Chapter 9
Bright sunlight shouldn’t feel ominous, but the hair on Cal’s neck lifted. The two men behind them weren’t Torres’s. Their focus was on Io, and he wasn’t letting them get close.
Io felt it, too. It was in her shoulders, in the way she didn’t question him when he murmured, “Next right.”
She nodded once and turned. The street ahead was busier—shops, heat, bodies. Cal angled behind her, checking reflections, shadows. Nothing yet. It wouldn’t last.
“The market,” Io said. “Crowds will help us disappear.”
“Exactly. Take a right after the red umbrellas.”
“More than the two behind us?”
“Not yet. But they’re coming.”
Io pulled her hair into a ponytail. His gut tightened. Too exposed. Too easy to grab. Instead of saying something, he handed her his baseball cap. “Put this on.”
She twisted her hair underneath the hat and it was one less thing to worry about.
They slipped into another swell of people. Still only two men. Where the hell was Torres’s team? Two perimeters around the convent. Maybe the outer ring had blocked them.
Io crossed the street with a crowd, then ducked left. Cal hung back, using a building corner for cover. Two more men joined the tail, speaking Russian.
Petrova.
He rejoined Io. “Same group interested in your sister.”
She didn’t break stride. “We’ll talk tonight.”
“Two more showed. They want to box us in.”
Io’s jaw tightened. “Head straight for the market?”
“They’re accelerating,” he said. “We need cover now.”
“Agreed.”
He expected to guide her. He didn’t need to. Io cut through the streets without hesitation, angling toward the side entrance of the market.
This section was rougher. Farmers on blankets, tin-roof stalls, packed dirt. And not enough people.
“We need to move,” he said.
“I know.” Clipped. Irritated. Io turned onto uneven cobblestones.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered.
She ignored him and cut left. Clothing hung overhead, blankets and ponchos creating a maze. Good concealment. Another turn brought them into thicker crowds. Better.
“That was a lucky break.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it. I memorized the layout.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Four entrances plus the delivery gate. They’ll send a man to each. We head for the gate.”
“We can’t assume only four men, and we can’t assume which points they’re covering.”
“True. But if we have to shoot our way out, fewer bystanders at the delivery gate.”
“Shoot our way out?” Cal stared at her. “Fuck.”
“What’s the alternative? Let them capture us? I’ve been held prisoner once. I’m not doing it twice in one week.”
Io cut through another row of stalls, slipped into a fruit vendor’s space, and wove between tables until she ducked out the side.
Suddenly they were on one of the main arteries of the market—shoulder-to-shoulder bodies, noise, heat.
Harder to corner them here. But the closer they got to the delivery entrance, the thinner the crowd would be.
“Besides,” Io said, as if they hadn’t just dodged a tail, “if they’re after the bait, you’re expendable. I’d prefer not to be a widow. Keep that in mind.”
Expendable. Yeah, she wasn’t wrong. “I’m not planning to die today. I die, you’re at risk. I’m here to keep you safe.”
“Ergo, you’re bulletproof. Try again, Cal.”
“You know,” he said, “it’s a pain in the ass that you don’t buy my best bullshit.”
“That was your best?” She shot him a look—then froze. “Three o’clock.”
Cal didn’t ask. He scanned. Dark shirt. Loose posture. Eyes locked. Not browsing. Not blending.
“There’s Boris,” he murmured. “Wonder where Natasha, Rocky—fuck, Bullwinkle’s coming up on our ass. Move, Thing.”
Io grabbed his hand, yanked him, then darted into a massive produce shop. Tin roof overhead. Balloons. People everywhere.
The vegetable stall was a maze—tiered tables stacked high with onions, squash, citrus. Women in teal smocks perched on stools, reaching for higher tiers. Boxes towered overhead.
“Stay low,” Cal said.
Io obeyed, slipping between tiers, using blind spots instinctively. Photographer’s eye. Tactical mind.
Boris wasn’t advancing. That was wrong.
Cal popped up just enough to scan. No Boris. No Bullwinkle. They should be closing in. They weren’t.
Because they didn’t need to.
He ducked again, pulse steady but climbing. They weren’t improvising. They were executing.
Io moved into the fruit section. Citrus scent hit hard. A woman cleaned up spilled oranges, glanced at them, shrugged.
Box them in.
The phrase echoed. The pair outside were holding position because they were waiting for Rocky and Natasha.
Cal stayed close. The fruit crates narrowed the paths, turning the stall into a funnel. “Boris and Bullwinkle are inside,” he murmured.
“That means Natasha and Rocky have joined the chat.”
“That’s my guess.”
He crouched near a bin of citrus. The tiers gave cover, not control. Every turn tightened the noose.
He scanned again. Boris looping wide. Bullwinkle cutting through the far aisle. Not chasing. Positioning.
Io ducked behind a stack of bananas. “We’re being funneled.”
“Yeah.” A vendor rolled a cart into place, blocking an exit. “Looks like they’ve recruited locals.”
Io didn’t answer—already slipping between crates of papayas. Cal followed, scanning faces. Poverty made people pliable. A second cart blocked another aisle.
“We can’t go back,” Cal said. “Move, Thing, before we lose the last exit.”
Io moved. Faster now. Less concerned with hiding, more with staying ahead.
Cal’s gut tightened. They weren’t going to make it. The Russians had been shaping the terrain while he and Io were threading through it.
Another cart appeared. Another exit gone.
He glanced back. Boris cutting the far aisle. Bullwinkle flanking. Rocky and Natasha still unseen, but the perimeter was closing fast.
Io ducked behind a bin of squash. “They’re closing the box.”
“They’re not chasing,” Cal said. “They’re shaping.”
“Then we run for the last opening.” Io bolted.
She wasn’t wrong—but it was already too late.
Two men stepped in from the far side, pistols raised.
Natasha and Rocky.
The box snapped shut.