Blitzed(155)

“Last chance to make any changes to the plan,” I said. “I’m ready. I want to be on those trucks — I don't like what the new reports are saying. It doesn’t make sense.”

“About Felix being allowed to roam free?” Francois asked, sliding the bolt back into his Kalashnikov and finishing his reassembly. “It doesn’t. There could be complications that we didn’t think about.”

“Such as?” I asked, fear twisting deep in my gut. “Tell me what you know, Francois. Or at least what you suspect.”

“Vladimir Ilyushin has connections with some of the deepest parts of the old Soviet and Russian systems,” Francois said, setting his rifle aside and reaching into his tent, retrieving a canned ration that he opened and began spooning into his mouth. “And from what I know of him and his syndicate, he has a penchant for the chemically enhanced interrogation systems they developed.”

“In plain English, please,” I said, irritation in my voice.

“I mean that Vladimir has a history of brainwashing,” Francois said, stirring at the dirt between his feet with the end of his spoon. “And if they're letting Felix roam free, then there may be cause to believe that they have at least partially turned him.”

“Then what are we waiting around for?” I hissed, fear filling my heart. “We should have been on the move yesterday!”

Francois shook his head. “If they already have him to the point they trust him outside the buildings, then there is nothing more we can do until we get him back. We’re better off making sure we’re ready.”

I clenched my fist, anger flooding me as he went back to polishing off his rations, and I stood up, nearly storming off. “I'll go wake everyone up,” I said instead, clamping down on my emotions. “Do they know?”

“No, but it won't matter to them as much as it does to us,” Francois replied. “They want their King back, not another court jester like they have now.”

I stopped and looked over at my shoulder, who for the first time since we got to Albania looked tired and defeated. “You're hardly a jester,” I reassured him. “And even if you are, well, every village needs its idiot.”



Forty-eight hours later, my muscles ached more than they had the entire time I'd been in training, as I'd slept my way into the Ukraine in the back of a truck along with the rest of the team. We'd taken two vehicles, both semis to give us the best chance of success at getting past the border guards. Thankfully, the Black Sea Romani had greased the right palms, and we slipped over the border into the Ukraine at eleven at night while I dozed in the back of the truck. Unfortunately, while the trailer we were in was large, the six members of my team had to be kept cramped into the middle section of the trailer, wedged between a pallet of televisions and a collection of refrigerators that were going to be sold on the gray market that permeated the city.

Now, after being stuck in a cramped, cold trailer for close to twenty-five hours, with nothing but a couple of blankets, a carton of rations, two water cans, and a LED lantern to break up the monotony with my trailer mates, we were all stiff. The five men had at least been gentlemanly, and had given me a modicum of space to feel like I wasn't a female sardine crushed in a can with a bunch of males. Thankfully, our drive was at an end, and as our driver opened the small side door that was our only access in or out, I was grateful to touch the ground for the first time since my last toilet break seven hours earlier. “Tell me we're getting out in better conditions than we came in.”

“If everything goes to plan, yes,” one of the men said. “The Hardys will be getting out of the Ukraine quickly, while the rest of us will make our way back in a more casual manner. Our Black Sea friends will help us.”

“You aren’t too off-put by this, I hope?” I asked, as I looked the man in the eyes. He was young, like most of the men who had been sent for the mission, and wasn’t from the immediate Hardy family.

He chuckled and shook his head. “No offense, American princess, but Romani women know how to appreciate a man with a heroic story, and I’m not about to miss out on this.”

I smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go help unload.”

We were traveling light, with most of us carrying only a rifle outfitted with a screw-in silencer and two clips of ammunition. We didn't want to engage in a prolonged firefight, in fact if things went according to plan, not a single shot would be fired. It only took us about four minutes to fully unload everything for our mission. While we were finishing the last of our gear checks, Francois’s group came from up the road, their gear slung in their packs over their shoulders. “Ready?”

“Let's move,” he said. “We can stretch out as we walk — it's still five kilometers cross country to the property.”

“And we know he's still there?” I asked.

“I just spoke with my cousin Aleksander, he’s been watching the house for two days now. He said that Felix was seen inside having dinner yesterday, and that he has not left the premises since then.”

“Then let's move,” Francois said. “If he follows the pattern that they've said, he'll be going out for his morning run in about two hours. I'd like to be on the path when he does.”

We took off through the woods, following our local guide as he led Francois and I on the way. Five kilometers isn't much, only three miles, but we were moving through pitch blackness and through old growth European forest. With the constant stopping to check our position or listen for sounds, we only had forty-five minutes to spare when we reached the Romani observation point. Sergei spoke with his cousin in the alternatively guttural and liquid tones of Ukrainian-flavored Romani, nodding a few times. “Can I get a translation?”