Chapter Fifteen
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Friction | Imagine Dragons

"What was that?" Jorge asked, already reaching for his radio.

There came a squelch of noise from its speakers, coinciding with the muffled gunfire. A burst of noise, yelling voices, completely indistinct in the chaos and panic. It was so dark and still here.

And then silence.

"What's going on up there?" Jorge spoke into the radio, but received no reply. "Hello? Anyone? Captain?"

No response.

Jorge looked at me, worry etching his features. He pointed back into the darkness. "You should hide, it might be something —"

He didn't get to finish before another burst of gunfire interrupted him, now much closer. At the other end of the hold, the far entryway lit up in the darkness. The gunfire was close. And from the sound of it, more than one firearm. More than one assailant.

There was a cry, someone caught off guard. Then darkness again.

I didn't hesitate, lunging forward to grab Jorge's arm and pull him along. Away, the other direction, the only other exit nearby. No time to turn around and see if we were heard, followed; Jorge's footsteps were loud, his breathing panicked, and he tried to object but I held a finger to my lips as we tore down the narrow corridor.

It was all I needed to know. If it was more than one person, then it wasn't Dad. That he hadn't snapped; been caught off guard or unwisely attacked. This was something else.

I couldn't decide if that was better or worse.

All I knew was that we couldn't stay here. I would've gone back up to my hiding spot, the cover would've been excellent — but there was no way Jorge could get up there, too. And I couldn't just leave him to… whatever this was.

Footsteps behind us. I turned a hard left and we stumbled into a small storage closet. Jorge scrambled into the far corner, next to a tall metal cupboard, while I pressed my back up against the wall next to the door.

Heart pounding in my ears, biting my lip to keep from breathing too hard, too fast. Trying to listen, to count the bootsteps that echoed down the corridor. They were quiet, much quieter than another set I heard, running and erratic, darting to and fro — but not quiet enough. I peered out the doorway to see a squad of two men, backs to me, dressed in all black. In their arms, heavy black assault rifles, turning on a crewman who had tripped and fallen in his rush. His hands were upraised, begging for his life as the men zeroed in, trapping him in a corner. Their faces hidden behind black helmets, reflecting the flash of the muzzle when the crewman was shot dead. Not a word spoken. Not an inch of mercy.

Jorge let out a sound, barely a whimper — but it was loud enough. Maybe he knew the man, recognized his voice. He made to step out, but I shot up a hand, shaking my head frantically. I could already hear the armed men getting closer. From their perspective upon entering, if Jorge remained in his spot, the cabinets would hide him from immediate view. It wouldn't last the second they stepped inside, but a second was all I needed.

My hands were empty, and I found myself tracing empty pockets. The pistol Dad had given me was still up in our hiding spot. Shit. All I had on me was a knife, pulling it from my boot. Jorge stared at the blade, a neat seven inches of dark steel. Still, he kept silent, as the soft footsteps came closer and closer.

I stood stock-still as the end of the black barrel of a silencer appeared in the corner of my left eye. Emerging from the open doorway, taking it slow, the rifle lengthening before me. The gunman hadn't seen me yet, still just behind the door.

As soon as his boot crossed the threshold, I attacked.

He never saw me coming. My hand came down on top of the rifle, forcing it down to keep it from firing at any of us. The man grunted in surprise, but didn't have time enough to scream before my knife plunged into his chest.

In one swift motion, I dropped to my knee, pulling the man down with me, and flipping him over my back and onto the floor. Another slash of my knife and the sling cut free.

Yanking the weapon free from his dying hands, I brought it to bear, right in time to encounter the second man coming in fast.

He never had time to fire.

Three quick shots and he was down. The first bullet didn't break through his Kevlar, but the second did — the third went through his face mask. Down he went.

Behind me, I heard a whimper. Jorge, clutching his chest, staring at me with wide eyes, white as a sheet. I'd forgotten he was there.

"What are you?" He demanded, breathless.

A great question. Not one I had the time to answer.

"I'm sorry," was all I could say, as I began searching the corpses for anything I could use. "Are you hurt?"

Jorge frowned, perhaps unsettled by my lack of answer. But at length he shook his head, voice still trembling slightly. "N-no, I'm fine. But these men, who are they?"

"I don't know," I said, which was the truth. They had no radios, only earpieces — I pulled one from the first body, figuring I could try and listen in, best I could. Their gear was completely black, and I found no identifying marks, no flags, nothing that would indicate what country they were from or who they worked for. A black ops team, but military or contract, I hadn't a clue.

I didn't know what to make of that. Maybe Ross had found us. Maybe it was someone else. Either way, I didn't have time to speculate.

"What are you doing?" Jorge asked, dropping down to one knee as I continued to pull extra magazines of ammo, a belt, dropping one rifle and taking the other (the sling was still good).

"Taking what I can use." I said, as I pulled a holster and its side piece, adding it to my growing armory. Anything useful, I had to take. The weight meant nothing, and I was still considering if I should double back for my shield. I didn't know how many more men were behind these two. The chatter was silent on the ear piece. "How many men are on your crew?"

"Twenty-eight," At my look of surprise, Jorge shrugged. "What? Did you think we were navy? We don't need that many men to care for the ship. Why?"

"Where would most of them be right now?"

"Mess hall, maybe," Jorge thought about it, scratching his chin. "Or sleeping. Do you think they're taken hostage?"

"Maybe," It wasn't very enthusiastic. These men had taken to killing very quickly, which meant any hostages they took probably weren't being kept for ransom. "How far away are we from shore?"

"We were supposed to make it to land mid-morning tomorrow," Jorge replied, which meant we were a lot closer than I thought.

Close enough that a black ops team could be quickly dropped in at a moment's notice. But by who?

"Why are they here?" Jorge asked me, dark eyes boring into mine. "We don't carry illegal material. Not that I know of, at least. They're not pirates. What are they doing here?"

My mouth had gone dry, and I looked away. Maybe Jorge had already guessed; his observations were astute. These guys certainly weren't your run-of-the-mill cargo thieves. "I think I know. But I hope I'm wrong. How good is your climbing?"

Jorge gave me a baffled look, but I soon showed him why. After checking to make sure the hallway was clear, I lead the way back to the hold, checking the area. It was utterly silent, aside from the muffled sounds of waves crashing and wind howling, metal hull creaking. It was completely dark, and I caught no glint of night vision goggles. The hold was empty. For now.

Jorge was completely blind where I could see relatively well in the darkness. I helped guide him, hand on his shoulder, as I went back to the little niche high up on the wall. Slinging the rifle over my shoulder, I made quick work scaling up. It would be easier this way, than having to help Jorge up from the bottom.

He looked doubtful as I bent down, offering my hands to pull him up. No surprise, despite my height I definitely didn't weigh as much as he did, and perhaps didn't look like I could lift a two-hundred-pound man.

"Vamanos," I whispered, trying not to sound too urgent in case it panicked him. "You'll be safer up here, out of sight. They'll never find you."

Jorge still looked doubtful, but finally he grabbed my hands. His palms were sweaty, but with one good lift I had him up off his feet and up onto the ledge in one easy motion. He'd gasped in surprise, not expecting the ease and speed at which I moved. "How are you so strong?"

I paused, as I grabbed my shield, wondering how to explain it. Any of this. "I work out. A lot."

Jorge raised his eyebrows. Even in Spanish, my lies weren't very convincing.

Then came a burst of chatter in my ear, making me wince. I couldn't understand it at first, and said to Jorge, "Stay here until I let you know it's safe, okay?"

Jorge stared at me. "What are you going to do?"

"Find my father."

With that, I jumped off the ledge and hit the floor in a soft whoosh of air. Carrying both shield and rifle was a little unwieldy, but I felt so much more comfortable with that familiar weight on my back. A sense of protection as I went along, not even noticing the blood on my hands until I entered the lit hallway again.

Like an aftershock, it hit me. I'd just killed two people. It had been so quick, so easy. I hadn't even hesitated. Didn't even think about the reality of the situation until now.

Like it was just second nature.

And as I moved on ahead, I knew those two wouldn't be the last.

Another burst of chatter in my ear, and now that I was focused on it, I could understand what they were saying.

"Où sont Guillaume et Marc?" One voice said, male, sharp. He'd noticed something had gone awry. "Signalez votre position! Quelqu'un les a-t-il vus?"

A chorus of "Non" followed, and I wondered why they were speaking French. All the accents sounded genuine; maybe Ross called in a favor from across the pond. But something about this just didn't feel quite right.

"Any sign of the packages?" The male voice said again, whom I assumed to be the leader of this group.

"No," another male replied, and I was surprised when I heard it not only in my earpiece, but in the room ahead of me. I crept forward, finding myself in the engine room, on a catwalk. Below, another man clad in black armor stood alone. One hand at his ear, the other cradling his rifle.

I dropped down to a crouch, heart pounding in my throat as the conversation continued. He hadn't spotted me yet, wasn't looking up.

"Haven't seen any sign that they're aboard, sir," the man below said.

"The captain claims there aren't any passengers aboard the ship," added another man. "I can interrogate further, but it seems he's telling the truth. If there are any stowaways, they don't know about it."

"Of course they wouldn't, you think the Winter Soldier is dumb enough to get caught by a bunch of old sea dogs?" The leader snapped, not appreciating this input. "My sources tell me the Winter Soldier is on this ship, and my sources are never wrong. There's only so many places to hide, we're not leaving until we find them!"

Below me, the man groaned, clearly aggravated. It was the last sound he got to make. The one time he looked up was to see a shadow descending upon him. My full weight, aided by the pull of gravity, drove my blade through the back of his neck, slipping in between that narrow space between helmet and vest.

He crumpled beneath me like a sack of potatoes.

I was up and moving, not taking a second to catch my breath. I wasn't sure where I'd find Dad, only knowing they hadn't found him yet either. I still had no idea the size of the force we were dealing with here. How many more men I'd have to kill.

Until I was cornered, stealth would serve me just fine. I didn't want to fire any more bullets unless I had to — too much noise would attract more attention, more trouble. I continued down the corridor leading off the lower level of the engine room. Around me, the lights flickered from white to red. Maybe reserve power. Maybe to make it harder for a certain pair of super soldiers to operate.

They could plunge this entire ship into darkness and it still wouldn't stop me.

The corridor ended with a set of stairs, culminating into a door that led outside. The storm continued to rage outside, making the floor shift violently beneath me, nearly throwing me off my balance at one point.

"Sir, the waves are getting pretty rough —" one voice said, sounding concerned.

"The ship can take it," The leader snapped back. "Just keep your balance and get this done."

I peeked through the narrow porthole, but it was difficult to tell if there was anyone outside. All I saw were the crashing waves below, and a dark sky beyond, black and stormy, roiling with angry clouds.

Behind me, I heard a few more smatterings of gunfire, chatter in my ear confirming another crewman accounted for. My stomach twisted, and that made my decision. I cranked the wheel and slipped out the door.

It was little more than a thin balcony on the other side, a sharp drop into the waves below. The ship just so happened to crest a wave, which knocked me back, slamming me into the side of the ship. The door slammed shut behind me before I could stop it. The clang reverberated, and I heard the whirring of the wheel flying back into place, locking me out. Shit.

"Did you hear that?" A voice asked over the intercom. "Sounded like a door."

"Sure it wasn't gunfire?" Another asked. "Did anyone make contact?"

No one confirmed, and the leader called off the vote to investigate. "Don't get distracted. It could be just things moving around with the waves. Don't investigate anything alone."

Their voices were nearly drowned out by the storm raging outside, and I had to clutch the railing just to keep myself from being pitched overboard. I couldn't remember why I thought it was a good idea to come out here, but I was stuck now. Only way to go was forward.

The catwalk led up the side of the ship, towards the top deck. I inched myself along, clinging for dear life with every toss off the waves. To think I was seasick before, at least I wasn't terrified of burial at sea. Water kept hitting the hull, and I was hit with water from so many directions I couldn't tell if it was rain or ocean. In less than a minute I was completely soaked.

I passed another line of portholes halfway up. Inside, I spotted a dimly lit room, filled with men. Some on the floor, others standing. A flash of lightning revealed it to be the mess hall, and the men on the floor were tied up. Jorge's crewmen, surrounded by more of these soldiers. Mercenaries? Eight of them total. How many more were there?

The lightning must have caught my face as well, because one of the crewmen jolted at the sight of me. I ducked down just in time, as others turned to look.

I couldn't hear what was said on the other side. If there was alarm, if there were people rushing to investigate out here. I hadn't come across any other doors, but if they were like the one I had come out of, I probably couldn't enter from the outside anyways.

I remained there, pressed against the wall below the porthole, for a solid minute. Just to make sure no one saw me. My wet clothes clung to my body.

The catwalk shuddered beneath me, as a shadow appeared to my right.

I gasped, knife whipping out, but a metal hand gently closed around my fist and pushed it away.

"It's okay, it's just me," Dad said, and I could barely hear him over the storm, but I hugged him anyways. His arms fell around me and for a moment, the world fell still. No rocking waves, no crashing thunder or stinging rain. Just a muted roar. "Are you okay?"

His voice sounded soft, far away, even with speaking right next to my ear. I could only nod, not wanting to break down right now. Not wanting to confess the three men I'd already killed and how that was already starting to catch up on me. I couldn't let it. I had to stay ahead. Compartmentalize now and unpack later.

"What's going on?" I asked. How he found me, why he was out here, I had no idea, but I was too relieved to start asking questions. "Who are these men?"

"They're Algerians," Dad replied, helping me up to a standing position. The world, all the noise and motion, rushed back in as he led the way forward. No time to stand still when there were things to do, problems to solve. "Mercenaries."

"Ross?"

"I don't know," Dad could only shake his head. Where I had picked up half an army's worth of weapons, Dad had only a handgun. He readily accepted the rifle when I offered it. "Maybe. But this doesn't seem like his style."

I wanted to ask Dad how he knew what Ross' style was, had he been studying the secretary? But there was no time for that. Dad moved quickly, and like me was completely soaked. His long hair hung in his face, dark enough that I didn't immediately notice the gash above his eye, the blood washed away by the constant rain. Still, it alarmed me. "What happened?"

He threw me a questioning look, before raising a hand to his face. "Oh, this? It's nothing, don't worry about it."

But the look I gave must have said that I wouldn't be following that suggestion. Dad sighed, shoulders slumping. "I just — guy caught me by surprise. It's nothing serious and he's dead now. So don't worry."

The cut did seem superficial, and in the grand scheme of things, would heal quickly. Still, I felt shaken, even as we moved on. As we came to the end, coming around to the top deck, Dad dropped to a crouch and I followed suit. He paused a moment to check the rifle, clearing the barrel of any water, testing the scope. "How many have you come across so far?"

"Three, they're dead," I said, keeping a lookout as we huddled against the deck railing. A low metal wall, it felt much safer than being on the catwalk, but it was difficult to see much. In front of us were massive walls of giant containers creaking ominously, leaving only narrow paths and alleys where anyone might appear. Looking up, I spotted a sentry on post atop a stack of containers, but he was looking in the wrong direction. I pointed him out to Dad, who simply nodded in acknowledgement. "Eight in the mess hall. I don't think they spotted me."

"Good," Dad replied, leaning back to take aim above. It was a sharp angle, the sentry almost directly above us. It seemed hardly optimal for a good shot, but one pull of the trigger and I watched as the sentry's head snap back. The gunshot was completely drowned out by the storm. "That brings us down to twenty."

"Twenty?" I repeated, stunned. How many had there been, thirty or more?

"Whoever's behind this came well-armed and well-manned." Dad nodded grimly, gesturing for me to move. "Just for us. They wouldn't need half that much for a crew this size."

I knew he was right about that. Jorge had said they only had twenty-eight men and I doubted any, if at all, were armed. They would be easy pickings for only a squad or two. Not an entire platoon.

The two of us hauled ourselves up a tower of containers, four stacked in total. On top, the wind raged, nearly threatening to bowl me over once I pulled myself up. Then it whipped the other way and pushed me forward, and Dad grabbed the back of my shirt to keep me still until the gale passed. It was then I noticed the giant helicopters that were perched atop the containers nearby. I didn't know a lot about cargo ships, but I was fairly certain that twin-blade military-grade aircrafts were not a part of their repertoire.

Just like the mercenaries' gear, the helicopters were unmarked, painted completely black. Had it not been for the sheen of rain and the frequent lightning, I might not have noticed them at all.

The cockpits were empty as we passed by, and there was only one other sentry, which Dad took out as soon as he turned around. Caught by surprise, only to take a bullet before he could send out the alarm. We came to the end of the stack, which provided a nice view to the far rear of the ship, where the command tower stood. Like the rest of the ship, it was mostly dark. The uppermost windows were flickering faintly, and it took me a moment to realize it was people, figures pacing back and forth. Maybe the leader was among them, and the captain of the crew.

At the edge, we laid down on our stomachs, lowest profile. Dad peered through the rifle scope for a long minute. "These mercenaries won't evacuate before they kill everyone. They'll leave no witnesses, no one who might have noticed us. They'll scuttle the ship and it'll be years before anyone finds what's left of it."

I frowned at him, wondering why he was saying all this. "Because of us? They didn't even know we were here."

"Ross, or whoever is behind this, wouldn't take that chance."

"It's just —" I didn't know how to word it. So excessive? So cruel? These crewmen were fated to die just because their ship happened to be the one of dozens we could've boarded in our escape from New York. "It just seems so unnecessary."

Dad's response was a dry, humorless chuckle. "Men who do this don't think like you do, monkey. Overkill is standard issue. Even if this did come out, they'd come up with a story, that these guys aided and abetted active fugitives, had made themselves enemies of the state. The less evidence they leave behind, the more they can get away with."

I had nothing to say to that. Just that I hated it, which was probably obvious anyways. I could only look away, scowling, directing my gaze back to those distant figures in the command deck. It was one thing to kill someone, to protect myself, to protect others — it was another to be the inadvertent cause of someone's death, an innocent person who had so little to do with me that it was entirely coincidental, a tangential connection.

It wasn't fair. It was our fault.

My fault.

A click of metal. The rifle, handed to me.

I blinked, surprised, looking up at Dad. "What are you—?"

"I'm going in," Dad said. He was already rising to a kneeling position. "You stay here and cover me."

"Wait, no —"

"Yes," He cut me off, calm but firm, pushing the gun into my hands. "I'm not putting you in danger again, Mia. You're safer here. And you can still help. Do you want to help?"

It was an honest question. I knew I could say no. I could simply use the scope to keep an eye on him and that would be that. But internally, I recoiled at the idea. Couldn't bear to just sit here and wait, twiddling my thumbs. Useless.

"Fine," I mumbled, pulling the rifle into my shoulder. It felt uncomfortable, still, feeling that empty space next to me. "You'd always spot for me before."

A sniper was never alone, not really. Not unless he was really good. Like the Winter Soldier. Like Dad. Someone like me, needed another to watch their back. That's how we did it in the Crucible. On missions. I'd never liked it, but at least I had the comfort of being protected.

"You'll be fine," Dad assured, a ghost of a smile in the darkness. "You're a good shot. Just watch your peripherals, listen to your surroundings. And watch for my signal. Okay?"

I could only nod stiffly, and watch as he disappeared over the ledge, silent as a ghost. I didn't hear him land and didn't know he had, until a minute later when I spotted him at the base of the command tower. Pushing some loose hair out of my face, I pressed my eye into the scope, squinting.

Dad had already taken out the guard at the entry way, catching him around the corner and pulling him into the shadows, where the body disappeared. There were multiple levels, and on the outer deck above, another mercenary paced alone, keeping an eye out, unaware of their prize right below them.

All I saw from Dad was a tilt of his head, half-directing, half-nod. I took aim, accounting for the wind, the drop of the ship as it shifted down a wave.

Pulled the trigger.

The man dropped onto metal, a distant clang swallowed by the window. The rifle kicked into my shoulder, but it didn't shift me as much as the rocking did, and I had to plant my feet wide behind me just to keep still for a good shot. I waited as Dad mantled up, and went through the same routine twice more.

On my ear piece, I could hear his actions causing a disturbance. I wasn't sure if it was intentional or not, but it was drawing their forces towards the command tower, leaving behind the harmless crewman to take on the much bigger threat.

By the time he reached the command deck, it was chaos. I couldn't see anything inside the windows, it was just flashes of light and shadow, blood splattering the window, distant screams in the air. I couldn't risk shooting into that, not knowing what I'd hit, unable to make out friend or foe.

The mercenaries got what they came for. And the Winter Soldier delivered in what he did best.

Absolute carnage.

Even with the influx of more men, coming in from below decks (and thus making it difficult for me to pick them off), it hardly seemed to falter whatever was going on inside. I caught a few obvious targets through windows, another on a catwalk. Anything I could to take the heat off Dad.

Then I heard something behind me.

Through the crashing waves, the booming thunder and disorienting flashes of lightning, howling winds and rain, threatening creaks of a ship under siege, came the sounds of footsteps, rushed and scrambling. I snapped my head around just in time to see several figures clambering up atop the containers — three men, one already rushing for a nearby helicopter, while the other two spotted me.

The shorter one, notably not wearing a face mask, revealing a white man with a shaved head, jabbed a finger at me. "C'est la fille! Attrapez-la!"

Oh, great.

"Oui, Batroc!" The big one came charging at me first. I didn't even realize how big he was until he got close — almost seven feet tall, his legs covered a lot of distance, and reached me just as I rolled on my back, taking aim.

But too late. His boot connected with the rifle, sending the shot wide, and the gun out of my hands. It skittered across the corrugated metal before tumbling off the side.

I rolled again just in time to avoid getting another boot stomped on my ankle, coming to a crouch and pulling out my pistol.

The big one came after me, but my bullets were too small, and his vest absorbed six whole rounds before he reached me again. The gun was empty. I tossed it, and ducked under his swinging arm.

The jab to his side did nothing — too much padding, I found. Didn't have time to pull out a knife or shield before something powerful struck me from behind.

The second man, slamming a powerful kick into my knees. Had he struck my back, he would've hit the shield, and it would've absorbed the blow. But the knee? That was smart. It dropped me down again, and I took another blow to the back of my head.

Not enough to take me out.

The big one whipped around and swung another fist, and it should've occurred to me why they weren't pulling firearms on me, but in the moment, I was too busy to think about it. Just trying to keep on my toes.

Dodging again, dealing with two opponents at once. The shorter one — which, really, only meant he was more my size and not a seven-foot-tall giant — was much more agile, pulling a flip that had me stumbling back in alarm before he could strike me.

Pulling out my shield to deflect a blow, hearing the satisfying crunch when the unfortunate set of knuckles made impact. To bash them away, only for them to come running back.

I couldn't risk throwing the shield. Besides the helicopters, there was no good surface for me to bounce it off of, and with the unpredictable waves, I couldn't be sure if I'd just be yeeting it into the ocean. It limited my actions, but better than losing more of my tools.

Although the big one had strength on his side, he was still only human — I could feel it in his blows, the fragility of his bones. The shield had already broken at least one bone in his hand, as little as it seemed to faze him. I could do this. I could take it.

But then the ship betrayed me. A sudden shift, like the whole world dropping out beneath me. Everyone started sliding, even the helicopters, but I was too late to right myself, falling right into the big one's hands.

His fist came around my throat before I could slip away.

Even the big one seemed surprised at his luck, before hefting me up in victory. I yelped, choking as his grip tightened, shield dropping as I tried to pull his hands from my throat. It skittered away, sliding dangerously close to the edge of the platform, before another shift in the waves had it resting against the skids of a helicopter, where it seemed to stick.

I would've breathed a sigh of relief had I had any air left.

"What do we do with her, Batroc?" The big one asked, leering up at me. I kicked and struggled, pulling at the hands at my throat. He wasn't a super soldier, but he was damn huge. One hand easily wrapped around my throat, that was not fun. "Toss her overboard?"

"No, you idiot!" Batroc, the other man, snapped — the leader, I realized, the voice I'd been hearing through the earpiece. Through that, I could still hear the rest of his team getting slaughtered. He didn't seem to notice, or care. "We need her alive! Unless you want to explain to our client why we killed something so expensive!"

Expensive? Ugh.

"What about the Winter Soldier?" The big one asked.

"Who cares!" Batroc said as he started backing towards the one working helicopter, its rotors warming up. "Ross can have him! We only need one to get paid!"

That seemed to settle the big one, even as the massacre in the command deck continued. The ear piece had been pulled out in the fight, but I could still see the distant gunfire out of the corner of my eye. I wanted Dad to come back, to help me, get me out of this. But even if it ended right now, I didn't have hope he'd get there in time.

"I've got the handcuffs," Batroc said, pulling something from the interior of the helicopter. The handcuffs didn't look like anything I'd ever seen before. A large piece of metal that looked to contain not just my wrists, but my entire forearms. That would be a bitch to break through — clearly, they had thought ahead in how to contain one of us.

Another pitch in the ship and my whole body swayed in the big one's grip as he struggled to remain upright. I kept an eye on my shield, but it remained where it was, wedged beneath the helicopter's skid. It was useless to me right now. But I wasn't completely unarmed.

I wasn't going to hang around (ha) and find out what those cuffs felt like. The big one was distracted, looking at Batroc and not me.

Batroc, however, saw what I was up to. "Batonvert, attention!"

But he was too late.

My knife came up, slashing across the inside of Batonvert's arm. The soft, fleshy part that didn't have convenient blade-proof armor. I cut through to skin easily. The man let out a cry and his hand released me.

I landed on my feet, not that it meant much — the ship immediately pitched and I almost went tumbling backwards off the stack. And then Batonvert was tumbling along, too, right into me. I spun out of the way in time, hoping he'd go flying off.

But I wasn't so lucky. The ship righted itself in time, and Batonvert lived to see another day.

For now.

Batroc, too, had been tossed around. The handcuffs had disappeared, perhaps he'd lost his grip on them. Couldn't complain. My focus turned back to Batonvert when he, too, pulled out a knife.

"Allons-nous jouer?" He grinned, with a gruesome set of crooked teeth.

Perhaps the blades kept Batroc from getting any closer. Not that I complained, as Batonvert lunged towards me in a wide slash. His arm was still bleeding profusely, but it didn't seem to slow him down much. So much strength and power, all in one very mortal body.

He went at me again and I sidestepped, feinting under his defense and getting him twice across the abdomen. Batonvert hissed and knocked me away with his empty fist. But it felt like another small victory.

A slash caught me across my left arm, no shield to defend myself. Felt the knife cut through my thin jacket, no armor at all.

Just another scar added to the collection.

Knife fights were not to be done on a whim. It couldn't have been more than a minute, but Batonvert was already starting to lose wind — chasing after me as I constantly dodged and evaded, trying to predict the next shift in the ship's movements, nicking him here and there, small individually but adding up over time.

And Batroc still hadn't joined the fray.

In fact, he was actively running away.

I wouldn't have even noticed, so focused on staying alive and keeping Batonvert at arm's length, had he not said something.

"Batroc, what are you doing?" The big man called, alarmed. I dared to glance over, seeing the fleeing form out of my peripherals. I lunged forward anyways, and Batonvert stumbled, but I caught him across the thigh. A deep one. "Gah!"

"Mission aborted!" Batroc called back as he dove into the open bay doors. The helicopter was already taking off, whipping up a small maelstrom with its spinning rotors. "I'm not dying for this!"

"Batroc, no —!" Batonvert shouted, dismayed, but it was too late. The helicopter was already taking off, whipping wind and rain into our faces. We both had to pause to shield our eyes until it lessened. And then Batonvert was back with a renewed energy. "Bastard! He'll regret that!"

I highly doubted it, but I was in no mood for banter.

"Silent one, eh?" Batonvert sneered as he came after me, renewed vigor having him charging again and again, constantly putting me on my back foot. Blades clashed, cuts swiped, stripes of blood dripping down the both of us. He heaved, breathing hard, a bit of red spittle emitting from the corner of his mouth. "Maybe I'll leave your mutilated body behind for your papa to find, hm?"

My eye twitched, but I refused to let that scare me. I've had worse threats levied against me, by more dangerous people. People who actually knew me. Knew what they were dealing with.

"Then he'll kill you," I said, my voice resounding with a strange calmness, even for me. "And you'll wish it would've been me."

Batonvert blinked, surprised, but kept going anyways. I didn't care. He wouldn't stop until he was dead, and whether through exhaustion or murder, I didn't care which. Just that it would be soon.

Around a helicopter, he pushed and pushed me. I knew my shield was behind me now, close, but I couldn't risk turning around and trying to reach for it. Batonvert was right on top of me, even as he managed with his new limp. I'd gotten his face a few times, and could only imagine what I looked like myself. But he was flagging. I just had to time it right.

One of his blows was just a little too slow. It swung by me, scraping against the side of the helicopter. When he did it again, I acted — slamming my fist after his blow, into his hand, and driving the blade into the metal frame of the helicopter. Wedging it good and deep.

He didn't have time to pull it out. His arm bent across his body at an odd angle made for perfect leverage. Hooking a leg onto his arm, I swung myself up on his shoulders. A familiar move, not one I'd done before, but something I must have seen. Maybe Natasha.

Batonvert bucked beneath me like a wild bull, but wasn't fast enough, wasn't strong enough to throw me.

My blade came down. One good thrust, more than any bullet could do, cut through his vest and drove directly through his sternum, right into his heart. Batonvert gasped, eyes widening, before his knees buckled.

He dropped. My feet hit the ground and I remained standing as Batonvert crumbled into a heap between my legs.

It was over.

I looked up into the sky, as if I might still see Batroc's helicopter there, watching the show. But it was long gone. I had no idea if it would survive in a storm like this. But it had gotten here under the same conditions, it could probably leave as well.

Shame. I'd hoped he'd crash into the ocean.

Aside from the howling wind and rain and incessant attack of the ocean — it was silent. Blissfully silent. No more gunfire. No more screaming. I stumbled over to my shield, knees suddenly feeling like jelly as I bent to pick it up. At last, the adrenaline gave way to relief, exhaustion. The sting of a hundred different cuts finally coming into sharp focus as I stumbled away, fumbling as it took me several tries to place my shield onto my back holster. It felt much heavier than before. Or maybe my arms just didn't work like they used to.

In the distance, a small gleam of light. I couldn't tell what it was at first, so dazed I thought it was a lighthouse, or possibly an alien spaceship — but no. It was a break in the clouds.

Sunrise.

I didn't know why it had me suddenly tearing up, but it did. An overwhelming sense of relief, this horrible night finally over. Finally able to rest. I dropped to my knees, suddenly aware of my racing heart and my short breath. Pausing to suck in lungfuls of air, to steady myself as the waves gradually gentled.

"Mia!" I almost didn't hear my own name in the wind. Couldn't remember who'd be calling it, until I looked over and saw Dad running straight for me. I meant to lift my arms to greet him, but the thought never reached my limbs. They remained slack at my side as he pulled me into a hug, before quickly checking me over. A curse in Russian. "Mia, you're bleeding everywhere."

"Oh?" I hadn't noticed. All the rain made it impossible to tell where I'd been cut, and the pain had become so nebulous that it was hard to locate. And I just wanted to close my eyes. I looked down and noticed that my left sleeve was almost completely shredded, and the rest of me wasn't that great either. "Huh."

Dad certainly looked worse for wear, too. Blood. A lot of blood. My guess was that most of it wasn't his. The rain was already washing most of it away. All I could remember was that I was supposed to be covering him, and I'd failed. "I-I'm sorry, I got distracted."

"No, no," He looked taken aback, then shook his head, pulling me in for another hug. I could close my eyes then, just rest my head for a second. A second was all I needed. Then I'd feel better. "I'm not mad at you, monkey. I shouldn't have left you alone. That was my fault."

His voice sounded so anguished, and yet I could find a reason why. My thoughts drifted, skittering out of focus and then back again. I had a job to do. He did his. And we were still alive. That was probably good. His hand stroked through my tangle of wet, wind-tossed hair. Any braid I had before was long gone. But that was okay.

"It's okay," I mumbled, voice muffled by his wet shirt. "I'm okay."