ve been shot before, but it only grazed my arm. This is decidedly not grazing .
Some primal sense of self-preservation is being fed by adrenaline, because over the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, I hear Lev’s footsteps. My Ruger is empty, but I pull the SIG from my ankle and raise it, resting my hand against the side of the container to alleviate the blinding agony caused by moving any part of my body.
My vision spots and goes hazy at the edges, and I press my hand into the gunshot. Pain—blistering, unbearable, excruciating pain—wakes my entire body as I press harder and harder. Blood seeps through my fingers, and I try to remember the difference in blood loss by volume in arterial versus venous injuries. Can I survive long enough to get help? Can Deniz make it to me in time?
Lev must be overly confident in his shot because he doesn't clear the corner before stepping into my field of vision. I fire directly into his knee, the recoil of the gun clanging my knuckles against the metal and splitting the skin. Lev falls to the ground, unable to control the scream wrenched from his throat. He still clutches his weapon, so I force myself to lift my hand one more time and fire. My aim is off, and the bullet ends up splitting his wrist instead of his hand. Fuck, I’m not going through all of this to have him bleed out. I need him alive.
Suddenly, I can barely think. Nausea takes over every sense, and I lean over and empty the meager contents of my stomach on the ground. Leaving so much DNA behind, Clara , I hear in my mother’s voice. My whole body will be here, Mama. It doesn’t matter.
My toes start to go numb, and my fingers fumble as I unclasp the pocket on the side of my leg to find my burner phone. But my movements are uncoordinated, my fingers refusing to cooperate with directions. My skin feels clammy, my eyes heavy and arms leaden. I know the signs, but my brain refuses to comprehend that I’m dying.
Immortality has never been a desire of mine. In fact, I’ve always known that the Costas are particularly mortal. I watched both of my grandparents die agonizing, violent deaths. Uncle Enzo, too. We place ourselves in more life or death situations than anyone has good reason to. Death, particularly a painful and early one, was more likely than not.
I did, however, hope it would be peaceful. Like falling asleep. Instead, it’s awful, painful, cruel. My whole body feels on fire, and tears leak from my eyes as I realize that my mother likely felt this. Worse. I wonder if being sliced open like Enzo had been would also feel like flames. Is all death hot? Could I freeze and still feel like I’m swimming in lava? Is it hell reaching up to swallow us, the river of fire we’re condemned to coming to claim our souls?
There is one comfort, though. The higher power enacting its retribution on my body has allowed me the solace of Deniz’s voice. It filters in and out of my consciousness, soothing over the exposed nerves of my body like morphine. I lean into it, reach for it, clawing for the balm of his low murmur, the delicate sounds of Arabic and Turkish on his tongue.
I think I say something. Asking if Lev is alive, maybe. Or maybe asking Deniz to keep him alive. My tongue feels stuck to the top of my mouth as the pain takes over, blanketing my vision in darkness again.