The salt-laden air on the Obrezha docks bit with the chill of impending violence. Mireia moved through the grimy labyrinth of containers, the dull glow of distant neon signs reflecting off the slick puddles. Davorin was a shadow at her flank, his presence a heavy, comforting pressure. Rostem, too large for such stealth, waited in the shielded transport van, a low rumble in his chest that she could almost feel across the distance. Tonight, it was just the two of them, and Ilya, a silent, efficient specter behind them.
“The *Gilded Viper*,” Davorin muttered over the groaning of the harbor. “Jovan’s favorite, ironically. Always sailing with the tide of his cowardice.”
The ship, a hulking, rust-streaked freighter, loomed ahead, its single gangplank a precarious bridge to its dark interior. Kosta insignias, faded and chipped, were barely visible on its hull. Mireia saw two guards silhouetted against a flickering deck lamp, their posture lax. Predictable. Jovan was many things, but thorough was not one of them.
“Top deck, then down,” Mireia murmured, her breath pluming in the cold. “I want to see what he’s smuggling that’s worth this much risk.”
Davorin merely inclined his head. They separated, a practiced maneuver. Mireia scaled a stacked container with fluid grace, her boots silent on the corrugated metal. She dropped onto the ship’s deck behind the unsuspecting guards, a garrote already in her grasp. One man gasped, a cut-off sound, as she cinched it tight. The other turned, startled, only to meet Davorin’s fist, a percussive crack echoing in the quiet night.
They dragged the limp bodies into a shadowed alcove. The air on deck was thick with the scent of diesel and cheap fish. Mireia moved with purpose towards the main cargo hatch. Ilya, meanwhile, had already disappeared towards the bridge, a ghost with a data-stick.
“They’re moving something heavy,” Mireia observed, pausing at the heavy steel hatch. The hinges were freshly oiled, the locking mechanism gleaming under her inspection light. “Something they don’t want getting wet.”
Davorin knelt, examining the thick, braided ropes securing the hatch. “Likely contraband. Munitions. Jovan dabbles in anything that turns a coin.”
They descended into the belly of the ship, the clang of their boots reverberating in the cavernous holds. The air grew colder, wetter, saturated with the metallic tang of sea-water and oil. Dim emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows. Stacked wooden boxes, many bearing the crude Kosta crest, lined the walls. Mireia’s gaze swept over the labels: ‘Processed Fish’, ‘Industrial Parts’, ‘Agricultural Supplies’. All blatant lies. One stack caught her eye – a series of heavy wooden containers, unmarked, positioned precariously near a large, corroded pipe that ran along the hull.
Suddenly, the distant thud of running feet echoed from above. Kosta enforcers. More than they’d anticipated. They must have missed a lookout, or a patrol had returned early.
“Four, maybe five,” Davorin said, his hand already on the hilt of his combat blade. “Coming down the forward companionway.”
Mireia’s eyes narrowed, not at the approaching threat, but at the pipe. It was a main seawater intake, poorly maintained, a hairline crack visible near a faulty valve. An idea, cold and sharp, ignited in her mind.
“Hold them at the steps,” she commanded, her voice low and brisk. “Just for a moment.”
Davorin hesitated, a brief beat of calculation tightening his mouth, but he spun, disappearing into the shadows toward the steps. The metallic ring of clashed steel and muffled grunts confirmed his engagement.
Mireia darted towards the pipe. The valve was stiff, corroded, but she leveraged a loose pry bar from a nearby crate, grunting with effort as she twisted. The ancient metal screamed, and then, with a final, protesting groan, the valve mechanism gave way. A jet of icy seawater erupted from the crack, a powerful geyser spraying across the hold. It immediately began to pool on the deck.
She moved to the unmarked boxes. The timber groaned as she kicked and levered them free. The bulk tumbled, blocking the accessway, creating a makeshift dam. The water, now several centimeters deep, began to rise rapidly.
Three Kosta enforcers rounded the corner, carbines raised, their faces contorted in confusion as they saw the flooding hold. They looked from the rising water to Mireia, then to the timber barricade. Davorin emerged from the companionway, wiping a streak of red from his chin. He gave Mireia a single, approving nod.
“The water will short out your comms,” Mireia called out to the trapped Kosta men, her voice clear and devoid of emotion over the rush of water. “And then it will drown you.”
The men yelled, enraged, aiming their rifles. Davorin stepped forward, a brutal guardian. But before he could engage, a frantic shout came from the stern of the ship, cutting through the din.
“She’s rigged! Dead man’s switch! Get out!”
One of the Kosta enforcers trapped in the hold, his face a mask of desperate terror, fumbled with a small, detonator-like device strapped to his wrist. His thumb hovered over the trigger. “If we go down, you go with us!” he shrieked, his eyes wild.
Mireia saw the small, blinking red light on the device. It was not a bluff. The vessel was a floating bomb.
“Down!” Davorin roared, lunging forward. He didn’t push her; he *covered* her. His body slammed against hers, a massive shield, his arms caging her head as he threw them both to the grimy metal deck just as the world erupted.
A concussive blast ripped through the ship. A deafening roar swallowed all other sound, followed by the sickening shriek of tearing metal and the splintering crash of wood. Fire bloomed, a searing, orange blossom in the darkness. Shrapnel, hot and jagged, rained down around them, striking Davorin’s back with sickening thuds. The entire ship pitched violently, throwing them against the bulkhead. The air filled with smoke, the acrid stench of cordite and burning oil choking Mireia’s lungs.
Through the chaos, she felt the tremor in Davorin’s body, the sudden slackness of his grip, even as he refused to move, still shielding her completely. She scrambled, pushing at his unyielding weight. “Davorin!”
He groaned, a raw, guttural sound, but his arms remained locked around her. “Mireia. Are you…?”
“I’m fine,” she rasped, her voice thick with smoke. Her hands, damp with his blood, found the jagged edges of metal embedded in his back, near his shoulder, his side. He had taken the full force of it.
“Get out,” he said, his voice strained, a new urgency in his tone. “Ship’s going down. Ilya…?”
“Ilya!” she cried, pushing at Davorin. The ship was listing sharply now, the roar of the sea outside growing louder as water rushed into the breached hull. She could hear the crackle of flames, the groaning of collapsing bulkheads. They had to move. Now.
With braced shoulders, she dragged him, half-carried, half-pulled, towards the mangled metal ladder. The path was treacherous, littered with debris. His weight was immense, his breathing ragged. Each step was a battle against the listing deck, against the engulfing smoke. She thought of the 90 days, of the ledger, of her plan, of his silent sacrifice. A cold fury began to simmer beneath her composure.
They burst onto the upper deck, gasping for air, into the night air thick with ash and the smell of burning plastic. The hull was engulfed in flames, sinking rapidly into the murky harbor water. Ilya was there, a dark figure pulling another half-conscious Kosta crewman, the one who’d shouted the warning, away from the burning wreckage. He looked at Davorin’s bleeding back, his face grim.
“The manifest,” Ilya said, his voice tight, holding up a data-pad. He must have pulled it from the bridge. “I got it. Not just military hardware, Mireia. Something else. A payment schedule.”
Mireia looked at Davorin, still leaning heavily against her, his eyes closed in pain, then back at Ilya. “What kind of payment?”
Ilya’s gaze, usually so impassive, hardened to flint. “Jovan Kosta just paid Chief Valeriy Orlov of the Obrezha Police to launch a full-scale, militarized raid on the Cernak Compound. In less than an hour.”